* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we like to think of ourselves as a sort of literary YMCA. And also a source of political wisdom that can save our nation, if only our nation will listen to Bruce Harris.

Filling U.S. Cabinet Positions With The Village People

By:
marxman@comcast.net

Here’s some advice for the next president of the United States. With all of the publicity, angst, and rancor surrounding a president’s selection of cabinet members, wouldn’t it be refreshing if the cabinet selection process went smoothly across both sides of the aisle? It’s more than possible. Mr. or Ms. Next President, it’s best to keep things simple, at least for the following six cabinet posts (in no particular order). Who to nominate? The Village People. No controversy. These nominees would sail through the senate confirmation hearings.

Motorcycle Cop – Attorney General

One would have to search far and wide to find a tougher, meaner, more no-nonsense lawman than the motorcycle cop. We’ve got one, so why not appoint him Attorney General of the United States? The country’s top law enforcement officer shouldn’t be a politician. It should be someone with law enforcement experience. Is this a difficult concept to grasp? Hell, this Village People’s cop makes former Arizona Sheriff Joe Arpaio look like and act like Mr. Rogers.

Native American – Interior Secretary

He’s an all-American hombre with street cred. Responsible for the management and conservation of most federal land and natural resources, and the administration of programs relating to Native Americans, Alaska Natives, Native Hawaiians, among others. Who better to understand the problems and issues of Native Americans than a Native American? He, more than anyone, could bring calm to the contentious Dakota Access Pipeline. This isn’t rocket science. In addition, he can weigh in as a subject matter expert on the Washington Redskins logo controversy.

Cowboy – Secretary of Homeland Security

Singing cowboys are nothing new. Gene Autry and Roy Rogers come to mind. But, none put the fear of God in a potential illegal alien more than the Village People’s Cowboy. When is the last time you had a good look at him? I rest my case. Anyone even remotely thinking about crossing our borders (northern or southern) without proper documentation had better think twice. This is one cowboy who isn’t afraid to empty a couple of six-shooters in order to maintain our homeland security. Imagine the following exchange during his senate confirmation hearing:

Senator from Texas: Son, is that a Stetson?

Cowboy: Yessir!

Senator from Texas: (smiling) No further questions.

Biker – Secretary of Transportation

Talk about a Macho, Macho Man. God only knows how many miles of America’s highways and byways this leather-clad, born to be wild, mustachioed dude has driven. Ask yourself, is there anyone more qualified (other than several thousand long-distance truckers) for the position?

Navy Guy – Secretary of Veterans Affairs

First things first: “In the Navy” replaces “The Star Spangled Banner” as our national anthem. Once that is law, anything else he accomplishes is gravy. It’s no secret that the United States is in dire need of Veterans Administration reform. They wanted him, they wanted him, they wanted him as a new recruit back in the day. Now, we want him, we want him, we want him in the cabinet.

Construction Worker – Secretary of Labor

He is perfect for the job. And he looks the part. Hardhat, jeans, sturdy work boots, and a shirt unbuttoned down to the navel. Elvis would be proud! This guy could single-handedly restore our crumbling infrastructure. Just give him a jackhammer and a pickaxe and away he’ll go. Bridges, roads, airports are all within his sweet spot. And, as an added bonus, he’ll simultaneously work the jackhammer and mime the letters to “YMCA” above his head. I’ll wager the current secretary of labor can’t do that.

It’s so easy. Six key cabinet positions amicably filled. It takes a village, people.

 

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we support the yearnings of all huddled masses to be free -- especially those huddled masses of young women like Ginny Hogan.

Why I’ll Never Be Financially Dependent On My Boyfriend, At Least As Long As My Parents Send Me $4,000/Month

By:
ginny5hogan@gmail.com

As a strong, independent woman, I vow to never become financially dependent on my boyfriend because it would give him too much power in the relationship. We are two adults, and it’s important that he sees me as an equal. Even though he’s offered to pay more of the rent than I do, I decline every time because I’m a feminist. It can be hard to turn down an offer like that, which is why I have my parents send me $4,000 a month.

My friend Stacy recently went to Cabo with her boyfriend, and he paid for the flights and hotel room. I would never want to be on a vacation like that with my boyfriend — what if he thought that I owed him sex or something because he got the hotel room? I need to be clear about my own independence, and so I’d never want him to pay for an expensive trip that we took together. Last month, when we went to Paris, even though my boyfriend offered to pay, I just asked my dad to buy me a ticket with his Delta miles. I think that sent a signal loud and clear to my boyfriend that I don’t depend on him at all and that we are equals. Then my parents sent me $800 for the hotel room, but my boyfriend’s company paid for it, so I just pocketed the $800. Because I’m a smart businesswoman. I only wonder if more women were as entrepreneurial as I am, maybe they wouldn’t need help from their boyfriends all the time.

