Take your pick XD
Mar. 28th, 2005 07:12 pmYou Know You're Jewish When.... |
You spent your entire childhood thinking everyone called pot roast "brisket." You grew up thinking it was normal for someone to shout "Are you okay? Are you okay?" through the bathroom door when you were in there longer than 3 minutes. Your family dog responded to commands in Yiddish. Every Saturday morning your father went to the neighborhood deli (called an "appetizing store") for whitefish salad, whitefish ("chubs"), lox (nova if you were rich!), herring, corned beef, roast beef, cole slaw, potato salad, a 1/2-dozen huge barrel pickles, a dozen assorted bagels, cream cheese and rye bread (sliced while he waited) .. all of which would be strictly off-limits until Sunday morning. Every Sunday afternoon was spent visiting your grandparents and/or other relatives. You experienced the phenomenon of 50 people fitting into a 10-foot-wide dining room hitting each other with plastic plates trying to get to a deli tray. You had at least one female relative who penciled on eyebrows which were always asymmetrical. You thought pasta was stuff used exclusively for Kugel and kasha with bowties. You were as tall as your grandmother by the age of seven. You were as tall as your grandfather by the age seven and a half. You never knew anyone whose last name didn't end in one of 5 standard suffixes (berg, baum, man, stein and witz.) You were surprised to discover that wine doesn't always taste like cranberry sauce. You can look at gefilte fish and not turn green. Your mother smacked you really hard and continues to make you feel bad for hurting her hand. You can understand Yiddish but you can't speak it. You know how to pronounce numerous Yiddish words and use them correctly in context, yet you don't exactly know what they mean. Kinahurra. You're still angry at your parents for not speaking both Yiddish and English to you when you were a baby. You have at least one ancestor who is somehow related to your spouse's ancestor. Your grandparent's newly washed linoleum floor was covered with the NY Times, which your grandparents could not read. You thought speaking loud was normal. You considered your Bar or Bat Mitzvah a "Get Out of Hebrew School Free" card. You think eating half a jar of dill pickles is a wholesome snack. You're compelled to mention your grandmother's "steel cannonballs" upon seeing fluffy matzo balls served at restaurants. You buy 3 shopping bags worth of hot bagels on every trip to NYC and ship them home via FedEx. (Or, if you live near NYC or Philadelphia or another Jewish city hub, you drive 3 hours just to buy a dozen "real" bagels.) Your mother took personal pride when a Jew was noted for some accomplishment (showbiz, medicine, politics, etc.) and was ashamed and embarrassed when a Jew was accused of a crime .. as if they were relatives. You thought sleepaway college was only where non-Jews went ... Jews went to city schools ... unless they had scholarships or made an Ivy League school. And finally, you knew that Sunday night and the night after any Jewish holiday was designated for Chinese food. You're proud to be Jewish - and you pass these jokes on to all your Jewish friends! |
You Know You're From Australia When... |
Your next door neighbours can be from Tunisia, Israel, Indonesia, Japan, Zimbabwe, Iraq, Brazil, Spain, Malaysia... The community is so concerned over the fact that muslim women can't use public swimming pools because there are men present that they have female-only periods. The Greeks and Mexicans next door ask you over to have a barbeque. You don't actually use the words 'sheila' or 'shrimp'. You sleep with Aeroguard on. You're wearing a cap emblazoned with 'Get A Dog Up Ya.' You feel obliged to spread salty black stuff that looks like congealed motor oil on bread and actually grow to like it. You actively dislike Americans, but watch their TV, eat their food and worship their idols. You think Tall Poppy Syndrome is a national condition. Democracy means the freedom to draw caricatures of John Howard. Your idea of a lethal weapon is a slug gun. The closest you ever got to going overseas was your packet of 5 Days In Rio grundies. A posh meal = an all-you-can-eat buffet. The term "musical instrument" also extends to wobbly bits of ply-wood, hand saws, gum leafs and combs. Your most offensive curse also doubles as an exclamation of awe or amazement, like, "fark orf!" All of your internationally famous people don't live here. You think footballers dressing up in drag on TV is funny (but your son being gay isn't). You relish test cricket - the longest, slowest game in sport (and that's not even counting the replays). After all, what else gives you an excuse to sit on your arse for five days, watch TV and sink piss with your mates? You don't drink Fosters, but you let the world think you do. The only thing better than beating the Pohms at ANY sport is giving them shit for it. You love, adore and admire a particular team/sportstar/actor on a winning streak - until they lose. Then they're just crap and 'past it.' You can compress several words into one - ie 'g'day', 'd'reckn?' This allows for more space for profanities. You