“A cap is worth a thousand words.” Or, “How to spot a North American resident of the United States of American.”

By Asi Gal

Ok, I want to talk about America. One of my best friends, roommate of nearly two years and heterosexual, male soul mate is an American living in Israel. (I'm sure most of you know who he is). On occasion, he has the tendency to yearn for American items - including American women, who swallow, according to him. (On the other hand they also believe in Jesus as their savior, which just goes to show that you’ve got to take the good along with the bad). Being that he is an American makes it difficult for me to refer to him as a soul mate of any sort seeing how he's an idiot.

Americans are pretty dumb - that's the whole truth in a nutshell. They’re funny but they’re dumb. Of course, us Israelis are much smarter since we can all drive tanks and wear ribbons of different colors to express our range of political opinions: orange - you're a crazy fascist, blue - that you're ravishingly gay and red - that you are polite on the road. Yeah, no one wears the red one. Usually, people that try to hand out the red one also wear blue; and, we know what they are.

But I am not trying to look down on Americans. God knows I wish to be in the States and have as many Twinkies as I can eat during a spell of the munchies. The only reason I feel obliged to put Americans down is because of their numerous columns about Israel and Israelis. True that those columns are usually on websites which only dorks read, but seeing how all those dorks are Americans the vicious circle continues and it's about to devour all the Krembo (the Israeli Ding Dong or Trip Top or Munushy or what ever dumb name they’ve got there for a cookie topped with whipped cream then covered with chocolate. You see: krem=cream, bo=inside it. All together that equals Krembo. Hebrew food is logical. I doubt that the dogs of the devil are soft, fluffy and filled with cream).

First of all Americans, where do you come from? Your answer is probably, "from America. I'm an American". Yeah? Are you from Panama? Cause that's America too. And Canada? They're even bigger than you are! Sure they're as funny as the stick you have left after finishing your Popsicle. But, hey, at least they're not pretentious.

Second, in case anyone's wondering, here's how you can spot Americans. Ask them to call you later on. When they do, if they say, "Hi it's Ami Riller", you know it's an American. Why do I need your last name? Do we need to be formal when you just want to know how much I am selling my Subaru for? (Subaru: a sensible, Japanese car. Americans should know that there are other cars in the world besides cars that could fit a hearse inside them. Yes, being an Israeli, I still believe that all Americans drive Cadillacs (Escalades, from what I’ve seen on the television), money rolls on the ground and people won't even move you to the sidewalk if you die in the middle of the street. At most they'll poke you with a stick emblazoned with a Nike logo).

Another way to spot an American is that they wear baseball caps. I have absolutely no idea why. You're inside the house. It's not even sunny. Your hair…well, it does have the shape of a dying turtle, but that's only because of the stupid cap. My only guess is that it's meant to cover your brain from cooling off too much so that the next time someone asks you where you're from you won't answer, “I live above Mexico. I am an under-Canadian.”

And finally, the food. My roommate who writes a blog and likes saying fuck a lot (Sometimes in the most erroneous of places, "Man I just saw your grandma. Man, is she a fuckin' grandma!" Although true, grossly inappropriate. Sometimes, he just uses fuck instead of words, "I am so hungry I could fuckin'!" but he does make a mean Matzo ball, so all is forgiven.) wrote about the chemicals of the beloved Israeli drink- Petel. A colory drink. We all get hooked on it around kindergarten. I once sucked a weewee for Petel - but that's irrelevant (best Petel I ever had).

As a response, I thought of writing about American food. But I just couldn't come up with anything which would be completely appropriate so here's something instead: Pop Tarts, Lucky Charms, Devil Dogs, Twinkies, Caramellos, E.L. Fudge, Doritos (Cool Ranch and all others), Kool Aid, Twizzlers and the list goes on. It's all crap. Delicious, delicious McCrap. It's like there was a war and chemicals had to find a place to rendezvous, so they took refuge in a 7-11 inside the food. The slogan for all American food should be, "You can taste the lack of quality" (but you'll gulp it down. You cap wearing morons).

I'm just happy the north won. At least eating Aunt Jemima’s pancakes isn't racist. And if the Negros say it is, learn from us. Run them over with a tank.

Asi is a nerd. He grew up, lives, works and studies in the greater Tel Aviv area. Most recently he has started his third BA, this one in social work. The first, which he did not complete was in biology; the second, which he did finish, was in history and English literature. When he grows up, Asi is very much looking forward to being an MA student. God speed little doodle.

You can’t say that on television. A blog is not television.

I love my place of employment. A place where the employees are, more or less, split along two lines: Russian and not-Russian. For the most part, the Russians are right-wingers and the not-Russians are not, which is to say they are mostly left-wingers with a few not-Russians occupying middle ground, on the Israeli political spectrum. I am the lone American.