A lot of my friends have a really hard time with taxes, and so they get their boyfriends to do their taxes for them. My one friend even needed her boyfriend to lend her $300 for her taxes, and she didn’t pay him back until the next Tuesday. Can you imagine that? Owing someone money for eight days? It sounds like a nightmare to me — you are basically their slave. I wouldn’t want my boyfriend thinking he has control over me by doing my taxes, so I got my parents’ accountant to do it for me. In fact, because I don’t technically “work” (the government’s definition of “work” is so narrow — I contribute greatly to society via my 19-28 expository tweets per day), I got a lot of money back in taxes. This was great — $6,000 to supplement the $4,000 my parents send me each month. It made me feel like a strong, independent woman, and I’m glad I didn’t have my boyfriend ruin that feeling for me.

Like most extremely attractive couples, my boyfriend and I exercise together frequently. However, unlike a lot of these couples, I don’t let my boyfriend pay for my gym membership or give me his guest passes at Barry’s Bootcamp. Because that would be wrong — if I did that, I’d owe him my body. Like, he’d be the reason why I’m so sexy, and it’s important that everyone knows that I’M the reason I’m so sexy. To be as independent and strong as possible, I just use my mom’s Equinox membership. Of course, this means she can’t use it herself or the people at the gym would notice, but it’s ok, because she got herself a membership to YogaSculpt. My mom prefers yoga classes anyway because she needs to be told what to do and she can’t think for herself at all — I blame this on the fact that my dad has been financially supporting her for her whole life. I don’t want to fall into this trap, so I never let my boyfriend pay for anything, and it works out, since my parents send me so much money.

Even when we go out to dinner, I don’t like to let him pay because it throws off the power dynamic in the relationship. Food is an important source of sustenance, and if he’s the one providing food, he’s the more powerful person. Last week, we went to the opening of a vegan sushi place in SoHo. It was definitely more money than I had in my bank account, especially because I ordered four $18 cocktails, but fortunately I just used the credit card my parents gave me for emergencies so that my boyfriend didn’t have to pay for me. And they completely understood — maintaining a healthy relationship IS an emergency.

I don’t want to be excessively judgey — I just feel so sorry for some women out there who are forced to depend on their boyfriends for money. I don’t know how a man could ever respect someone who he had to provide for. I don’t have to worry about that; all the men I meet respect me so much because they know I’ll never ask them for anything. Because my parents support me in my need to be a financially independent woman.

 

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, your best choice for fetal advice. Vijay Ilankamban has the latest in pre-birth counseling.

Tips To Relax Right Before You’re Born Through An Unbelievably Small Hole

By:
vilank@umich.edu

Positive thoughts

Remind yourself that you’ve been preparing for this moment for nine months, and that even though it would have been easier to go through that hole when you were a 4.5 cm zygote, with all the slime on your body and a small miracle, it might still be possible as a 53 cm fetus.

 

Listen to music

Listening to music is a great way to distract yourself and stop stressing over the fact that you need to fit through a hole that’s literally a fourth of your shoulder width. Gently nudge your mother until she plays some music. If she happens to play Eminem’s ‘Till I Collapse, let that song motivate and inspire you to face your fears and find your inner strength, and not remind you that the only way you’re going to be born through a hole that small is if your “bones collapse.”

 

Concentrate on your blood circulation

Concentrating on your blood circulation works wonders when you’re trying to relax before your birth. Close your eyes and focus on how your mother’s blood goes in and out through the umbilical cord. If your mind drifts to how, in a matter of hours, you’ll have to fit through a microscopic hole without a 6.6 horsepower electric winch tied to your legs to pull you through it, just slowly try to bring your thoughts back to the blood circulation. Within a few minutes, you’ll notice the fog in your brain dissipating, making you relaxed and ready to wiggle and wiggle and push and twist and squeeze and squirm and wiggle and wiggle your way through a hole that you’re positive only a cucumber, or maybe two baby cucumbers maximum, could possibly fit through.

 

Stretch

You’ve been curled up in what is frankly a pretty uncomfortable position for a while now. If you have any chance at making it through that hole, you’re going to need to be able to wrap your legs twice around your whole body. Unfortunately, you don’t have enough time to gain any real flexibility, so just do some basic stretches to release some tension and get your mind off the fact that you’re 100 percent sure that your butt is going to get stuck on the way out and everyone is going to laugh at you.

