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Jan-23-2014 17:37printcomments

See the Funny Little Jews

From Harper's Jan. 2014: Percentage of American Jews who believe that following Jewish law is essential to Jewish identity : 19
Who believe that having a sense of humor is : 42

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(ST AUGUSTINE, FL) - Believing this statistic is accurate, and I do, can lead to disturbing conclusions. American Jews by over 2-1 define themselves not by the Torah, but by appreciation of a good joke. Soon I understood, one does not necessarily preclude the other. While contemplating the issue, I was watching a popular American tv sitcom when its two Jewish stars, Mayim Bialik and Simon Heldberg, stole the screen with their rendition of Neil Diamond. That was me singing on the screen.

And like me, the comic writer, Ben Hecht, you know him from The Front Page, discovered the grim truth of Rudolph Kastner and Adolph Eichmann, the deal to save a few thousand Labor Zionists and condemn the remaining 800,000 for the Nazi slaughter, and he exposed it all in his book, Perfidy.

A heightened sense of humor permits a glimpse of the horrid truth. Before this truth about Israel's history took over my writing personality, I was a terrific comic writer. My last piece of humorous fiction was my novel, 1971. The BBC produced one chapter in the '90s and that was its sole success. I submitted Chapter Two - Easter Holidays to the BBC. They called it "lovely" but too topical for them. Enjoy a highly edited edition of funny me:

I can visualize the scene quite clearly now. I am with Arla climbing the steps to the new house Sid and Marty had rented together. They moved in during the Easter break from school. Arla and I had returned from a trip to Minneapolis and this was the first visit to the house for us.
    Marty was a hedonistic hippie with a tremendous penchant for practical jokes. He was in the true spirit of the Yippies. He had arranged notable jokes while under the influence of whatever drug was in town that week.
    Marty had taken a trip one summer to Israel. He worked on an archaeological dig in the Galilee. The dig was settled by Ancient Israelites, Greeks, Roman, Byzantines, Arabs and Ottoman Turks.  At the end of the day, the workers could have their pick of less valuable artifacts such as pothandles, bricks and glass shards. Marty had a pile of these when he returned from Canada.
    In the Fall of 1970, Marty had a brainwave. Acting upon it, he went to the Archaeology Department of the university with a pothandle and a piece of blown glass. He met the head of the lab and told him he was digging near his farm when he found these. He asked to have them examined and dated. The head of the lab was reluctant but when Marty said he'd pay he said he's check them for free.
 


   A week later he called Marty.
    "Marty. It's Dr. Waller."
    "How are you, man?"
    "Fine. Listen, Marty. About your artifacts."
    "Yeah, man."
    "We'd like to see the site where you dug them up."
    "Sorry, man. I can't do that."
    "Why not?"
    "It's personal, man. I just can't touch that place. It would be desecration."
    "Marty. We think your pothandle is of a design used in Ancient Israel. We've dated it that old already."
    "What about the glass, man?"
    "Byzantine, Marty. Many theories on the origin of the American Indian will be aided if you show us your site, Marty."
    "I'm sorry, man. I just can't do it."
    Marty stood his ground. A week later he received a phone call.
    "Marty, it's Dr. Waller."
    "How are you, man?"
    "Fine. TAKE ME TO YOUR FARM."
    "I'm sorry, man. I just can't do that. There's a serious matter of principle I just can't breech."
 

   "Look Marty. A lot of very important people are very excited about what I told them. A lot of people in a lot of universities are looking towards my proof of an exciting new theory on the origins of the American Indian. We can't disappoint them."
    "Ethics are ethics, man. I can't take you there."
    "Marty. I spoke to many people this week. From all over the continent I phoned them. And many actually laughed at me. We can't let them laugh anymore. Marty, unless you show me the site, they'll always laugh at me."
    "I'm sorry,man. I really am. I shouldn't have brought you those things."
    "Oh no, Marty. I'm very grateful. Really I am. Yesterday I was an anonymous professor at an obscure Canadian university and tomorrow I'll be an important classic in my field. MARTY, TAKE ME TO THE SITE. FOR GOD'S SAKE."
    "It's for His sake that I can't take you there. Believe me."
    "Look, Marty. I'm not getting any younger. New, young people are getting the jobs at Yale and Virginia. Unless I offer something important I'll always be passed by. Marty, it's my last chance. That handle is Herodian. Do you know what that means? That means some Indians were in contact with or were Israelite craftsmen at the time of Herod. Marty, in the name of the humanities and all that is decent, I appeal to you, take me to the site."
    "I'm sorry, man."
    "Then have pity on my dying soul. Better, I'll pay you. How much do you want, Marty? Name the price. I'll acknowledge you in my book. I'll say you discovered a lost tribe of Israel. You can have all the profits of the first book. I don't want the money. I just want to get out of here. Maybe lecture on the circuit for a while and then retire as head of the department of a middle-size but prestigious southern school. I want to be free, Marty. HELP ME."
    "I'm sorry, man. I just can't."
    "Alright, I hate to say it but if you don't take me to your site I'll kill you."
    "Calm down, man. I just can't do it."
   That week was tough for Marty. Twice he stepped on a road of the university and both times a white Volvo tried to run him down. In the library he was sitting at a table on the main floor when an entire encyclopedia in ten volumes fell on either side of him from the mezzanine. Every time there was an incident a deep, frightened voice would yell, "LAMENT."
 
