John Wayne Airport in Orange County, CA is a 15 minute drive from Uncle Al's home. Mother Schwartz, from whom he most happily fled at age 17, flew into Burbank Airport on 19 November 2006 from Brooklyn, NY. No lightning bolt dared strike her broomstick. That horrible woman proceeded to stay with Uncle Al's blighted sister for 12 hours.

On Monday 20 November Uncle Al had the privilege of driving 85 miles across burning asphalt and concrete, through battalions of ravenous California Highway Patrol revenue generators, within stinking cramped Los Angeles monster traffic, to an Agoura Hills shtetl. He loaded Godzilla into his VW Golf and did the same 85 miles in the opposite direction. Saddle up at 0900 hrs and dismount at 1415 hrs. She was inflicting herself upon the Left Coast, obsessively determined to derange any nascent sexuality of her grandsons in the nicest possible way. The formidable Jewish firehoses of Portnoy's Complaint were never to find a hydrant. Hetero-, homo-, auto-, pedo-, geronto-, necro-, frottero-, and zoo-sexuality... plus otherwise unimaginable perversities native to the San Fernando Valley porn industry, were consigned to flaccid self-loathing.

Satan winced.

My mother was here. I believe in Hell. I believe the various biblical and literary renditions of Hell, boiling lakes of blood to flaming offal dribbling out screaming mouths, are naïve under-performance. Rats fled the ivy. My neighborhood had 72 hours to view the Fiji Mermaid incarnate.

My sister's house oozes sham Judaica - pictures of the kids in yarmmies, fake torahs in velvet snoods, drawings of old rabbis (bearded afflictions who just as easily could be Muslim clerics). Mother's three grandsons' foreskins remain buried at their former habitation. After they fled from people like themselves their lot was burned to ashes with napalm then thermite, strewn with coarse salt, and covered with a double-thick concrete pad rumored to incorporate downward-pointing spikes of pure silver, pressure-treated redwood, and cold iron. Local realtors were taking no chances.

We shipped her back 85 miles north that Wednesday night. Two of my nephews at UC/San Diego returning home made off with her after flipping their car's Haz-Mat plackard. The earth grew geen in the wake of her departure.

(The University of California vigorously discriminates against Asian matriculation. 60% of all campus denizens are still Asian, extraordinary exceptional brilliant Asians (standard issue) against whom Whites cannot pull even a 3.0 GPA. In desperation, the UC system recruits Jews, the other White meat. Ensuing crossbreeding will eructate something mutant smart resembling Cousin It from the Adams Family.)

If God really cared about His creation there would have been a brimming 8000 gallon gasoline tanker with bad brakes behind them on the vicious downslope intersection of the 405N/101N merge, and a fully laden Marine field artillery ammo truck stuck in traffic ahead. Belt and suspenders.

"A 170-foot wide crater melted down ten feet into concrete was all that remained of the 405N/101N intersection in northern LA County this evening. Hundreds of people in cars and adjacent buildings were simply vaporized. The sole survivor was one Rita Schwartz, found chatting with an EMACS ambulance team about every hysterectomy performed in New York City since Peter Stuyvesant. The entire team of task-hardened responders committed suicide: one chewed through his own wrists, one jumped into a tar melter at an adjacent roofing site, and one put the paddles of a defibrillator turned to FULL across his temples and kicked the button. Twice."

KILL ME! JUST FUCKING KILL ME! For hours and hours starting Tuesday morning that appalling human dreg talked non-stop about cancer surgeries, hip replacements, every dead ancestor back to Adam, the cost of taxies, more Jewish horseshit than the whole of Israel. IT DID NOT STOP. "He walked with a cane, he had trouble with his knees. He went to Dr. Braverman, and the girl who came in to cook his meals...

"She had a friend named Kitty who lived off Flatbush Avenue. Kitty's husband was a real jerk who worked in the stock market. Kitty passed away and Mildred was living in Florida already..."

She held a protracted three way conversation with herself, my aunt, and a cousin and his wife with whom I am not actually related, dating to the 1950s.

"Granpa's oldest brother moved to Florida and lived down there for many years. They had an apartment. (Smacked lips.) His wife went into a nursing home (long list of operations and complications). My cousin went there to live and on the way down she was in an automobile accident..."

They are Queens of the World! They are mounted high on bridled corpses. I bet the mortician could only pry the smile off my dead father's face - massive coronary at age 62 while stepping off a bus - with a titanium crowbar and a hydraulic press. Coward! He should have smoked cigars and stuck in there until wholly drained of existence.

She discussed the change in phone costs 1910 through 1960. Oops - now we're into lymphodema secondary to a cancer recurrence in a breast, followed by a mastectomy. Now we're talking breast reconstruction. "We" being "her" on all sides of the colloquy.

"He retired and gave it over to his daughter to do. They send her five checks every month and the rest goes into her estate..."

How little I could have been.

"Do you remember how old you were when she got her first car? We took you over to the doctor on Ditmas Avenue to have your tonsils removed..."


Multiple unemployments, pregnancies, and child problems of my cousin Susan. 40 minutes so far. No surgeries yet, but a fat case of bulemia and an Italian boyfriend. Her father Abe, my mother's brother, is 88. He has massive high blood pressure and his blood is clotted with lumps of cholesterol. He eats butter by the stick. Ha ha! He'll live to be 100 with nightmares 8 hrs/night - and 16 hrs/day.

Ah... back to the hospital! Now we are reviewing the debilitation and protracted death of her mother, my grandmother. Oh the sacrifices! The misery! The Machiavellian machinations, the paperwork, the insanity, political cumshaw, one gay with AIDS, nursing home... brief diversion to my grandfather's death, my other uncle and an illegal bank account... back to grandma's death, funeral, burial, headstone, "perpetual care" for the grave. Back to the bank account. Divvied up the bank account less funeral expenses. Now she's calculating it to the penny. One uncle stops talking to her.

Now it's cousin Milton's 50th wedding anniversary at a "hall." Not a single terminal "r" has been pronounced in the past 60 minutes. CANCER SURGERY! Back to perpetual care of the grave and its payment. It's a torrent, a flood, a tsunami of dead people and forgotten events related with all the clarity, protracted detail, and above all LENGTH of a Norse epic poem.

I'm going outside to kill and eat a child. Nah, I'll just eat it.

Pictures turned to the wall, a divorce, jail time... Uncle Moe's side. Gladys redecorating Moe's home while he was at work. Several times. Back to grave perpetual care and its perpetual echoes. Back to Moe. Their first house in Vegas and Gladys hanging wet wash in the backyard; expelled by the Housing Association. Second house, third house, back to California.

Aunt Leona's knees (Abe's wife - now I'm goddamned doing it), surgery, drugs. A couple more diseases, another hospital stay, grief from the kids, California phone call; back to Moe and Gladys. Doctas! More doctas!

Oh shit... she just became interested in *my* health. Nope, back to Leona, Abe, Gladys, and Moe. Cancer. She is soooo PLEASED with herself. 29 hours to go. I have it on my watch, counting down.


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