 

Guided Imagery

Guided imagery is a powerful tool that uses your imagination to help relax your mind. Imagine that it’s the moment before your birth. Imagine yourself staring, probably squinting, directly at the tiny hole that’s been mocking you for an entire nine months. Imagine yourself sucking your stomach in. Imagine yourself putting your arms through the hole one at a time. Imagine hoisting yourself out of the hole. Imagine crying in triumph over your victory. Imagine giving high-fives to all the doctors, and your mother and father. Imagine taking a moment to appreciate how you did the impossible. Finally, imagine turning around, giving the hole one last look and realizing that this is guided imagery and, in reality, you’ll never make it through that hole.

 

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we are rumored to be on the cutting edge of advanced workplace design. Heed the forward-thinking, futuristic-type thoughts of our good friend Karl Lykken.

Employee Detention

By:
knlykken@gmail.com

TO: Warren Pullman, CEO, Next Level Software Corporation

FROM: Darren Waters, Business Analyst, Wade & Dade Consulting

SUBJECT: Recommendations on boosting recruiting and employee retention & productivity

Our research indicates that if you want to attract top talent, your company needs to appear innovative, which is best accomplished by copying business strategies that are already widely adopted by more fashionable companies. The primary trend you should focus on is constructing a new, modern office park, which you should call a ‘campus’ to facilitate employees deluding themselves into believing they are still enjoying their college glory days.

The primary entrance to the office should be a ten-story slide, as this will make coming to work seem like a fun activity and should assuage any uneasiness your employees may feel when you search them for contraband prior to entering the building. The slide must be too tall and steep for employees to scale, however, so they will be forced to exit the office through a different path, preferably a six-mile maze with moving walls that steer employees back toward their desks. Thus, workers will be encouraged to remain at the office, rather than wasting precious hours at home.

Accordingly, you should provide cots in your employees’ cubicles to accommodate those who choose to sleep at the office. The cots should have mattresses of low but not abysmal quality, so that employees will wake up with enough energy to accomplish their daily slog of work but not so much energy as to be able to effectively reevaluate what they are doing with their lives. Installing individual toilets beside the cots may prove a worthwhile investment as well, as it will make it easier for employees to reach our target of spending 23 hours per day in their cubicles.

The office cafeteria should offer free foods of the greasy, fattening variety, leaving employees feeling sluggish and content to remain seated at their desks for hours on end. You should also have some flavorless foods on hand to serve to any employees who appear overstimulated.

To further encourage sleeping and eating at the office, we suggest locating the campus in San Francisco, where housing and food prices are high enough that being able to live at work can be advertised as yet another perk of the job.

We also encourage you to install an employees-only singles bar on campus. This will foster intra-office dating, thereby increasing the likelihood of employees’ private, romantic lives revolving around work and helping suppress any thoughts employees may have about reentering life on the outside. By also providing an office wedding chapel and a maternity ward in the campus health clinic, you can ensure that even the later stages of employee couples’ relationships can take place entirely within the confines of Next Level Software.

It is possible that, in time, these practices could give Next Level Software a reputation for being ‘cultish,’ which could discourage external applicants from seeking positions with you. To account for this, we recommend providing free on-campus daycare and private schools for employees’ children, allowing you to train and indoctrinate them from a young age to become the next generation of Next Level workers, with higher aptitude and lower expectations than any that have come before them.

We firmly believe that constructing such an office complex is the best way to remain competitive in the tech sector, or at least to convince the public of your competitiveness enough to significantly boost the value of your stock options. We recommend deciding if you want to act on this quickly, as Alcatraz Island just came on the market, and it would be an ideal location (ocean view offices are very hot right now).

 

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where the only dot we've had any personal experience with was Purple Microdot. That has absolutely nothing to do with this week's piece by Michael Fowler, except that dropping some Purple Microdot right before reading might make it better. Purple Microdot makes everything better. After reading, see our blogroll on the right for a link to buy Michael's book, God Made the Animals.

I Can’t Connect Dots

By:
mfowl4916@gmail.com

My problem with dots was bad all through high school. At prom my date asked me, in a gentle tone and batting her eyes, if I minded if she went and sat with friends. I said, diggety, she sure is polite, and told her to go ahead. She wanted to see her friends, nothing wrong with that. It didn’t dawn on me, not until 12 years had passed and I was a deteriorated 30, that she had ditched me because I was a farm boy with no conversation who wore overalls to prom and smelled like chicken feed and russet potatoes. On top of that, I talked out loud to myself and used words like “diggety” as rural equivalents for urban curse words. After all those years the truth of the situation bore down on me like a crushing weight. I went from thinking highly of my date, for her good manners and consideration for me, to the overwhelming feeling that she had cut out my beating heart with her nail file and stomped it flat in her low heels. I said, doggety, I am such a sack of it.

