Why We’re Totally Unqualified To Say Anything About It
Look, we’re not here to blow smoke up your ass: neither Simon nor Sera has any kids. Simon and his shayneh wife, Julia, have elected neither to be fruitful nor to multiply. For one thing, Simon can’t bear to part with his low-hanging sharp-object mobiles and candy bowl full of razor blades and lead paint chips (he’s all about mid-century toxic).
As for Sera, she has so far exhibited such radically inappropriate taste in men (not a one of them Jewish! Not even half-Jewish – not even the wrong half!) that she has decided that if there is a God after all, finding a mensch to make little Gambles with is on Him. She has a hard enough time finding a guy who’ll spring for the Trojans.
That’s not to say we have no experience with rugrats. Simon has allowed many fine nephews to crawl all over him, pulling his hair, smudging his glasses and cramming sweaty little sausage fingers up his nose. For that alone he deserves his own museum of tolerance, or at least toleration.
And Sera has a delightful goddaughter. She even changed the baby’s diaper this one time. Okay, sure, when she picked the little angel up, a flood of tiny hard balls of poop came streaming down the back of her onesie like hitting the quarter-slots jackpot, but nobody said maneuvering baby tush was easy. The point is, Sera spends lots of time with the girl, only resorting to returning her to her parents if she’s hungry, cranky, or needing to potty, get dressed, get undressed, nap or get up from a nap.
But we know that’s not the same as having your own tiny mewler-n-puker. We know there’s something hypocritical about telling you it’s your duty to create an army of anti-Aryans while we mix up another pitcher of sangria, fail to change out of our pajamas, and watch Adult Swim. But look, Kafka didn’t have to turn into a cockroach to write about it. Shakespeare didn’t have to eat a pie made out of his own offspring, or even fuck a fairy queen while donkey ears grew out of his head. Yet despite their obvious lack of personal experience, we still trust them to be able to tell us something worth hearing.
We’ll get around to kids. Or we won’t. We’re kind of busy right now writing this book to save the Jewish People. (And ordering lunch. So tired of chicken.) Would you criticize Judah the Maccabee for not procreating? No, because you would know he was out there with a sword, fighting for your rights until the moment an elephant stepped on his head or there was some kind of miraculous oil surplus. (That’s a Hanukkah joke. In fact, that’s the only Hanukkah joke. Enjoy.)
Even better example: Oprah.
Childless, yes, but still to be heeded with immense respect – if not elected President of the Galaxy – when she talks, be it about raising kids or Remembering Your Spirit or buying the right bra size (80% of us are wearing the wrong bra! Oprah does entire shows on this; she cares about your tits). We’re like Oprah (especially on her thin days but when she can’t be bothered to straighten her hair). We care about your kids (and tits).
The bottom line is that we’re just telling you the truth here. We’re trying to self-help you. Giving you the opportunity to do a mitzvah and, like those hemp-clad, dreadlocked, variously ethnic “Zion” ravers in those two shitty Matrix sequels, save humanity.
Because Earth without Jews? Terrible for so many reasons we should devote a whole blog entry. Right after lunch.