Why is everyone trying to kill my Judaism?

Jews are under attack from all sides, at all times. Whether it's Nazi zombies, or zombie Nazis, or Hugo Chavez and his Venezuelan Anti-Semite Tumblers, or the Inquisition -



there's always someone out to get us Chosen folk.

Recently, though, there have been slings and arrows from unlikely places, namely: Amazon.com, and the rabbi at my synagogue.

Amazon, a glorious Eden of cheap books and the most random crap available for purchase outside a flea market, has come out with Kindle 2: The Forest Strikes Back.
The whole "library in a tablet" thing is fantastic, six days a week. But on the holy Sabbath, when I'm trying to avoid having an Important Conversation with Wife, or trying to be distant to Child so he'll learn to constantly strive for my approval and therefore go on to become wildly rich and successful, I need to read books. And since G-d Himself banned electricity ("Thou shalt not flip the light switch." "Lord, what's a light switch?" "Silence, heretics! Go get Me some more veal!") I can't be reading some computer thingy on Saturdays.

"But what about the trees, and the environment? We need to love Mother Earth!" Ordinarily, yes. But Reading Is Fundamental, or do you hate literacy as much as you hate G-d?

So Purim is coming up. It's a very spiritual holiday, filled with laughter and joy and binge drinking. It's like Halloween and fraternity rush week all rolled into a tidy vomit-filled package. I have the additional pleasure of speaking fantastically inappropriate truths while I'm drunk.

"Wait wait wait. You are SO in a relationship. He just happens to be marrying your suitemate in the summer. But you've got plenty of time before then."

And that's the one I can remember. Imagine the hilarity of the zingers I've forgotten!

Well the rabbi at my shul wants to take that all away. He's very much against all drinking on Purim, not just the excess. This, despite the Talmudic obligation, and the plethora of other sages who say that even if you don't get drunk, you should have a little, you know, just to ease the pain.

But no, not at my shul. This is the pull quote from the e-mail bulletin: "Please remember that ________ is alcohol-free on Purim and is always smoke-free. That includes inside the building and anywhere on the grounds. Anyone found violating that policy will be escorted out of the building and off the grounds by the security staff."

First of all, there is no "security staff." There's the rabbi, and the assistant rabbi, and some larger high school kids. Second, alcohol-free?? So all the kiddush wine, and the kiddush club whiskey and vodka stash, that's all being poured out on the street, Elliot Ness-style, right before Purim? I think not. Let's not be reactionary here. Just step away from the bottles, and go read about kinky Esther and her feminine wiles.

MMMMMMMMMM - beer

I'm from Wisconsin, where we're known for dairy products and beer. And sure, technically we are the main producer of neither cheese nor alcohol. But California can kiss my ass, because cheese is still ours. Let's see you ultra-hip San Franciscans wear foam cheese wedges. Maybe then we'll relinquish our smelly crown. Doesn't sit too well on your faux-hawk, now does it?

Whatever. At least we're still super fat.

But forget ice cream for a second. I'm here today to talk about beer. Glorious, wonderful beer.

I remember my first encounter with alcohol. Padre was hosting Bridge Night, because poker hadn't made its big splash on our naive Midwestern town yet. I wasn't more than 4, and came in to say goodnight to Padre and all his mustached friends. Next to his cards was a tiny glass of what I took to be chocolate milk. Padre drank chocolate milk for breakfast every day, and it made sense to me that he would also drink it at night, or at work with his lunch, or maybe from a sippy cup before he settled down for his nap.

But this was a new one on me: why would Padre be drinking such a tiny amount? And it was already warm! I asked Padre "can I have some of your chocolate milk before I go to bed?"

"N- uh, yeah, sure buddy. Just a sip, though, you don't want all that sugar to keep you up."

His friends grew quiet as they all watched me sip what I now know to be chocolate liqueur. "Ew, that chocolate milk isn't good anymore, Padre!"

Well that brought the house down. And I learned a valuable lesson: chocolate liqueur should never, ever be drunk. Ever. They were right to laugh at me. It's a silly, silly drink, good for little old retirees who have already killed many men, and so no one would dare laugh at their Nancy-boy cocktail.

So began a lifelong adoration of alcohol. I never really made it past beer, although Wife has matured to single-malt scotch. Now she sneers at people in bars who order blends, and ask for their 50$/shot Macallan on the rocks. "See that guy? With the ice? He shouldn't even be allowed to order. HEY PAL, WHY NOT LET ME PISS IN YOUR GLASS, IT'LL TASTE THE SAME." (Note: Wife may or may not actually have said that. But she's damn well thought it.)

Being from the great city of Milwaukee, when I saw this article I got immediately nostalgic. PBR is a legacy, one that used to reign over the Milwaukee skyline , like the Citgo sign in Boston


or some annoyingly huge building in New York.

And then I learn, after reading the whole thing, that PBR, Milwaukee's finest crappy beer, has moved to Chicago, of all places.

Well fuck you too, Pabst. I'm going to go drink Bud Light.

Ahhh who am I kidding, I hate the Belgians.