My only advice is to stay aware, listen carefully and yell for help if you need it.

-Judy Blume

From Rhineland spreadin’ down
To Alsace in the south.
Those medieval Hebrews,
Ashkenazi Jews.
Bring your Minhagim.
We’ll be so Halakhacal.

Don’t get confused
Cuz I’m not Sephardic.
You’re not sure what that means,
But you love my Yiddish.
Love my Yiddishkeit.
Yeshiva’ll help you get it right.
Cuz I know that maybe you…

Hebrew and German,
You’ll mix em up just like the SHUM league,
Ashken-ashkenazi.
Baby you don’t get Minhagim,
But I know that you can be
Ashken-ashkenazi.

Promise I’ll be kind
But I won’t stop until you’re beth dinized
Baby you’ll be Jewish
With German elements culturally.
Ashken-ashkenazi.

They used to be
Eatin’ gefilte fish.
Now they eat falafels;
Hebrew replacin’ Yiddish.
Much less Yiddishkeit
Unless you are Haredi.

You’ll help me out
So the pluralists learn.
They’re all wonderin’ why
‘Bout the teardrops I cry.
Oh my Yiddishkeit—
Syncretism in my life,
Cuz I know baby I…

Hebrew and German,
I mix em up just like the SHUM league,
Ashken-ashkenazi.
Baby you don’t get Minhagim,
But I know that you can be
Ashken-ashkenazi.

Promise I’ll be kind
But I won’t stop until you’re beth dinized
Baby you’ll be Jewish
With German elements culturally.
Ashken-ashkenazi.

That’s right
(Ashkenazi Minhagim)
Now you
(Know about my Halakha)

Can’t stop the Japhetic
Patriarch, Table of Nations!

Hebrew and German,
You’ll mix em up just like the SHUM league,
Ashken-ashkenazi.
Baby you don’t get Mingahim,
But I know that you can be
Ashken-ashkenazi.

Promise I’ll be kind
But I won’t stop until you’re beth dinized
Baby you’ll be Jewish
With German elements culturally.
Ashken-ashkenazi.

A fresh new vignette by shellapanic

[Scene: In a dimly lit, smoky room, the four members of Metallica sit casually discussing their ongoing Death Magnetic tour.  James Hetfield alternately scowls and grins giddily.  Lars Ulrich twirls a drumstick absentmindedly.  Robert Trujillo listlessly flips through a Musician’s Friend catalog and upon seeing a Mark Hoppus signature Jazz bass, frowns.  Kirk Hammett plays scales in with a subdued, clean tone.  The air is pregnant with anticipation.]

[A knock.  Enter one Mr. Elijah Goldberg, wearing a sharkskin Armani suit with the top two buttons unbuttoned.  He has a lot of visible chest hair.]

Goldberg: Guys!  I have big news that’ll knock yer socks off!

Ulrich: [irritated] Umm, yeah, what is it?

Goldberg: I know the “St. Anger” thing didn’t work out so well, and you’ve all been working really hard to get back to where you were circa ’91.

Hetfield: Hell yeah—[gutterally, with a staccato stop]—yah.

Ulrich: Umm, you know, it’s been tough, uh, with people stealing our shit, I mean, fuck, you know, I just don’t want to put forth too much effort.  You know?

Goldberg: [animated] Then this is perfect.  All ya have to do is make with the signing and you’ll be back on top!

Hetfield: What’s the pitch—cha?

Goldberg: Forget Megadeth.  Forget Slayer.  Hell, ya can forget Anthrax, too.  Why be in the big four of thrash metal when you four can be in: “The big four of fre(a)sh metal”?

Trujillo: Fre(a)sh metal?

Ulrich: [cuts off Trujillo] Shut the fuck up, okay?  Fre(a)sh metal?

Goldberg: Yeah.  One word: “Mintallica.”

Hetfield: [excited] Mintallica—ah.  I like it—tah.

Ulrich: And, um, there’s lots of fuckin’ scratch in it?

Goldberg: It’s a goldmine.  This stuff just rolls off the tongue.  In fact, it’s the “one” mint you’ll ever need.  If you catch my meaning . . .

Ulrich: Ah, um, uh, a breath magnetic?

Goldberg: Freshness, Inc. . . . and freshness for all.

Hetfield: For whom the smell shows—sah.

Goldberg: [frowning slightly, responds with sunnily] Yeah, James, that’s great.

Trujillo: [champing at the bit] Ooh, ooh.  I’ve got one . . . mint.

[blank stares]

It’s a play on “Load.”

Hetfield: [sarcastic] While we’re at it why don’t we cut our hair—ruh?

Trujillo: [tentative] How about remint?

Ulrich: Shut the fuck up, Bob.  You know, if we want your opinion we’ll fuckin’ ask Cliff.

The Ghost of Cliff Burton: [in a ghostly quaver] (halitosis) cleaning teeth . . .

Ulrich: That’s the fuck more like it, um, and it sets us up for the, you know, the stain fighting version, its fuckin’ ride the whitenin’.

