Latkes for everyone!

There used to be this massive J-Date billboard
in Times Square with a group of super phyched looking Jewish couples. They're just so happy and Semitic! I felt really left out and wanted to be a part of the fun.

Then I got an idea for a show: A group of non-Jewish girls join J-Date to meet Jewish guys. I'm calling it "Goldstein Diggers." Hilarity and whatever's going on in the photo at right ensue. Stay tuned when she accidentally cooks a non-Kosher meal for his boss! Will his mother like her? (Hint: No) And, of course a Very Special Episode™ with a mohel. (Tentatively entitled "The mohel you know.")

You're getting two puns for the price of one today. You're welcome.

Oversized novelty check please, Hollywood. Better yet, quarters so I can dive into them like Scrooge McDuck.

Shouldbefall

I’ll be remembered by history for many reasons.

One was my creation of the fifth season: Slush. Anyone in a Northern climate will tell you it’s a special sort of hell on sunny frigid days when you plummet mid-calf into a puddle of grey, icy water that should by all laws of physics still be frozen. Everything around you is dead and muddy. It ruins Christmas knowing this is around the corner.

Like those wacky Caesars (Julius and Augustus) before me who named July and August after themselves (only to screw up the whole rest of the calendar, since ancient timey people apparently ran out of steam with giving actual names for the months and just started calling them "seventh month" etc. But now September is the ninth month! Confusing? Yes, we also would have accepted boring.)

I'll win you back with my next idea. I'd like to create a sixth season: Shouldbefall.

It’s October! Why am I all pit-stainy still? Is it because I’m refusing to wear short sleeves? Probably. Is that because not ready to accept that it’s 80 degrees and I can’t will it to be cooler with my super powerful mind? That could also be the case.

Each and every day, I leave my house bundled up, convinced that today will be the day I’m glad I put on a sweater and have a scarf. It should be sweater weather (swether?) and sooner or later – with the power of my super mind – it will be. But the past few weeks it’s not been. Each and every day I crawl back home on the verge of heatstroke, encased in a patina of sweat like I’ve been oiled up for the Miss Hawaiian Tropics pageant.

Thanks to global warming, trick-or-treaters this year probably won’t even have to obscure their Halloween costumes under parkas, like we always had to. Every year I was a clown, bobby soxer or geisha from the waist down, but pure Eskimo from the waist up. It’s hard to demand candy from strangers, then eat said candy in said stranger’s driveway with the double obstacles of gloves and your stupid hood stings pulled so tight it blocks everything but your nose.

You kids today with your melty glaciers and text messaging. The only thing I can console myself with is that every kid ever now is allergic to peanuts, so people probably don’t pass out Snickers – the holy grail of tick or treat loot – all willy nilly the way they used to in the good old days (by which I obviously mean the late 80s/early 90s.)

An open letter to VH1

Hey VH1!

What’s cracking wit da kids these days?

Remember how you use to like only show Behind the Music? What was up with that? But now you’re with the program (pun!) and have embraced my generation’s snark-and-C-list-celebrity-loving ways. Also, the graphics on Best Week Ever are really colorful, which keeps me enraptured like a parakeet with a mirror.

I fear you may soon paint yourself into a corner though with all the CelebReality going on. You’re making CelebJambalaya by not dangling just one has-been at a time. (The correct order should be: Gary Colman, either of the Coreys, Rob Van Winkle, any Hogan, Carney Wilson, Vern Troyer, any member of NKOTB.) Pace yourselves! Eventually every last ounce of CelebFat will have been sweat off, every CelebMarriage will have been broken up and every CelebSizemore/Bonaduce self-destructed.

That concern aside, I have the next great reality show for you. They’re tried and tested, they’re sexy, they could use the cash and they have a huge built-in fan base judging from the number of people who find my blog by searching for them. It’s seriously like half of my Googled traffic.

That’s right, I’m talking about the Dog Brothers from Sex in the ’90s.

Let’s fire up the ol’ Sin Bin! You’d start, of course, with just a straight reunion show. What’s the old gang up to? Are they still living in their parents’ attic? Are they still doing the “That one’s all me…that one’s all you. She’s beggin’. Beggin.” routine with their hand signals? Are they still sort of orange? America needs answers.

Even though it was an MTV show, you’re all one happy Viacom family, and if we’re keeping it real, most of the My Super Sweet 16 fans weren’t exactly around for the ’90s.

After we’re all reacquainted, think of the endless angles to go with this:

Average Dog Brother: Women must decide which overly tanned meathead is a D.B. and which is a fake. Guess right and she gets a million dollars and a date, guess wrong and she gets spared from STDs more numerous than the stars in the heavens.

Beauty and the Dog Brothers: Nerds compete with the D.B. for dates with simpleton women.

Newlyweds: Dog Brothers: The D.B. move to Massachusetts, where they settle down as man and man. (They aren’t really brothers, are they? Oh gross, they are. Nevertheless. Forging on.) Neither of them knows what Chicken of the Sea is because they live on protein powder and their Nona’s Greek food.

The Simple Dog Brother: The Sin Bin hits the road to disrupt small-town America.

Apprentice: Dog Brother: Trump takes on the D.B. Challenges include a bump ’n’ grind off, shirt-ironing competition, testing the constraints of spandex boxer-briefs and hair-gel application (for both speed and thoroughness). The winner oversees building a nightclub in Hohokus. Bonus points for whichever D.B. restrains from hitting on Melania longer.

America’s Next Top Dog Brother: Each week they work in a variety of locales and poses. Their fortitude is tested by overcoming their fear of heights, water and snakes. Miss J has a lot to work to do. One is contractually obligated to become bulimic.

Dog Brother Runway: Using only mesh, denim and leather, they must create new clubbing outfits each week.

Extreme Home Dog Brother: You only need to know one sentence. “Bus driver, move that Sin Bin!”