Authors: Russell Andresen
Chapter 43
Vampires Always Keep a Coven of Female Slaves
When I look at the list of popular misconceptions regarding vampires, I long for this one to be true. Can you imagine the possibilities? Coming home from a long day of battling the grind to have four, five, or even six female slaves waiting on you, hand and foot? The feminists out there are going to send letters, I’m sure, but it is a good fantasy.
The simple fact behind this falsehood is that it would be impossible for a vampire to keep a coven. For some odd reason, when a woman is converted to my kind, she does not lose her free will. If anything, her sense of freedom is intensified. I don’t know why, and neither do any of my brethren, but it would be impossible for a female vampire to willingly enter into a life of submission. That is why vampires have become a matriarchal society. The women are the ones with the balls; the men are just content to go about their business without getting involved in anything controversial. As long as dinner is ready and tasty, or the local feasting is good, we are content, unlike mortal men, who feel like big shots bragging about wearing the pants in the family and giving their wives a back hand to the jaw if they step out of line. To those tough guys, I say, “How about I come by your house? Smack you around a little, and slap some lipstick on your face and introduce you to everyone as my new bitch? Sound good? I’ll be over in an hour.”
I have often imagined a life that had me as the master of a coven, and I am sure that you have figured out that I have a pretty fertile imagination. There are so many to choose from in this day and age of multimedia and Hollywood gossip.
The scenario in my mind would play out this way. I would enter a perfectly arranged and tidy home and Nicole Kidman would be waiting for me in a French maid’s outfit, with a martini in one hand, and a freshly cut cigar in the other. Giada DeLaurentiis would be dressed in a g-string bikini making me dinner, and Martha Stewart would be just finishing up the house cleaning. Martha would not be around for sexual reasons; I just really enjoy an orderly, well-kept house and she looks like a woman who can get things done. That’s not to say that I wouldn’t have sex with her. I am just saying that every woman in my coven would have a functional purpose and cleaning would be hers.
What do you think of my coven so far? You don’t like it? Too bad. This is my fantasy; write your own book.
There is more to add to this dream of mine. After I sit down with my martini and cigar, I would have my feet rubbed by Ms. Angelina Jolie, no clothes required, and would anxiously anticipate the arrival in my living room of Halle Berry, Sandra Bullock—she’s available now, and that chubby blonde chef on the food network. Don’t laugh, chubby girls need loving too, and they are usually a lot more appreciative of your efforts. Does this sound sexist? I would imagine that it does, but this is my fantasy and I’m sticking by it.
Vampires have a very finely tuned sense of what they want and when they want it, and I am speaking about it. Our sense of pleasure and comfort is more fine-tuned than that of mortals, that is why we have continued to do things that make us happy. It is why we have continued to indulge in the pleasures of fine cuisine, why we have mastered the “Menachem Method” so we do not accidently kill our feasting victims or leave them emotionally scarred, and why we are all usually in a good mood, Bubbe being the obvious exception.
I am sure that by this point every one of the sensitive types who are reading this book have just gotten off of the phone with the likes of Gloria Allred and are planning on suing me for some archaic defamation claim, but all I can say to you is that I am just trying to be honest. If you can’t handle it, stop reading. If you want to discuss this with me on a more personal level, I can be contacted by sending a self-addressed, stamped envelope to:
Isidore Glassman
1976 East 33rd Street
Brooklyn, NY 11229
Unfortunately for me, this is all just a fantasy, and the closest thing I have to a coven is my mother and Bubbe. How sad is that? If you are even remotely demented enough to consider either one of them coven-worthy, I have the names and phone numbers of some very good therapists. Can you even appreciate how sick a thought that is? My head is still reeling from the time the three of us went on vacation to Rome and Bubbe left the bathroom door unlocked and I walked in on her. The horror! I still have nightmares. So does poor little Yankel and he wasn’t even there.
I wish that the female of the species was a little more vulnerable to the charms of the vampire, but life is not fair. Women should be easier to conquer. I would like to think that I would have a line of women, not the ugly ones but the hot ones I just mentioned, lining up to take a number to join my coven. The only women I have living around me are my mother and Bubbe. What kind of life is that? The food is great, but the kvetching has taken on a life that deserves to be an Olympic event.