Goldberg: See guys, this is gold.  Kirk what do you think?

Hammett:

|  S     S  S  S  S     S  S  S  S  S  S  S  S  S  S  S |
|-------------------------------------------------------|
|-21b23-17----17-21b23-17-------------------------------|
|----------20-------------20-17----17-20-17-------------|
|-------------------------------20----------20-17----17-|
|-------------------------------------------------20----|
|-------------------------------------------------------|

Hetfield: Modes over D minor generally mean yes—sah.

Goldberg: Then, it’s decided!

Ulrich: Umm, not so fast.  What shit are we, you know, um, signing up for?

Goldberg: Well, we’ll make the mints and put yer names on ‘em.  And you’ll make a small fortune.  Also, we’ve already got a commercial lined up.  Spike Jonze is already signed on to direct.

Hetfield: Oh really—yuh?  I want to sign off on it first—stah.

Goldberg: You guys’ll love it.  And I think it’ll play well with the female demographic.  Imagine if you will . . .

[A clean guitar plucks the opening arpeggio to “One.”  Everything is black and white.]

[Soft fade.  Katelyn, 15, stands in her bathroom, spraying down an overwrought up-do with copious amounts of Aquanet.  She has a slight halo of frizz that won't cooperate.  Her dress is maroon sateen and has one too many frills.  She looks every bit as frazzled as her hair.]

Voiceover:

Doin’ my hair for my prom date.

Put on my lipstick, can’t be late.

Wow, Thomas is really great.

It’s 6 o’clock, where is he?

[Thomas, 17, pulls up to the house in a 1991 Toyota Tercel with a primer-colored hood.  He's holding a bouquet of pale Asiatic lilies that he just purchased from the drug store.  He also has a small orchid corsage.  He looks slightly worse-for-the-wear.]

Now that he’s here I’m so nervous.

I could throw up; I’m real nauseous.

What will become of the two of us?

We’re getting in the car now.

[Katelyn swoons, dwindling off into the twilight realm of her own secret thoughts.  Distorted guitar crashes in.]
Hold my breath ’cause I smell like death.

Oh please, don’t kiss me!

[George Lucas-style hard cut.  The guitar is again clean.  Katelyn and Thomas sit in a booth at Olive Garden, staring at all-you-can-eat pasta and breadsticks.  Thomas drinks a Sprite, while Katelyn has carelessly ordered an Italian coffee.]

Back in the booth, my breath is rank.

It’s from the coffee that I drank.

Can’t believe how much it stank.

Wait for the time he notices.

Ate Olive Garden spaghetti.

Left my mouth feeling garlicky.

He’s gonna make a pass at me,

Comes in close to kiss me.

[Katelyn again looks inside herself, devoured by the swirling cesspool of her own steaming desires.  Again with distorted guitar.]
Hold my breath ’cause I smell like death.

Oh please, don’t kiss me!

[Over a clean solo, Katelyn fantasizes about kissing Thomas; however, her smooches are thwarted at every turn by the anthropomorphized specter of stale breath.  After repeated failures, the distorted guitar returns for one last reprise.]
When he smells my breath, he will run.

Oh God, help me.

Hold my breath ’cause it smells like death . . .

[Katelyn discreetly pops a Mintallica; her mouth erupts with a fresh sensation.  The narration continues aggressively over a double-kick drum sextuplet-feel thrash breakdown.]

One mint invigorates me,

Purifies me,

Absolute freshness.

I can breathe in.

I can breathe out.

Mintallica:

Making my breath not smell.

[Drum break]

Spearmint has freshened my mouth,

Freshened my throat,

Freshened my larynx,

Freshened my heart,

Freshened my brain,

Freshened my soul,

Makin’ my mouth smell swell!

[Katelyn and Thomas engage in a passionate kiss for the duration of the guitar solo.  Soft focus fade-out.]

Goldberg: [understated] Heh?

Ulrich: Fuckin’ fan—you know, um, uh, ah, you know, you know, you know—tastic.

Hammett: [shredding furiously]

|-------------------------------------------17h19\------|--------------------|
|-17b19r==(17)b19r(17)b19==(17)r-17p15p==14----------17-|-15-14--------------|
|-------------------------------------------------------|---------16-14\-----|
|-------------------------------------------------------|--------------------|
|-------------------------------------------------------|--------------------|
|-------------------------------------------------------|--------------------|
V---ARTIFICIAL HARMONIC WITH BENDING. IF YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT IT IS, LOOK IT UP.
|-[13]---(13)----(13)-(13)---(13)-(13)--(13)-|
|--------------------------------------------|
|--------------------------------------------|
|--------------------------------------------|
|--------------------------------------------|
|--------------------------------------------|

Hetfield: Bob doesn’t get a vote—tuh.  So—ah . . . 3-0—wuh.

Goldberg: So it’s settled then.  I’ll round up the lawyers . . .

[Fin.]

And why not?   You’re good for it… aren’t you?  AREN’T YOU!?!?!?!

