In a hilarious turn of events, GO sent me to investigate the Menorah Horah show at The Highline Ballroom last weekend. And in order to prevent me from bowing at any more Rabbis, they even sent me with my own Jewish chaperone, Lauren Golfer! Have you seen Lauren? She’s a fantastic writer and I’m usually on top of her (here in this blog section.)
I waited nervously outside of the Highline for my chaperone, ready to storm a veritable stronghold of juicy Jewesses. Lauren informed me that she would be late, that she was coming directly from a Red Lobster in New Jersey, and I thought, “Why is my chaperone is eating shellfish on Hannukah?”
“Rule number one, if you want to be a Jew, is that we are never on time for anything,” texted Lauren.
“Well, I am sometimes late to things and my mother nags me frequently!” I responded.
“You are already halfway there,” she replied.
In a mere twenty minutes, Lauren arrived, we stepped into the Highline. I braced myself, expecting a sensation much like opening a car door in summertime, when a gust of 100 degree heat just blasts you in the face as you open a car door, only the heat would be generated by Jewish women. Yes, I was ready for it all, for the opportunity to be approached by an attractive doctor who could not resist my shiksappeal, initially fooled by my name being incredibly Jewish, and then telling hilarious stories about how we met at an elaborate multi-faith wedding several years from now. At the wedding, I imagined Lauren would say something sappy, like, “Esther chased her Jewish girls with dedication; like Pokemon, she just had to catch ‘em all, and she caught this special one right here.”
We opened the door and the room was filled with old straight married couples, and one man dancing on stage shirtless, wearing a Rabbi’s beard. It was as though we’d been Punk’d.
“I am converting tomorrow,” I told Lauren.
“Have my card! I need a drink,” she said.
Though there were no single, attractive gay doctors in sight, there were quite a bevy of burlesque beauties on stage, one of which proceeded to strip next to a gigantic box of matzah balls, further ensuring my conversion. We proceeded to wait for lesbians, as eager, well-behaved children waiting for Santa Claus to appear with gifts.
Our lump of coal was a man who looked like a combination of Kid Rock and Meatloaf who began to strip.
“Oh my god, I’m allergic, I’m allergic!” Lauren pleaded frantically, making heaving motions.
“Please…not the man nipples! No!” I said, averting my eyes.
He exposed them, and they had been dipped in glitter.
“Where are the lesbians?” I cried in despair.
Just as we had given up all hope– we experienced a holiday miracle. The Schlep Sisters descended from on high to save the night, dressed up as superheroes sent to defend a holy temple. They danced choreographed dance moves to Madonna’s “Holiday” and ended the number in their panties with an embrace and a kiss.
“That was fantastic!” Lauren exclaimed, clapping.
And then the true meaning of the holiday season was made clear to me, regardless of any faith: enjoying the blessing of spending time with friends both old and new, the celebration of community and good cheer, and above all? Hot girls stripping down to a bare minimum of clothing, and kissing to 80¢s music. I feel as though Lauren and I should record this miracle in scrolls dubbed, “The Book of Lauren” and “The Book of Esther II” to be retold to faithful lesbians everywhere for the next 2,000 years.
“Two things can be learned by this night,” said Lauren, sagely. “One is that the same marketing that works on gay people also works on old married Jews. Two is that we are now even gayer than we were entering the building.”