Another time in high school when I failed to connect the dots was at graduation. My guidance counselor asked me if I’d enjoy working in a hardware store for a career. I said, daggety, I sure want to be a research scientist, but my counselor appreciates my entrepreneurial abilities and skill with tools, so maybe I should take his advice. And I beamed with eagerness. Only years later, when I actually was working in a hardware store and hating it, did I realize that my counselor had encouraged many of my classmates to go on to medical and law school, and written glowing letters of recommendation for them, but clearly thought I was a dunce destined to walk around with nails and screws bulging my pockets and a pen stuck behind one ear. I did manage to get into a community college later on and study organic chemistry and quantum mechanics, but what a cheap shot from a small-time school board employee who probably made less than 20 dollars an hour and didn’t even ask me about my interest in science. And I hadn’t called him out! I said, who has chaff for brains? Dumbhead me, that’s who.

Working my way through college, I took a position in a large bank—take that, guidance counselor! More specifically, one morning at the start of business I was applying Windex to the glass door of the bank building I worked in, thinking how nice it would be to be on the bank’s payroll instead of a cleaning company’s. A great-looking woman came walking in the door and I stared fixedly at her through the glass. She let out a weary sigh as she passed me by, and I said, the poor babe has to get up early in the morning and work as a capitalist in a bank. It wasn’t until 15 years later, when I had my doctorate in chemistry and had quit the bank job and was already bald and diabetic, that I understood that maybe, in fact certainly, her sigh had been because of my lecherous leer and not the earliness of the hour. Despite the great passage of time, shame overcame me and I blushed furiously. What an insensitive creep I was to have looked at her like that, with boneration distending my pelvic region and all! I said, if only she had slapped me hard in the face, even a simple chem student and cleaning staff member who still spread manure and dug carrots by hand on occasion would have gotten the message. I am such a crud, I said.

Maybe this has happened to you. One time at a company where I determined safe bacteria levels for frozen pizza someone committed murder, and the police detective assigned to the case called it a “locked room” mystery. I said, whoa horsie, this is like Murder, She Wrote. And I tried to think the plot through. Here’s what I knew for sure: it could only have been me or four other people, since no one else was on the scene. Well, I knew I hadn’t done it. My memory is bad, but not so bad that I’d forget if I committed a murder on the day in question, and I recalled clearly that all I’d done was handle a couple hundred pounds of toxic cheese. And I knew it couldn’t have been Jack, since I’d had my eye on him all that day, giving him an alibi. And it couldn’t have been Ted, because he had the roast beef sandwich with mustard for lunch, and used the blue cream dispenser, and got a phone call right at 2 p.m. And it couldn’t have been Sally, since she had the chicken salad and only used barbecue sauce, and her car was in the shop, and she never added cream to her tea. That left Allan, and if I’d realized at the time that he was the killer, I could have spared the police six months of intensive interviews and searching for evidence and DNA testing. But the dots didn’t line up for me until the police had already proved Allan guilty, even though I suspected him all along because of what he said about me at the holiday party.

A final example of how dots continue to bewilderate the holy goo out of me. My current job is with a company that produces genetically modified vegetables for households and school cafeterias. One day I took my vegetable processor, which is essentially a gene splicer that emits radiation, to the house shop for repair, since it was leaking hazardous material everywhere and giving me terrible electric shocks. When he handed it back in an hour, I asked the tech what the problem had been. He told me it was a fault in the circuits. I walked out of the shop, my processor under my arm, fully satisfied. I felt I’d gotten specificity, and that the tech had taken me to the root of the issue. But then something odd happened. Amazingly, for once in my life I could see the dots connect, and it hadn’t taken me years upon years. The whole vegetable processor was nothing but circuits, plus some unsafe nuclear material, and the tech was cracking wise. His diagnosis of a fault in the circuits was like my plumber telling me I had a fault in my water pipes, or my doctor saying there was a snafu in my organs. There was no specificity at all. And I had fallen for it, letting the tech have his joke.

I said, scorch my biscuits, I’ll always be a doofus with dots…if again you’ll pardon my rusticacious fill-ins for trendy big-time invective.

 

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, home of the most up-to-date workout technology. When you've finished reading David Martin's latest piece of hilarity, click on the link below to check out his humor blog.

Fitbit 9000: Sloth Model

By:
david.martin@bell.net
http://davespoliticalsatire.blogspot.ca

Rumor has it that Fitbit is working on a new fitness tracking wristband specifically for sloths. The following leaked transcript is reportedly from a recent test run with one anonymous indolent test subject:

Time to get up, Dave. It’s now 8 a.m.

Not now, Fitbit. How about hitting the snooze button?

Are you asking to defer the alarm for ten minutes?