favour either Holden or Ford - or a souped-up WRX with new kit and a bootful of subwoofer. Driving down the main street/beach road playing bad techno is your idea of a perfect Saturday night / Sunday arvo. You make kooky films, sometimes about wayward road trips (across the outback preferably). Quite a few are crap. You know all the words to Khe Sahn but not the national anthem. Your nickname ends in 'a' or 'o'. You have a customised stubby holder. Your soap stars become pop singers and move to the UK. You've ever used the words - grouse, tops, ripper, choice, sick, rad, exo, ace, wicked, ballistic - to mean good. And then you place 'bloody' in front of it when you really mean it. Your cooking apron has plastic breasts on it. The "Aussie Aussie Aussie! Oi oi oi!" chant has been a religious experience in the past. The blokes at the local gym think your weight training is an opportunity to ask you out on a date. The big national sporting events are men-only. Your politicians believe than sticking the prefix 'un' in front of your nationality is an effective way of making you sit down and shut up. Our mantras are 'fair go for all', 'mateship' and 'little Aussie battler' - but we still publicly condemn those with different viewpoints to us. The barbeque is a male-dominated arena. And the women do the salads. 'Fair go for all' excludes indigenous people. An eight-hour trip to go camping for the weekend isn't out of the question or excessive. You take pride in living in a tolerant multicultural society but firmly believe that all Poms and Kiwis are fair game. You insist on asking every celebrity who steps of an aircraft what they think of Australia. If the response is not overwhelmingly positive, they should be subjected to immediate public ridicule. The private lives of footy and cricket players become more important than local and national news stories. Slick pick-up lines like 'Wanna shag?' and 'Carn, show us yer tits' can constitute male-to-female conversation. You say 'no worries' quite often, whether you realise it or not. You realise you have no Bill of Rights. The first thing guaranteed to get eaten at parties is fairy bread. So that's the special ingredients that make up an Aussie - whatever your taste. You actually get these jokes and pass them on to other friends from Austrailia. |
You Know You're From Sydney When... |
You make over $100,000 AU and still can't afford a house. You never bother looking at the train timetable because you know the drivers have never seen it. You order organic fruit and vegies online, but eat out every night anyway. You spent more money on your coffee machine than on your washing machine. You spend $200+ for your room in an apartment with stunning harbour/beachviews and European appliances; and then spend a total of 40 hours each week there (37 of which you are sleeping). You contemplate calling a taxi from your home to where you managed to park the car the night before. You spend 30 minutes in a traffic jam next to a car with more power to its speakers than its wheels. You know everyone's e-mail and mobile number but not their last name or home address. You can roll sushi, make pasta and keep your red curry paste recipe under lock and key...but couldn't roast a chicken to save your life. Your taxi driver was a micro-surgeon before he moved to Australia. Your co-worker tells you he/she has 8 body piercings but none are visible. You can't remember....is dope illegal? You've been to more than one baby shower that has two mothers and a sperm donor. You have a very strong opinion where your coffee beans are grown and can taste the difference between Sumatran and Ethiopian. A really great parking space can move you to tears. You are thinking of taking an adult class but you can't decide between yoga, aromatherapy, conversational Italian, French or building your own website. A man in full leather regalia and crotchless chaps gets on the bus. You don't notice. A woman with live poultry gets onto the bus. You don't notice. You are genuinely surprised when you meet someone who was actually born in Sydney (but then, they are Swiss/Thai/Brazilian). Your hairdresser is straight, your plumber is gay, the woman who delivers your mail is straight.... and your Avon Lady is a drag queen You take a bus and are shocked at 2 people carrying on a conversation in English. You assume every company offers domestic partner benefits. Your boss runs in "The City to Surf"... it's the first time you have seen him/her nude. You think any guy with a George Clooney haircut must be visiting from the North Shore. You know that any woman with a George Clooney haircut is not a tourist. You couldn't figure out how to drive to Sydney Tower if your life depended on it. You meet friends for coffee at 1am at your local Netcafe / Laundramat /Bookstore / Bar / Alternative healing centre and go for drinks and pool at nine in the morning. You go out each Saturday for breakfast and the paper...at 3pm. Your shiatsu therapist is headhunted by an Internet Startup and your accountant becomes an actor. You actually get these jokes and pass them on to other friends from Sydney. |
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