Partying with the Zionists

I don’t usually discuss my private life in detail, but this week, fittingly including Purim, it all turned around. I risked life and limb to try to understand the Canadian ZOG mindset, and became an undisputed hero in the process. This is my shocking story.

I have long been wary of Zionist manipulation and cabals, and certainly fight them at every turn, but while ISM and few other organizations that are (relatively) ZOG-free have outlined and detailed the nefarious strategies of these demonic Certain Persons, they failed to warn me of one critical and devastatingly successful approach towards achieving their hegemonic New World Order.

Apparently, the Zionists know how to party.

CK (who had previously threatened to kill me for calling him a “Hellenist�) and Laya were on a business trip to find CK a pair of socks, which not surprisingly, he had failed to find in the Zionist Entity, because of their preference for dressing like shepherds.

At Toy Co, they weren’t going to let him in the club, because they have an antiquated shoes AND socks policy for men. “But I’m a Zionist,� warned CK. The bouncer nodded. An exception was made. The club that was formerly known as the Lansky Lounge and Ratner’s was certainly not going to dare turn away one of THEM. Even in the hipster underworld, such words open restrictive doors closed to anyone else less “connected.�

On Shushan Purim, I met them at Madame X on W. Houston Street. This was probably one of the most dangerous nights I have spent in the company of the Zionists. They must have slipped something seriously illegal into one of poor Eli Valley of Jewschool’s eight vodka shots or three other drinks, because he was acting really drunk, which is most unfitting for a Jewschool contributor. Most Jewschool contributors get stoned, not drunk. Drunk is for the less progressive types, who prefer the vices of the white male corporate culture we all reject. But I guess it’s hard (for some like EV) to completely escape the influence of the hegemonic culture.

They (the Zionists) had a specially trained femme fatale present; known for wreaking havoc and undermining much of the non-Zionist Jewish world. I was absolutely terrified she was going to try to sleep with me in order to extract confidential information about the non-Zionist underground, but fortunately, the Grand Mufti warned her that I was on to her. At least, that’s the best reason I can imagine for that close call, and the fact that it didn’t transpire. I have so many close calls like that whenever I go out, but thank goodness, I somehow consistently manage to extricate myself from these dangerous situations. I don’t even realize I am doing it. Only after the fact do I understand I must have signaled that I didn’t want to hook up. At all. It’s nothing short of miraculous, really, but so may of my friends fail at this, leave a happening party too early, ending up in a bed not their own, and not getting a good night’s sleep. It must be awful.

So last night we were hanging out again at Jesse Oxfeld’s birthday party on East Broadway, and then CK, Laya, and Esther left. I left a few minutes later, and it was damned good thing I did, because they had failed to find an open subway station. I walked with them to find one, but we ended up by the projects, because Esther insisted that there was an open stop at the end of the earth. They are very fortunate that I was there to protect them, because though CK is slightly taller and has a bit more girth than I do, the bad guys could easily mistake his confidence and calm for a sign of weakness and a reluctance to engage in conflict. But with my classic uber-ashkenazi animal-like shtetl machismo and glaring nervous hostility, street punks know I will not hesitate to press charges, hurl a sardonic and racially motivated insult, or scream. Scream very loudly – ear piercingly loud. Most of them are too pussy to face that.

It felt good protecting them. And I would have done so even without mind altering substances. I hope they appreciate it, though they didn’t say anything about it afterwards. But they were probably in shock. They live in more tranquil areas; a different part of Manhattan…the Middle East.

Most strangers are too embarrassed to ask me directly for protection on the mean streets, and do so slyly, like tourists, who frequently ask me for directions, when they are probably signaling to stalker predators that they have powerful friends looking out for their welfare. But these Zionists are my friends. They didn’t ask me to protect them, because they didn’t need to ask.