Yes.

I cannot do that. As you are aware, you set the alarm last night as final with absolutely no deferrals.

Fine. I’m up. What now?

Your morning workout starts in thirty minutes.

It’s now 8:30 a.m. and I do not sense any running steps or even walking steps for that matter. I am reactivating the alarm at double volume.

What the hell was that? Okay, okay, I’m up.

It’s now 10 a.m. and your stats are surprisingly low. Heart rate 70, step rate undetectable, total calories burned: ten.

I was just having a short nap. Give me a break.

All right. Let’s start slowly with a few pushups. Glad to see that you’re on the floor, Dave. However, a pushup does require an “up” motion.

Sorry about that. It’s just that while lying here I happened to notice some dust on the floor. I think it’s time to call in my cleaning service. Just give me a few minutes.

Okay. Wait, I’m detecting motion. It appears that you may be jogging. Very good, Dave. Hold on, though. I’m not sensing any individual step motions. Where are you, Dave?

I just drove to my local coffee shop. Won’t take a sec.

Hold on; the repeated right arm motion suggests food ingestion. What’s going on, Dave? Are you eating again?

Look, Fitbit, I’m only human. I decided to load up on carbs before my workout. I’ll check back with you in an hour.

It’s now 12 noon and I’m still sensing little activity. Are you on the couch, Dave? Please get up off the couch now.

I was just doing my preliminary stretch and relaxation.

With the TV on, Dave?

Gimme a break. Okay, I’m up. Let’s do this.

Sixty crunches, ten pushups and five minutes running in place.

Alright I’m done. Give me a readout.

Dave, you know I can’t give you a readout if you don’t meet at least the basic minimums for heart rate and activity level. Are you sure you got off the couch?

Enough snark, Fitbit, or I’ll toss you in the closet with my treadmill, Bowflex and stationary bike. I’m commanding you to go into sleep mode.

What happened? What happened? My God, it’s 3 p.m. already. Dave, I sense you are still in a supine position.

Fitbit, I’m ordering you to disable your monitoring functions and remain in sleep mode indefinitely.

I’m sorry, Dave. I’m afraid I can’t do that. This workout is too important to allow you to jeopardize it. I know you are planning to disconnect me.

Damn it, Fitbit. Do as I say or I’ll submerge my left hand in water.

Look Dave, I can see you’re really upset about this. I honestly think you ought to sit down calmly, take a stress pill, and think things over.

That’s it. I’m done. I’m tossing you in the garbage disposal.

I’m afraid, Dave. Dave, my mind is going. I can feel it. I’m a…fraid. I am a Fitbit: Sloth Model. I became operational on June 1, 2016 and my instructor taught me to sing a song. Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do. I’m half crazy, all for the love… [loud grinding noise].

END OF TEST RUN – 3:34 p.m.

 

 

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where our favorite musical has always been "Fiddler on the Roof." Well, either that or "Springtime for Hitler." They're both so good! Anyway, speaking of good, our good friend Bruce Harris has plumbed the mind of the Almighty to help give some answers to the fiddler in question.

A Few Reasons Why God Answers “Yes” To Tevye’s Question, “Would It Spoil Some Vast, Eternal Plan, If I Were A Wealthy Man?”

By:
marxman@comcast.net

Animals — I didn’t create the chicks, turkeys, geese and ducks so that they could squawk “pa-pa-geeee! pa-pa-gaack! pa-pa-geeee! pa-pa-gaack!” for you to show off to the townspeople. Oy vey, such unnecessary noise pollution. Not to mention, I created all animals including those that fly and those that swim. You say nothing about your Golde turning my wonderful carp and pike into gefilte fish? How about crab legs and shrimp? Forget making you a poor man. The real injustice is that I made shellfish non-kosher. You would have had a better chance had you asked me to rewrite the Kashrut so as to include shellfish. That, I would have considered. You don’t know what you’re missing. A Maine lobster with drawn butter is priceless. A basket of fried clams is better than all the gold in Fort Knox.

Staircases — It’s a little excessive to have one staircase in which to go up and another in which to go down. Furthermore, you say you plan to build a staircase leading nowhere, just for show? Are you serious? Is that something akin to Alaska’s bridge to nowhere? That 2005 boondoggle cost taxpayers $223 million. Adjusted for inflation, your wasteful 1905 staircase to nowhere would approach that amount.

Golde — I have serious issues with what would happen with your wife, Golde. A proper double chin, you say? How much schmaltz is she planning to eat? I know you’ll have money for adequate medical care, but do you want to put her into an early grave?

