From the Travel Journal of Her Majesty’s Commodore “Bernie Finkelstein” (pseudonym), Gentile Extraordinaire

March the Second, The Year of Our Lord, Two Thousand and XXXXXXXX.

…When The Seventy Faces approached me about writing an article for their magazine, I was in the middle of a fascinating ostrich hunt out on the plains of the Serengeti. I got the call from Miss Youseffi on my satellite phone, and I immediately turned to Grover, my long-time hunting partner and a lifelong bachelor like myself. I said, “Grover, get the bags – we’ve just been called on to make history!” Grover promptly loaded the bags onto our Land Rover, and we drove for days across the continent, in hopes of reaching the interwebs connection at our platonic getaway just beyond the treacherous Algerian sand dunes.  

With Grover at the wheel, I spent the entire time of our commute playing Whist with my well-trained loyal Laplander, Fennimore. I remember several times refilling the flask of whiskey hanging around Fennimore’s neck as I desperately tried to think of a topic to fascinate Miss Youseffi’s audience. As we reached the Algerian sand dunes, we promptly realized that there was still quite a drive left to any center of civilization, and a strong eastern wind cut our journey short, stranding us in the middle of the deep African desert. We quickly understood that fate had dealt us a devastating blow. Running out of provisions within a few days, we were faced with eating each other to stay alive. Fennimore quickly drew the short straw.   

So there we were, Grover and I, stuck under an impenetrable layer of sand, with Fennimore’s half-eaten carcass between us, and all because Miss Youseffi’s submission deadline had forced us to leave our ostrich hunt early, prior to actually catching any ostriches. After all, if we had caught any ostriches, we would not be forced to keep choking on Fennimore’s furballs now, Grover kept pointing out. Of course I reminded him that if there were anyone to blame for our predicament, it was the Jews.

The Jews? I knew it! – exclaimed Grover, spitting out Fennimore’s front canine. I knew I should not have told Grover anything, but it was the truth! The Seventy Faces was a Jewish magazine after all, and that was why I was so excited to write for it. You see, ever since I first read a fascinating treatise on the Jews during my week-long truffle hunting retreat in the Ardennes some years ago, I had been doggedly trying to come in contact with at least a few of the famed elusive Elders of Zion. And now, here was my opportunity, just at my fingertips!

In fact, during our short-lived hunting trip, I had already been engrossed in trying to come up with a scheme to infiltrate into the Semitic ranks. As my guide, I had in my possession a fascinating hand-written journal that I had recently bought off of a blind Tunisian snake charmer. The journal detailed some very important information about the enigmatic Hebrew race, and from this guide I had learned a number of their curious common activities and customs.

For instance, sports.  I was surprised to discover that the Jews of today actually do occasionally participate in normal sports, and that when they play in these sports, they generally tend to name themselves after the Maccabees, a team of devout rebels living during the Hasmonean period about two thousand years ago – the era accepted by historians as the last time the Jews were collectively any good at sports. However, for all of their general lack-luster performance in socially accepted athletic activities, I learned that the Jews have developed a peculiar contest of their own, a challenging and elegant sport known by many as Jewish Basketball.

Jewish Basketball is generally played at dinnertime, during the main course, although more adept players can engage in it with appetizers, desserts, and even soups. The game proceeds like this:

   1. Initiation: “Do you want some of my fish?”
   2. Decline: “No, thank you.”
   3. Cajoling: “You should have some of my fish, I’m not going to eat anymore.”
   4. Second Decline: “I don’t want any more fish.”
   5. Veiled guilt offensive: “Did you not like the fish?”
   6. Defensive anticipation: “Yes I did, I loved the fish!”
   7. Strike: “Well, then, here.” Remove a large chunk of fish from your plate and transport it onto your adversary’s plate.
   8. Counterstrike: “I don’t want everything. Here, take my salad.” Your adversary splits the chunk of fish down the middle, transports half of it to your plate, along with some salad.

 

Steps 7 and 8 are repeated until both adversaries clear their plates. The one with the lowest consumption-to-transfer ratio is the winner.

Another thing I was surprised to learn about was how Jews earn money. Apparently, contrary to the opinions of my aunt Fannie, not all Jews know the secret mystical incantations aimed at emptying the pockets of gentiles.  For lack of having these magical skills, many Jews prefer to make their living from the following occupations:

Real Estate (Persian)

“Business” (Israeli)

Something in High Tech (Russian)

Something in Hollywood (Gay)

Liberal Political Advocacy Group (East Coast Reform)

Conservative Political Advocacy Group (West Coast Orthodox)

Doctor (All)

Lawyer (All)

Of course, perhaps the most interesting thing I learned from the journal had to do with the Jewish mating rituals. For years, these people’s dating habits have been a mystery. After all, how does this scant ethnicity manage to attract its own kind and continue to produce progeny? I was fascinated to discover that today a number of strange venues serve as meeting grounds for this mysterious race.  Among them are:

Hebrew class

Krav Maga class

Yoga class

Jewish Student Union

Persian Student Union

Russian Student Union

Japanese Student Union

Magic: The Gathering club

Friday night dinner

Summer camp

Israel rally

Palestine rally

Darfur rally

PETA rally

Tel Aviv beach

Florida Early Bird special

Borat screening

Barbara Streisand concert

--

All of this was precisely the information I needed. All I had to do was to write something obscure in The Seventy Faces; something about how I felt about Israel, or perhaps relate my Aunt Fannie’s Homentaschen recipe – anything would do. I only needed the publication to make my new identity complete, by getting my cover name – something innocent, like Bernie Finkelstein – into the paper. After I would get published, all I would have to do would be to practice some basketball, pass The Bar Exam, join a Magic: The Gathering club, and presto! – I could be one of them! The road to joining the clutches of their world-wide conspiracy would finally be wide open!

Unfortunately, it was not to be. The sandstorm was not ending, and as our car became buried deeper and deeper in the Sahara, I knew that I would not make Miss Youseffi’s deadline. I looked at Grover and he looked at me. Damn Jews, they’ve gotten away from us again! – our eyes communicated as we gathered the remains of Fennimore into a pile and prepared to draw straws once again.

Find more writings by Pavel Khazanov at ennuigmag.com