*** (we skip to the end of the chapter)

 We were some ten miles from the Canadian border when Arla began that conversation.
    "When we get back is it going to be the same?"
    "What do you mean?"
    "I mean the last four days have been normal. No tricks, no drugs, acting civilized. Do we have to go back to the old way? Why can't it always be like this?"
    "Because I bore easily. I'm amused by the imagination of my friends."
    "Do you love them?"
    "I guess so if I thought about it."
    "Why don't you ever think about love?"
    "I'm busy."
    "So why are we together?"
    "If you don't like it, leave."
    "You can say that but you'd crack if I did."
    "Then stay. I don't care."
    "Yes you do. Tell me you love me."
    "Not now. Later."
    "Why not now? Who's watching?"
    "It's not that. You know."
    "No I don't. Do you want me to stay with you?"
    "Yeah."
    "Then tell me you love me."
    "I won't give in to blackmail. Never. Now I'll never say it."
    "You'll say it before we we cross that border or we're through."
   

"Never. Now when we get to that border you will kindly not be bitchy because I look like a hippie and they've had a tough year for drugs."
    She didn't answer nor say a word all the way to the border station. At the station the attendant looked at me and decided he must go through all my belongings. We pulled over and I opened the back trunk. While he was searching through the packages Arla asked him what he was looking for."
    "Drugs, ma'am. There is a lot of Orange Sunshine LSD coming up from the States."
    Arla smirked and answered, "My, that is good news for a returning traveller."
    I stopped breathing for a minute. The attendant looked at Arla and said, "I wish you hadn't of said that ma'am. I'll only have to search you more thoroughly."
    We were both taken to private rooms and waited until approved police people arrived. We were then examined everywhere. When I left my examination Arla met me outside laughing.
    "Now tell me you love me," she giggled.
    "Never!"
    "Hokay."
    We walked to the car and the attendant gave us back our packages to be returned to the trunk. Arla approached and asked, "Everything alright?"
    "Yes, ma'am."
    "Oh, thank God you didn't check the tires," she answered, covering her mouth quickly after like she let something slip. The attendant screamed to his partner,"Hey, Fred. Call Al at the garage and have him come over here. I think we got a big fish."
    I, not hearing this, sat in the car and started it. Fred came over and drew his gun. "OUT," he yelled.
    "I don't understand."
    "I said out and I mean NOW!"
    He yanked me out by the scruff of my collar and made me stand facing the station wall. Arla stood beside me.