For a vampire to actually have a coven, we would have to figure out a way to remove the female’s concept of free will. It is harder to separate a woman from her free will than it is to separate an Arabic shop owner from pocket change. My fantasies have left me awake at night, dreaming of a time when I come home to a stable of beautiful young women who are waiting to serve my every need. It is probably the only thing that has kept me alive this long; those women would be the death of me. The simple fact that I have to work at the art of the feast has kept me sharp throughout the years. It has helped keep my mind nimble. If it were as easy as coming home to a buffet of female slaves predisposed to answering my every wish, I might get sloppy and let my guard down. Besides which, can you imagine the pure hell that would be unleashed if I was able to have a coven? For the rest of eternity, I would have to listen to the constant kvetching of every single one of my new wives. There is nothing in the world that hurts more than to listen to the constant complaining of a Jewish woman. “Does this make me look fat?” “Oh, you’re going to wear that to dinner?” “For G-d’s sake, put on a bib!” What kind of life would that be? It’s almost too unbearable to think about. I am just going to have to stay content with the fact that the coven is a pipe dream that will never be realized.
Do not get me wrong. If I could pull it off, I would, as would some other great men in history. That’s right, I just referred to myself as a great man. I am a great man; some people just don’t appreciate me yet. Wait until I publish. Can you imagine if Bill Clinton was a vampire? What kind of coven would he have? I can pretty much guarantee that Hillary would be barred at the gates—just wanted to throw that thought out there.
There is a part of me that wishes that I could have a coven, and another part that knows that it would be disaster waiting to happen. I’ll take my chances living with the two women that I have spent my entire life with. At least that is a storm that I can understand and occasionally avoid. The last thing I need is to bring another hen into the coop to send my brain into visions of self-mutilation and the contemplation of the perfectly-carved stake.
This is another perfect example of seeing something that sounds appealing through the eyes of someone who has been around a lot longer than you have. The thought of a coven is intoxicating, but when you take the time to really examine what it entails, you will come to the realization that it is not what it is cracked up to be.
I’ve rambled a bit here and I really need to go use the facilities. It’s almost time for dinner, and then I am going out to do some feasting. Tomorrow we have company, and judging by the guest list, it should be pretty interesting. Go do what you have to and come back in a little while. Yankel is sleeping on the bed; he is so cute I am going to leave him in charge. Don’t worry, I’ll be back. I am not about to end these memoirs without giving all of you an accurate and detailed description of what happens at dinner tomorrow night.
I am just about done with all that I plan on sharing with you this evening. Maybe I’ll purchase one of those graphic-design programs for my computer and start marketing myself. The only problem is that I don’t own a computer, and I’m not exactly sure what this whole Internet mishegas is all about.
Chapter 44
My Side of the Story: A Testimonial by Zena Glassman
Dear Izzy,
Where did I go wrong? What did I ever do to you that was so bad that you could not come to me and discuss it? Am I such a scary woman that you can’t come to me? Are you trying to kill me? How could you break the Sabbath to write these memoirs of yours? Oh, aren’t we using big fancy words these days, like memoirs?
While we are on the subject, may I ask what the hell you are doing writing on the Sabbath, you little pisher? That’s work! I thought that your mother and I raised you better than that. Don’t try to deny the fact that you have been writing on the Sabbath; even Yankel looks guilty. He’s been hiding under your bed since I came in here to straighten up and found this book on the top shelf of your closet behind your shoe box full of tchotchkes and dirty magazines; I am not too happy about those either, I might add.
This is quite a tale you are telling, about all of the various exploits of our lives and living with your tyrannical grandmother. See, I can use big, fancy words too. Big, bad Bubbe and drunken Mommy, well that is really nice. I’ll tell you this, young man, you are no picnic either.
How many gallons of tears and buckets of blood have your mother and I poured out over you through the years? How many meals have I cooked for you? You like my cooking apparently from what I have read so far, but do you want to know something? You’re still in a lot of trouble!
Do I get a thank you, Bubbe? No. I get to find my grandson’s private memoirs tucked away carefully so that nobody will find out. When were you planning on telling me? During your book launch? Oooh, you are in so much trouble. I am seething. You actually have me seething.
I am reading through some of this dreck that you have penned and I have to tell you that you have a pretty skewed way of looking at the world. How did you get this way? What is this? Pork is a delight? You ate pork? D.J. introduced it to you? You have experienced the pleasures of non-kosher girls? What did I tell you about hanging around with new converts? Jerry and Shlomo ate pork also? That’s why my porch smelled like pork vomit?
I have to sit down. The lights are dimming; I can feel my life slipping away. I cannot tell you how hurt I am to read the things that you have put down on paper.
Holy crap! You told the story of Menachem? How could you?
What is this about me showing my boobs to Noah? I never said that, you rotten little creep! You’re making this up as you go along, at my expense.
