The Morning of Noodles, Cabbage and Prophecy #3
Today, I’m going to make some egg noodles for a cheap and boiled Polish dish. It’s kluski kapusta po! Pay attention, because you will want to compile your shopping list. These noodles are kosher and very economical. All the ingredients are readily kype-able at a supermarket in your locale.
Crack six eggs and beat them about. I hate it when things don’t turn out. “Zebedeusza, you’re such a disappointment.” It’s the morning after. I add a pinch of salt as my auntie is having a fit. “I don’t see you for months and you nearly get yourself killed. Gawd, you’re such a meshuganeh, kid!” Pain, gloom and folly, they bring nothing but sorrow. Chaz missed his appointment with the hereafter, because I can’t shoot straight. Add just enough flour to make a ball of dough. There’s a real possibility that I won’t see tomorrow.
On the positive side, it was worth seeing him quiver and piss his pants as the bullets missed his ears. Hearing Rocket say, “You’re an absolute shinning pink puss! Skylark is more of a man in his schoolgirl garb than you’ll ever be you’ll ever be, you big wuss!” She smacked him on the head and kicked him on the balls. “You’re a retard. Oh, and by the way, Skylark has AIDS and your dick’s excessively small.”
He screamed whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat like a little girl crying. Those fucking female condoms and dental dams that she always used with us didn’t seem so ridiculous anymore did they, Chaz the soon-to-be-drying? The bullets ran out and so, we got out. The gang wants our corpses for a little skinning. I’m not afraid of Chaz. He is as fearsome as a little lass in the Alps named Heidi. Bog and Ace, they’re a completely different disaster that I shall reserve for an up and coming chapter.
Back to the present and my aunt’s resentment. “How do you get into such messes, Zebedusza? You turned out to be just like your mother.” Auntie pats my back as she tries to restore order. “Why don’t you just cut your hair and let it return to its natural color.” That old woman always seems to have a plan. “You are such a handsome young man. Perhaps, if you started dressing in something other than drag, you might be able to find a nice Jewish girl to marry.” As always with her schemes, I disagree. “There’s no reason why you should be dating that low-class Gypsy shiske. You can do so much better, you winsome boytchick.”
Three, two, one and the Rocket comes undone. “I am Romani, not a low-class Gypsy shiske, you fucking Jewtard dzukli!”
Six, five, four, my poor noggin’s feeling sore. “Auntie, Rocket is not a low-class woman. She just has a few emotional problems.”
Nine, eight, seven, I can’t tell this won’t be heaven. “She’s a Gypsy who got kicked out of her caravan for being a whore. Is there anyway she can get any lower?”
Ten, ten, ten, shit, here it comes again! “Odpierdol siê! I left the caravan because my ideas on how a woman should behave were too revolutionary for that band of small-minded reactionaries.”
“Yeah, and your ass was too fat for the wagon.” Knead dough until smooth, and roll until flat. I need to drink some whiskey from a flagon.
For the next round, auntie and my girl exchanged the nastiest stares. As I cut my noodles into thin strips, I feel so very scared. After a seeming eternity, my sweetheart screams, “Dzukli,” and spits on the ground. Rocket’s ass peeks out of her candy red vinyl dress as she climbs pissed-off upstairs.
“Why don’t you want to marry a nice Jewish girl?”
“Auntie, I’m not exactly into nice Jewish girls.”
“Oh Gawd, that shiske tsatskele turned into a bum-humping feygele, didn’t she? Oy vey, I could deal with the green hair and the women’s clothes, but this is too much for my frail heart.”
Cholera and fuck this shit. I can’t think in English anymore, let alone at all. I’ll just let dialogue context take care of this while the noodles begin to dry.