As such, it seems that I unwittingly serve as the testing grounds for everyone’s English and concepts of what is America and American culture. That means I might be minding my own business or headed towards a table with numerous plates, bowls, cups and carafes precariously perched on my arms with my hands grasping what they can, when a not-Russian bartender will yell at me, from out of no where, “What’s up my nigger?”

This leads me to my main point, Israelis have no concept as to what constitutes American racism. In fact, I would wager that they are so obsessed with America and its culture that they aggressively consume it in copious quantities, through the media and hearsay, that they are left with few, if any, realistic bearings as to the subtle nuances needed to exist within the dubious realm that is casual racism.

The other night I was faced with the proof testifying just how horrible the situation has become. A Russian dishwasher was asking me about America, its the different cities and how many “niggerim” are in each and how big a problem they constitute at each locale. I thought to point out to him that one does not say “niggerim,” which is the epithet nigger perverted to plural using Hebrew syntax. “It’s ‘niggah-rim,’” I thought to explain, quickly deciding against it on the assumption that the subtlety would be lost.

I simply pointed out that I could not really speak for those places where I am not from and, in any case, my experience within the black community was severely limited having grown up in a white, Jewish suburb where all the maids were Hispanic. It’s a shame that it wasn’t the “spicim” he was after because then I could have had something to contribute.

Shortly after, the Russian dishwasher caught me again. “It’s true that the ‘niggerim’ in America don’t want to work?” he asked. ‘Not in my experience,” I answered. With the truth of the matter being that I have only worked with one black person and she, asides from being a fine worker, called me “her niggah,” which, as she pointed out, “is a good thing when a black person calls a white person niggah.”

I asked the Russian dishwasher about the source of his information. Predictably, he answered from the TV and newspapers. It is safe to say that he is not a faithful viewer of Fox News since that channel does not broadcast in Russian (the Russian dishwasher does not speak English and the two of us converse in less-than-fluent Hebrew). Therefore, there is little chance that his TV and newspaper sources are either fair or balanced.

Again, I was cornered – this time as I mopped the floor. “The niggerim in America are angry and easily excitable,” the Russian dishwasher offered as a sort-of question. ‘Especially when you call them niggerim,” I replied, the sarcasm lost to my own dismay. “I don’t like niggerim,” was the Russian dishwashers response. “They don’t like Russians,” I uttered, that having been the first thing to come to mind. It didn’t seem to phase him.

He had already professed his intense dislike for them, so why should it matter anything at all if they don’t like him either?

Fucking hippy 

WE DON’T NEED NO WATER, LET THE MOTHER FUCKER BURN. water would be nice, please send some quickly.

Sad times prevail in Israel these days. If it weren’t enough that we have been occupying another people for the past four decades, perpetuate an apartheid through this illegal colonization (so deemed by the Israeli courts), live with one of the world’s largest gaps between rich and poor and suffer from having no separation between church and state, now our Prime Minister is precariously close to death.

Perhaps the souls of all those civilians massacred at Sabra and Shatilla or the myriad Palestinian bystanders murdered as a result of Israel’s targeted assassination policy might not agree with me but it seems that Sharon should have taken more time off – especially after his first stroke. Look at W. for instance, all play and no work has left him as happy as a kid in a candy store. Of course by kid I mean the leader of the strongest and most influential nation in the world and by candy store I mean nuclear arsenal with hundreds of thousands of troops at his disposal and nearly three hundred million citizens who knowingly nod at their televisions while grunting, “Uh, Ok.”

It’s not that I’m saying that W. should fall gravely ill but I have no way to finish this sentence.

Once again Israelis are glued to their TV sets or their radios or their newspapers hoping to be the first within their group of friends to hear that the Prime Minister has passed or recovered or become a vegetable or whatever so that they can have that artificial feeling of empowerment one gets from being remembered as having told the others. At times like this the cell phone companies are very prosperous.

What I find most ironic is that while I have received numerous SMS/text messages informing me of Sharon’s little blood clot I have never received even one updating me as to how many Palestinian women and children were killed on any given day by the State of Israel in the name of all Jews everywhere – which includes me, I’m disgraced to say.*

It is true that the cell phone networks become overloaded when Jewish women and children are murdered by Palestinian terrorists but, as most Israelis will tell you, Jews are worth more than Palestinians. A point to which the cell phone companies can attest since Jews dying from Palestinian terrorism is much more profitable than Palestinians dying from Jewish terrorism.

So, finally Sharon’s holed up getting that much needed R&R that he needs and deserves; and, as such, I’m finally happy for him. Sharon has led an exhausting and evil life watching over and running an extensive, multi-tiered colonial enterprise, having run his very own war by lying to his Prime Minister and nation, overseeing various shady if not illegal land deals at home and abroad and, according to at least one British newspaper, biting the heads off Palestinian babies. So rest well and long my obese delicate flower because burning in hell for time eternal is bound to be your biggest challenge yet.

*But, hey, I make a difference through blogging.**

**Ha, ha, ha, ha.