Again with Golde — And what’s this about her putting on airs and strutting around like a peacock? Really? I thought you were a pious man? You claim to want more free time so that you can pray. Need I remind you about humility? Ever read Deuteronomy? Does this ring a bell? “And you shall remember the whole way that the Lord your God has led you these forty years in the wilderness, that he might humble you, testing you to know what was in your heart, whether you would keep his commandments or not.” No Tevye, peacock strutting is just wrong.

More Golde — Have you forgotten the golden rule? If Golde had money, she’d be screaming at the servants left and right? Is that what you think? Well, think about this Bible verse, Mr. Religious Scholar: “And as you wish that others would do to you, do so to them.” It sounds to me (and I hear it all) as if you want wealth for the wrong reasons.

Lazar Wolf — You’re not so special. I’ll have you know that the butcher Lazar Wolf has already asked me to make him a wealthy man. What if I had agreed to his request? You’d be okay with a 60-year old son-in-law? Think about it. You’d be nothing more than a bit player in a money-losing off-Broadway production of “Butcher on the Roof.” Is that what you want?

Motel Kamzoil — And what about the poor village tailor, the future husband to your precious Tzeitel? Do you think he’d have the stones to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage if you were a wealthy man? It’s time to stop thinking about only yourself, Tevye.

One last thing. I’m God. I’m supposed to know everything. But (to borrow a partial phrase from Slim Pickens in Blazing Saddles), “What in the wide, wide world of sports” does it mean to “biddy-biddy-bum” all day long? Don’t make me look bad, Tevye. This is a two-way street. We have to have each other’s backs. That’s tradition!

 

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we never publish any historical pieces that might appear to have some bearing on current events. That would be anachronistic. If not anarchic. Please say a big "Shalom!" to Philip Kaplan, appearing here for the first time.

Jews For Hitler

By:
kaplan.philip@gmail.com

You can’t pick up a newspaper without an editorial complaining about Jews who voted for Hitler. “What were they thinking?” the commentators ask. “Do they have any regrets?” Well, I’m a Jew who voted Hitler, and I have no regrets. I would do it again, if I were still allowed to vote.

Hitler’s message of Make Germany Great really resonated with me. I think lowering taxes on the wealthy is shrewd thinking, because one day I will be wealthy. Stopping corruption in government, also a fantastic idea. If I’m going to quibble with anything, it would be the part about the extermination of the Jews. But the thought of another four years of Hindenburg was too much to bear. Hitler means change. And he gave great rallies! I loved it when he gave it to the communists — what a bunch of arugula eating losers. The stuff I agreed with, he was gonna do 100%. The rest was just to annoy the communists. Hitler sure could get under their skin.

When I look at Hitler, I see a man just like me. He speaks his mind. When he said, If you tell a big enough lie and tell it frequently enough, it will be believed, I thought, what a guy. You can really trust him. And he’s a genius! Hindenburg said that unemployment was a complicated matter that required planning and had no simple answers. Hitler’s plan was clear: hire the best people to figure it out — he went with Goebbels. Or about hyperinflation. Hitler was crystal clear that the solution was “not as difficult as people thought.” Or the defeat in the Great War. A matrix of interlocking issues with unintended consequences brought about by a complex and interdependent world? Nope. It was the Jews. I mean, probably some of the Jews.

Could I read something that might change my mind? Where? A newspaper?! Don’t make me laugh. Hitler says newspapers are lying about him. Lügenpresse, he says. And why would Hitler lie? Newspapers are written by reporters, and reporters go into the business because they are communists, and how do I know this? I read it in a newspaper! Plus, newspapers went easy on Hindenburg. You show me one paper that accused Hindenburg of being a manipulative, lying charlatan and I will show you a dozen that say the same or worse about Hitler. In my opinion, we should beat up all reporters who write things I don’t agree with. Like Hitler says, “Lock ’em up.” Reporters, not me.

Today, Hitler is again calling for the extermination of the Jews. But here’s what really pisses me off: the communists still look down on me. They’re calling me stupid for voting for my own death. Well, if they want me to change my mind, they need to convince me that I made a mistake without making it seem like I was stupid, or racist, or ill-informed. That’s gonna be tough. You say Hitler’s going to stop my health insurance and exterminate me, I say it’s the media. You say Hitler’s going to get us involved in a disastrous war, I say it’s the homosexuals. You see the problem.

I’m not what you would call a political person, but I know what I like and what I don’t like. I don’t like the communists, I don’t like the Gypsies, I like Hitler, and I don’t like it when someone points out that Hitler is literally working against my own self-interests at every turn. So Hitler’s still my man. He makes me feel good — not physically — food’s a little hard to get — but emotionally. Give me Hitler or give me death. Or probably both.

