By Bob Iozzia
If I ever become a Greek Orthodox Jew, I will throw a big party for myself but not invite anyone because I won’t want to share all the wonderful catered Greek Orthodox Jew food, such as grape leaf latkes and pita ball soup. I’m joking about not inviting anyone. Of course I will gladly share my newly adopted cuisine with my honored guests—friends, family and celebrities alike.
The celebrities, however, will be disoriented and angry because they will have been shanghaied by my Greek Orthodox Jew crew. I will have commanded that my posse decorate my party with famous people so that a memorable panache will slap the face of each guest as he or she enters the ballroom. “Wow,” each would say. “Isn’t that Flava Flav spitting out grape leaf latkes and yelling, ‘Who put tobacco leaves in my goddamn pancakes?’ And hey, the vertically challenged Peter Dinklage from Game of Thrones has unhampered access under former German chancellor Angela Merkel’s skirt. What do you think he will do with all those chopped liver kabobs? This is the best Greek Orthodox Jew party I will ever been to (most of my invited guests will be inclined to end a sentence with a preposition … or a proposition when they’ve drunk too many Mogen-Ouzo shooters).”
I will throw a party for myself, mostly to celebrate my Greek Orthodox Jewism, but also to flaunt how superior I will then be compared to my friends who are Methodist Actors and Roamin’ Catholics. I doubt my Charismatic Christian acquaintances will even show up.
Ironically, they are very shy. The Methodist Actors will probably become very dramatic about how lavish everything is and how much I have spent on my party. This will please me. If the Roamin’ Catholics could stand still long enough to focus on the lavishness, they would probably remark what a go-getter I had become. This would please my mother.
I can’t wait to be a Greek Orthodox Jew.
When I tire of being a Greek Orthodox Jew, I could become an officer in the army of a strip-mining company. I would be Major Miner. If my teenage daughter were to be recruited as an intern, she would be known as Minor Miner. I wouldn’t allow her to mingle with the strippers—I’m kind of old school that way. Plus, mining while naked sounds dangerous … not to mention distracting. I imagine “Eureka!” gets shouted often. If not shouted, then at least whispered loudly. I wonder if strip-mining food compares favorably with catered Greek Orthodox Jew food. If not, I’d have to pass on becoming involved in any way with a strip-mining company. Also, I understand strippers are very attracted to overweight bald men. Those hoochie mamas would be all over me like stink on asparagus. “Forget about it,” I might scold. “I know where your coochie been.”
Besides, this sort of socializing would upset my daughter big time, and that’s not how we former Greek Orthodox Jews Zorba-Hora.
Bob Iozzia’s work has appeared in/on The Short Humour Site, Corvus Review, After the Pause, the old Praxis Magazine, as well as in the upcoming The First Bullshit Anthology from Bullshit Lit Mag + Press.
He is a former rock journalist for a major national newspaper, as well as a professionally starving bass guitarist.
Some of his favorite words are hearth, coffin and congratulations. When not writing, he can be found not writing.
He lives in Pennsylvania with several pet peeves and one wife.
His Twitter handle is @BobIozzia.
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