   "What did you do?"
    "Tell me you love me."
    "Never."
    "LAMENT."
    "QUIET YOU TWO!"
    The tow truck came and took off the tires. They were searched one by one and when nothing was found I filed a complaint against the service I had received. I was, after that, forced to put all four tires back on the car. When I had just about finished, Arla crouched beside me and the jack. When the attendant's feet were opposite us on the other side of the car, Arla whispered very audibly, "It's a good thing he didn't check the radiator. We would have ended up in jail. Promise me this is the last time."
    The attendant screamed, "GET THEM COVERED FRED. THIS TIME I'VE GOT THEM BUT GOOD."
    "Come on, not again," replied Fred. "I think we're harassing them."
    "Just call Al, will you? THe hooch is in the radiator. COME ON YOU TWO. ON YOUR FEET. BACK TO THE WALL. YOU KNOW WHERE IT IS."
    Arla and I stood facing the station wall again.
    "Tell me you love me. I'm full of tricks today. You like tricks, remember?"
    "Never."
    "Lament stupid. It's for your own good."
    "NEVER."
    "QUIET YOU TWO."
    Al came back again and checked the radiator. At great time and trouble to himself he declared it clean. After he left, the attendant walked us to the car. He put his hand on the door and Arla screamed, "DON'T LOOK INSIDE THAT DOOR. PLEASE DON'T LOOK INSIDE IT."
    He turned to Fred and then to Arla.
   "No, ma'am. You've made a fool of me long enough. Just leave."
    Arla's game was over. We crossed the border and she didn't say a word for fifteen miles. Then she said, "Let's drive off the road."
    "No thanks."
    "I mean it. The two of us. Let's drive off the road now."
    "I don't want to drive off the road. I'm not up to it today." She grabbed the wheel and started turning it.
    "NO, you don't understand. We have to drive off the road. HAVE TO." I pushed her hard against her door and she crawled into a fetal slouch. "We're through," she said. "It's for real now. We're really through." Then she didn't say anything but just sulked. I looked at the seat beside me and saw a very beautiful woman, crawled into a corner, swallowing a lot. Her hand was over her eyes so she wouldn't have to look at me. I stopped the car thirty miles from home and turned it around.
    "Where are we going?"
    "Shut up."
    I drove the thirty five miles to the border. The American attendant came out to greet me.
    "Officer, I filled up with gas in Pembina a half day ago and left my wallet at the station. Can I run in and get it?"
    "Yeah, I remember you from four days ago. Hurry though, cause if you're not back in half an hour I'll have the state cops out on you."
    I drove one foot into America, turned to Arla and said, "I love you." I backed up to the attendant and said, "I know it's crazy but I just found my wallet on the floor." I turned the car around and drove to the Canadian border.  Fred came out to attend to us. He looked at us and said, "Once wasn't enough? You're going to try it again? Get moving and I swear the next time you try it, the Mounties'll be waiting for you."
    Arla was ecstatic all the way home.
    "I always knew you did."
    "Shut up."
    "It just was a matter of time."
    "No more."
    I remember walking into Sid and Marty's new place for the first time. And I remember vaguely not caring about their new place. I remember walking outide to see Marty's garden.
    "You see this, man? I'm going to dig it up and make a garden this summer."
    "What're you going to plant, pothandles?"
    "Yeah, that was a great trick, eh man?"
    "It was nothing."
    "What do you mean, man? It was genius."
    "It was nothing."

 
***

______________________________________________________

Barry Chamish

Barry Chamish is an author and world-class investigative journalist. He first gained worldwide notoriety with his coverage of the Yitzhak Rabin assassination and the conspiracy he helped to later uncover. His book, the bestselling Who Murdered Yitzhak Rabin? is an expose which demonstrates clearly that Mr. Amir did not shoot Rabin. His work on this case compares favorably to the research done on the Kennedy Assassination except that Barry did much of the work himself, while it took multiple researchers to prove there was a conspiracy and break down the official Warren Commission Report.

Order from: lulu.com

Barry continues to be a world-class investigative journalist who continues research a variety of subjects. He is now considered an authority on Israel and the Middle East. He is a frequent guest on a number of radio shows where he shares his research. He exposes how the leaders of the "New World Order" manipulate and corrupt the leaders of Israel, steering the nation on a horrific and self-destructive course.

Kind readers. I know you have financial problems, but if you order something from me, please pay. I have sold 60 copies of my manuscript, 1971. Seven have not paid for my expensive trouble and I can't make copies for new orders until I'm recompensed by you. The trend carries through to my paid news service. Longtime readers have stopped paying me for my great trouble. I am hearing too many stories of job losses and recent financial setbacks, but I'm not demanding. I'll agree to any reasonable repayment terms. But don't abandon me.

WE have reached a milestone in my signed and numbered manuscript, 1971. Number 50 of the 100 first editions was purchased by Jim Searcy of Cyprus. Over half of recipients have sent glowing reviews. The last one was by S.I. of Louisiana: "So I have to tell you this...I grabbed your"book" last night late on my way to bed...thought I would just read a page to get the flavor before turning off the light..and that first page had me laughing...cracking up." Get the MS, remember half are now gone, or remain, depending on your viewpoint.

You might enjoy my exclusive e-mail list. I keep you informed of all hidden, obscure news for a minor cost. My readers swear by the service. Get on for a free month by writing me at: chamish@netvision.net.il After that...if you liked it...you pay a bit.

Hear my radio show:

www.libertyarchives.com/

Look at my books. Start with:
Bye Bye Gaza
www.lulu.com/content/575116

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Sean Flynn was a photojournalist in Vietnam, taken captive in 1970 in Cambodia and never seen again.