With the recent credit crisis, it’s become harder and harder for middle class Americans to meet the demanding credit qualifications required by most banks.  Fortunately, organized crime has stepped in to fill the liquidity gap.  If you’re willing to pay every week, in person, in cash, the Don is willing to make your American dream come true.

But it’s not all just gumdrops, rainbows, and horse heads in the super-secret world of shylocking.  There’s real business involved.  To find out how the mob manages to keep their rates so low, Clunkline presents an exclusive interview with Zacchaeus Affleck, Mafia Actuary.

Clunkline: So, Mr. Affleck, how does the mob keep rates so low?

Z.A.: We’ll were really just like any other good business—we manage risk.  We keep the chance of default low and pass the savings on to you.

Clunkline: I see.  So you have probability tables and stuff like that?

Z.A.: Yeah, there’s a lot of math.  For example, say I loan you 500 bucks and there’s a 10% chance that you can’t pay me back.  Then, there’s a 100% percent chance that Vinnie breaks your fucking kneecaps.  Thus, P(You Pay Up | You Can’t Walk) > 98.7%.  Factoring in the fixed cost of the hit (rope, baseball bat, renting the back room of Donatello’s bistro, etc.), we feel we’re still well covered at a lower rate than the bank can offer.  I can show you a graph if this all isn’t clear.

Clunkline: Yikes!  You guys really know how to manage risk.

Z.A.: Let me finish.  Note that, 1 – P(¬You Pay Up | You Can’t Walk) = P(You Sleep with the Fishes).  Concrete’s cheap these days; I don’t even bother factoring it into the calculation.  All in all, it’s way more economical than burning down your parents’ house, what with the price of gas and all.

Clunkline: So you really value the loans like you would insurance.

Z.A.: We like to call it “protection.”

Clunkline: Okay, “protection” it is, then.  This has all been really enlightening for our readership.  Do you have any funny Mafia actuarial stories to tell me before I get going?

Z.A.: Oh yeah, tons.  Just last month there was this guy who owed his bookie something like $5000.  We did him a “favor,” like we like to do.

Clunkline: And what’s funny about that?

Z.A.: He missed two payments, so…

Clunkline: So?

Z.A.: We…

Clunkline: ?

Z.A.: Killed his whole family!  Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!  What a riot.  Good times.

Clunkline: Seriously?

Z.A.: You callin’ me a liar?

Clunkline: No, sir.  That’s just such a really funny story that I couldn’t believe it really happened.  Really.

Z.A.: You’re damn skippy.  Wanna hear another?

Clunkline: Umm… maybe some other time… well, it sounds like you’re really doing a great service for the community.  I think I need to be going now.

Z.A.: Don’t go.

Clunkline: I know you’re very busy, Mr. Affleck.

Z.A.: Never too busy to help out a friend in need.  I hear that website of yours hasn’t been making much ad revenue.  We could help with that.

Clunkline: Well, I like to stay out of the business side.

Z.A.: Everything’s business when you’re family!

Clunkline: When you put it that way…

Z.A.: That’s right, Clunkline, stay a while… I’ll make you an offer you can’t refuse…

It’s really startin’ to get fucked. I know my stepmom’s a bitch, but that’s no excuse, really. I’m sure there’s plenty of girls who’ve had to clean the house. I guess that’s what I get for downin’ a fifth of Grey Goose before I got down to cleanin’ shit up. I’ve blacked out before, but that was a real dick move on her part to get the handyman to drag my passed-out ass into the fuckin’ woods. I was so paranoid that he was gonna try to kill me. When I came to I just started runnin’ like they lit a fire under my ass. I heard gunshots and a half an oink in the distance…

I dunno what was in that bottle, but the next thing I know I’m surrounded by a bunch of woodland critters that might as well have been talkin’ to me. You know, rabbits making gestures and shit. At this point, I was too crunked to care, and I followed them deeper into the forest. Damn if I didn’t come across a little shack. The hole in my lip was gettin’ dry, so I grabbed my flask before I crashed on the floor.

Next thing I know: “Hi, ho!” Seven little men. SEVEN! You ever been septuple-teamed? I gotta stop drinking around men. Seriously. It gets worse—they make me cook them dinner. Shit. I should have stayed home. At least stepmom doesn’t lock the liquor cabinet.

It went on that way for a like a month. I wouldn’t mind so much if the little one didn’t keep sneezing on me. Motherfucker must have a cold, and I don’t want it. Anyway, it went on with the cooking until the day that old bitch showed up sellin’ fruit. I just figured she was Mexican and bought some on the cheap. I decided to make some Sangria, and it was STRONG. One swig and…

Back to the floor. Long story short, I wake up in a fuckin’ glass box with some blond dude I don’t recognize trying to stick his tongue down my throat. Eew, yo.

I’ve gotta stop drinking around men.

Seriously. I’m done with the hooch. Yeah. No more booze for me. Damn skippy. I’m switching to pure flake cocaine, baby. That’s right.

Who’s Snow White now, bitchez?