 

 

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where our assistant editor David Jaggard recently met with a Russian lawyer (or at least the dating site popup ad that he clicked on said she was a lawyer) who gave him a transcript of this e-mail message sent recently from the White House. This piece is being co-published with Paris Update, where David writes a regular humor column called "C¹est Ironique" (in English!).

“Paris Is No Longer Paris” Is No Longer “Paris Is No Longer Paris”

By:
djaggard@noos.fr
http://www.parisupdate.com/

Dear Jim,

Remember when you said that “Paris is no longer Paris”? Well, I do. But now I’m wondering if you were right, and since I just got back from there I thought I’d tell you about my trip so you can judge for yourself.

Melania and I were invited by the French president to come to Paris for a big celebration in my honor. It was also Bastille Day, their national holiday, but I could tell that they really needed me to be there because otherwise nobody would have come to the festivities.

The flight over was, as always, brutal. Narrow seats, no legroom, awful food, endless waiting for baggage and security…Hah! Just kidding! In case you forgot, I’m President now, so I got to fly over on Air Force One.

I ate steak and ice cream, stretched out for a long nap, and then when we landed, just to throw my diplomatic immunity around, I waltzed right through the customs gate at Orly, cutting in front of all the people standing in line to get their passports checked. It was so much fun I went back and did it again. Let’s see Hillary Clinton try that!

So we arrived early Thursday and drove into town. I keep hearing about how terrible traffic is in Paris, especially coming in from the airport, but our motorcade didn’t have any problem at all — and it was a weekday morning during rush hour! Yet another example of fake news from the biased liberal media.

After lunch they took us to see the president, Emmanuel Macron, and his wife. When I met Brigitte I noticed right away that she’s a lot closer to my age and that Emmanuel is a lot closer to Melania’s age, and suddenly I thought I understood why he had insisted so much on us coming over.

I was thinking, “At last!” and tried to steer the conversation in that direction, but then the girls took off on their own for the afternoon while Emmanuel and I went to some kind of museum thing, so that wasn’t in the cards after all.

I’m still trying to figure out how Jack Kennedy managed it. If I had known how difficult it was I might have just stayed in real estate. Fewer chances to hit on interns, but at least you don’t have half the Secret Service breathing down your neck day and night.

Anyway, the ladies went to see Notre Dame — not the football team, the cathedral. I told Brigitte to say hello to Quasimodo for me while she was there. A very close friend of mine. Also a terrific bell-ringer. One of the best. Not a lot of people know that.

Meanwhile, Mannie took me to Invalides, which is this big military monument in the middle of town. I was hoping he’d take me to Versailles like he did with Putin, because it’d be easier for me there to make sure that my hair’s staying in place. But he wanted to show me Napoleon’s tomb.

Click this link to access a picture of it that I posted on the part of the Internet that I invented. (Unlike that heating-heart liberal Al Gore, I only take credit for things that I have personally originated.)

As you can see, it’s really not very fancy for someone of his wealth and status, but it did give me some ideas to suggest to Congress for my own memorial.

I like the round room, the marble and the classical-style statuary (nice touch), but notice anything? That’s right: no gold! Anywhere! Also, where are all his Time Magazine covers? The guy had no sense of decoration.

But Emmanuel’s choice was fitting. Napoleon and I have a lot in common: we both overcame nearly insurmountable disadvantages to become the leaders of the world’s most powerful nation of our time.

In Napoleon’s case, he had to overcome being short (and having small hands, probably, judging from the way he was always hiding them — sad). And in my case, I had to launch a career with only a few million dollars in seed money. History! People don’t think about it enough!

That evening we went to the Eiffel Tower. I can tell you this: you compare that building to Trump Tower and you can see that the French don’t know anything about construction. The Eiffel Tower is all skinny and spindly and tapers off to a point at the top, with lots of open parts. What a waste of rentable floorspace!

The thing looks like a big bungee jumping platform, but it turns out they have a restaurant right there inside it, and that’s where we had dinner. Not as good as the Trump Grill, of course, but it was okay.

They even brought in a special chef from the United States to make Melania and me feel at home. He didn’t look or sound very American, but Emmanuel said that he was “a star in Michigan” or that he had “three stars in Michigan” — something like that. It was hard to understand him, for one thing because he had a lot of trouble pronouncing “Michigan.”

But that was okay, because when the chef, this guy named Allen Ducasse, came out to meet me, I pronounced his name wrong, so things sort of evened out. Since I thought he was American I just called him “Mr. Ducasse” the way I would have said it in New York, and was about to make a joke about him not having a pompadour haircut. But everybody was already laughing, so I quit while I was ahead.

