In today’s world of presumed racial and religious egalitarianism, where the segregating injustices of the past have been wiped out by the gyrations of white girls’ bu-donk-a-donks and the Rastafarian rap skills of a Chasidic Jew (his name is Matisyahu, and his Hebrew is more off the hook than foreskin is off his schlong), one can easily believe that ethnic oppression is a thing of the past. Well those fucking assholes would be wrong. Dead wrong. Well, I don’t know about dead wrong, but they’d be pretty wrong. There would definitely be a high degree of wrongness to that assumption. Let’s say ingrown toenail wrong, because those things really hurt. So those fucking assholes would be wrong. Ingrown toenail wrong.
Sure, I have heard a few people talk about some genocide tomfoolery in the Sudan; the American healthcare system is still inherently biased against poverty-stricken citizens; and there are only, like, four black guys in the NHL. But these tepid injustices pale in comparison to the self-imposed oppression of history’s most selfless, least punished, all around sexiest peoples: the Bankers. Um, I mean the Jews.
Some of our more scholarly, erudite peers can horrify audiences with tales of Europe in the 1930s and 1940s, yet for the most part the Holocaust has been largely forgotten by the American public. Additionally, the age-old excuse of Joe Somejewey blaming his lackluster grades on an anti-Semitic teacher has gone the way of separate water fountains (doesn’t that just mean shorter lines? I mean, sure it’s atrociously racist, but what if you’re really thirsty, wouldn’t two water fountains come in handy? No, still not cool? Word). So aside from the, like, fifty thousand times they (and by “they” I mean “we”) have survived attempts to squelch out their existence, how have the Israelites become the Dis’raelites? One reason: Passover. More specifically, the fact that my birthday – April 28th – often falls during Passover, and, consequently, I am religiously barred from having cake on my birthday.
Now, the fact that I am a soon-to-be-19-year-old college freshman may seem to deem this damning condemnation meaningless. Yet the scars from the anti-Semitic epithets and mocking temptations of cupcakes, brownies, and shiksas suffered perennially at the hands of my goyish peers will sting for as long as Jews control the movie industry… meaning a really freaking long time. Do you remember how you made friends in elementary school? Whoever brought in the tastiest, most delicious cake was praised by all. Yet with my birthday often falling during the Jewish festival of passing over physical labor and athletic activity in favor of careers in dentistry and law, or some crap like that, I was forced to share matza covered in frosting with my close-minded peers. The torment I suffered is painful to describe, and I do not feel I can do it justice with mere written words. I would open up my locker only to incur an avalanche of pork-related products. Kids would maliciously chant “three-skin” when I stepped up to the plate in normally joyous games of kickball. During the school nurse’s lice inspection, she would additionally check to see if I had horns.
So next time you, Goyie McAryan, assume that we live in a halcyon age where ethnically bigoted attitudes are more obsolete than Jews in the NBA, think of that poor Jewish boy who couldn’t eat cake on his birthday. Obviously he can grow up and earn a successful living working as a doctor, lawyer, hip hop mogul, movie executive, comedy writer, or moyel, but deep down inside, that pain will always linger, burning more than the buzz you get from Manischevitz, and the indigestion you get from matza.
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