"Bork bork bork bork!"
Neither my brother nor my stepfather know who the Swedish Chef is. The former is too young and the latter is too old. It's funny to think that something he is something that belongs almost entirely to my generation.
I hate going to shul. Tonight I had to endure an hour and a half of it, which would be bad enough were it not for the pantomimes that we were taught to accompany "Oseh Shalom." I felt like I was in kintergarden once again. I also loathe the sound of Hebrew, which accounts for why I proceeded to eliminate as much of it from my mind as I possibly could once I got my own Bar Mitzvah out of the way.*
My agony tonight, however, stemmed less from the eye-rolling bullshit coming from the beamah (which, let's face it, I've had my entire life to get used to), but from a pair of shoes that were way to tight for my big toes. Tomorrow morning I'll be wearing my tuxedo shoes, which are much more comfortable. That's irony, see.
* Acutally, I do remember the prayers for wine and bread because they were said every Friday night at my grandparents' house, and also the aliyahs for the Torah for some reason, which is good because I'll have to say them tomorrow.
I have no idea why this came up when I did a Google image search for the Swedish Chef. This is not work safe by any means, but it is an interesting non sequiter, I think.
I'd say something about it's odd that I was looking for something as wholesome the Swedish Chef, but I'm sure that some Vegan out there would disagree with said wholesomeness...