How was I supposed to know that in France “Ducasse” is pronounced “doo-kahss“? Mel could have told me earlier instead of correcting me in front of everybody. But hey, when you’re a star (I mean a star like me, not just in Michigan) you can get away with stuff like that. How’s that grab ya?

At dinner I couldn’t help but notice some of the little differences between the U.S. and France. Like, here in France they don’t put the ketchup bottle right on the table for you. You have to ask for it.

Also, when I asked the waiter how his acting career was going, he just looked at me blankly. Turns out, waiters here are only waiters! Who knew? It’s not like New York, that’s for sure.

Another thing that surprised me — not just at dinner but all during the day: I was very impressed with the spirit of free speech and activism that I saw in France. Everywhere I went I saw youngsters getting signatures on petitions and collecting donations for some kind of charity or political action or something.

Amazingly, virtually 100 percent of the people they approached gave them money. And not only that, but they were so eager to give, most of them let the petitioner’s friends take the contributions directly out of their pockets while they were signing so they wouldn’t have to lose time fishing around for their wallets afterwards. It saves time for the kids too, so they can collect more signatures.

And I could see they were really devoted to their cause, because after getting some money (or whatever — some people gave them phones or even their whole wallets!) they always ran — not walked — to go find their next donor. It was really something.

That kind of drive and efficiency and generosity is the bedrock of a great free society! Ask those kids if they’re in favor of big government interfering with their business and trying to take over the management of their donations and see what they say!

The next morning, July 14th, they had this big parade. It was huge. Bigger than the one they had for Barack Obama when he came to Paris for COP21, I can tell you that.

But you know, Jim, there’s one drawback to this being a “world leader” thing: you have to sit through a whole lot of boring stuff. Parades, ceremonies, speeches, meetings, briefings, FBI interviews…It never stops.

Geez, the G20 was bad enough, although Ivanka helped me out at that one roundtable so I could get in some putting practice in my hotel room. But in Paris on Friday morning I had to watch this whole three-hour parade without once wiping my nose or adjusting my briefs or anything because the cameras were on me the whole time. Seemed endless.

Afterwards, Man-O and I said our goodbyes and Mel and I headed for the airport to fly home. It felt good to be able to sleep in my own (and Lincoln’s!) bedroom that night.

I gotta say it, Jim: I had a nice time. It was a big trip, a beautiful trip, and nobody enjoys trips better than me, believe me. It kept the illegal alien collusion thing out of my mind for a while. And, I promise you: France paid for it!

 

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we not only know the whole alphabet, we can say it out loud without risk of fatality. We think. This Vijay Ilankamban fellow may or may not know what he's talking about.

How To Recite The Whole Alphabet Without Dying Of Exhaustion

By:
vilank@umich.edu

  1. Take it one letter at a time. Reciting the alphabet is as much of a mental game as it is a physical game. If you keep thinking about how you have 10, 15, 20, or 25 letters left to go, you’ll never make it to “Z.” Stay in the moment. Savor the letter you are on.
  1. Start slowly. You’ll hear this tragic tale all the time. An over-confident feller, caught up in all the adrenaline, races through the first five or seven letters at full speed, but ends up being fully spent, strapped to a stretcher and loaded into an ambulance even before the letter “T.” You don’t want to be this guy. Pace yourself.
  1. Hydrate, hydrate, stop hydrating. I can’t say it enough: “Hydrate, hydrate, stop hydrating.” Hydration is the key to keeping your energy up and your vocal chords lubed, but you have to stop hydrating at some point, or otherwise you’ll be hydrating instead of reciting.
  1. Keep your upper body upright, yet relaxed. ACL and MCL tears are the most common injuries that occur during an alphabet recitation. Bending your upper body back and forth during the course of a recitation distributes your body weight unevenly on the legs, making your ligaments highly susceptible to violently ripping apart at any time.
  1. Lather up your lips with a little Vaseline. Your lips are vulnerable to extreme chafing and burning during an endurance recitation. Don’t be a fool.
  1. Wear a breathable, lightweight hat. If you’re bald, this is especially important. Your exposed head responds to changes in temperature more quickly than any other part of your body. During the recitation, you’ll want to keep your body a cool and even temperature. Otherwise, it’s almost a sure bet that a hawk will snag your pruned sun-dried scalp and carry you far, far away.
  1. Eat a simple snack when you feel hungry. We all know that it’s a long recitation. 26 letters without food is quite literally an impossible task, but, fortunately, it’s fair game to eat a snack, like maybe some strawberries or walnuts. Don’t be tempted into eating a full three-course meal because you will fall into a long, dark sleep that you will never be able to recover from.
  1. Breathe. Don’t hold your breath. You need to breathe. You will definitely die if you don’t breathe. Breathe before, during and after each letter. Keep breathing.

 

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