And you and Judas actually smoked in my house! My own grandson smoked drugs in my house! How dare you? How dare you?! It’s a good thing for him that he’s dead or I would call his mother. Have you learned absolutely nothing from living with us for all these years? You have revealed hidden secrets about our kind, and it is obvious to me that you have never taken any of my warnings to heart. You say that I am a yenta? Guess again, you little bastard. You are in so much trouble.
I have spent so many years doing what I can for you, only to find out that you have painted me as some crazy, ill-tempered, washer-woman that nobody can trust. Thank you very much.
What do I know? I thought that I provided you with a pretty good life, a life where you never had to ask or want for anything. I wiped your tuchas when you were little, I kissed your keppie when you were scared, I protected you to the point of murder, and your mother did a pretty good job too, but let’s not focus on her. She can write her own chapter once she sobers up.
I can’t believe the venom that comes out of you about being Jewish or how terrible it is to have Jewish relatives. And how have I ever embarrassed you? I don’t go around telling everyone that you are the only Jew in the world that is not circumcised. That would be humiliating. Stop being a baby, they can give you a local and it will be over before you know it. Did you see what I just did? Your horrible Bubbe just gave away one of your most guarded secrets. That’s right ladies, his little friend is wearing a “hoody.”
And the mouth on you. When did you start cursing so much? That is not how an intelligent man speaks. I can’t believe that I actually let you kiss me with that mouth. Everything that comes out of your mouth is “F this” and “F’ that.” And when did you become such a racist?
There is nothing wrong with being friends with one of those shvartze people or being friends with a dirty Muslim. When did you develop this hatred for everyone? People are shmendriks; what difference does it make if that person is a smelly Mexican or even worse, a Catholic? Where did you learn this hatred?
I also hope that you are exaggerating when it comes to all of these stories regarding your sexual escapades, and you better be lying about renting a German car.
You also refer to me on more than one occasion as the “old gal,” and that might be the most hurtful thing you have written in this so-called book of yours. You also criticized my cholent. Nobody criticizes my cooking. Do you remember when Jesus came over for dinner? What am I saying, of course you do, you wrote about it. He liked my cooking. He was a good boy, unlike some young men that I can think of.
How did you become so self-centered? What happened in your life that made you such a hateful man? Why is everything about you? Do you not understand the concept of other people? You talk about how I always stay up waiting for you to come home from feasting; do you want to know something? I wouldn’t bother if I knew that you were out feasting on goyem. Did I not provide you with a safe and healthy, happy environment? Did I do something that would make you lash out like this? Because I can’t come to terms, as you like to put it, with anything that I may have done.
I am beginning to think that maybe I did do something to you in your life that made you hate me. I can’t imagine what it could possibly be, but I am going to take the high road and let you feel good about what you think is the truth. I came in to clean up this pigsty of a room. Maybe now I understand why you live in such filth; you eat filthy animals. Even poor little Yankel looks guilty. He hasn’t come out from under your bed since I came into the room.
Wait a minute. Did he know about this, too? Did you corrupt that poor baby with your venomous tales of cruel Bubbe? Is that why he is not begging for some chicken livers? You are sick young man, and you have ruined my little shayna punim.
I can’t believe what you have done tonight, Izzy. You have ruined the Sabbath and I don’t even know if I will have the strength to go through with dinner tomorrow night. You have been very hurtful and you should be ashamed of what you did to an old, feeble woman.
Blame the Bubbe for everything that has gone wrong with your life, I should have seen the writing on the wall, it’s always my fault, just keep blaming me. I don’t mind, I’m used to it. Your mother does the same thing. I should write my own book.
So go out tonight, do your little feasting thing with that Latino girl. I won’t wait up since it seems to bother you so much. I am going to find it in my heart to try and forget that this unfortunate episode has happened in our lives. We have company coming over tomorrow and I would like to try and enjoy it. Do me a favor. Pretend that you don’t even know me, and don’t talk to me because I am too old to have to deal with people who obviously hate me.
It’s bad enough that the shvartze sheygets is coming over and the Markowitzes are not as racially liberated as I am. I don’t need to walk on egg shells around my grandson in my own house.
I’m putting your book back and I will finish tidying up tomorrow when you are not home. I wouldn’t want you to have a panic attack at the thought of me carrying around my wooden spoon.
And as for your so-called friends who may read this dreck one day, they are in a lot of trouble too.
Sincerely,
Zena Glassman, the woman who used to be your Bubbe.