If Batman Had a Jewish Mother, or My Son, the Dark Knight

As the scene opens, high above Gotham City, the Bat Signal cuts through the evening sky.

Mrs. Wayne: Bruce ... Bruce? 

Bruce:  Yes, Mom. 

Mrs. Wayne: Come see what I made special for you. 

Bruce:  Matzoh Ball Soup!  Thanks, Mom.

Mrs. Wayne:  You're welcome, darling.  You're looking frightfully thin, Bruce, have another matzoh ball.  Light as a feather, aren't they? 

Bruce:  Mom! Look outside!  In the sky!

Mrs. Wayne:  I don't see anything. Here I'll close the drapes so you won't be bothered ....

Bruce: No, no!  It's the Bat Signal.  I must switch to my alter ego, the Batman!

Mrs. Wayne: Now, darling, you know you have to wait 45 minutes after eating before you change into Batman. Even longer if you're going to have to swim as Batman!

Bruce: I can't wait for that, Mom. Gotham City needs Batman!

Mrs. Wayne: Gotham City needs to kiss my tuchas!  And I expect you home by 12:00 sharp or you're grounded! 

Bruce: Aww, Mom!   I can't promise that.

Mrs. Wayne:  Then I'm coming with you.  Somebody's got to keep Mr. Dark Knight out of mischief!

Off into the night roars Batman's supercharged vehicle across the Bat Cave waterfall and towards Gotham City.

Mrs. Wayne:  Bruce, Bruce, slow down for crying out loud! You'll give your mother a heart attack!

Batman:  But, Mom, Commissioner Gordon is counting on me.

Mrs. Wayne:  Counting, schmounting!  He put a coat around you one night, you weren't even cold and I wasn't even dead! Say, darling, did you remember to bring your inhaler?

Batman:  Oh, shit!  I did forget it.  Well, we're not going back for it now!

Mrs. Wayne: Suit yourself, bubbeleh!  And watch your mouth.  

Batman:  Sorry!   That reminds me, Mom, when I'm dressed up like this, please remember to call me Batman!  You screwed up twice last week and called me Bruce right in front of Jim Gordon.

Mrs. Wayne: You think he doesn't know who you are, Mr. Big Shot?  You think he doesn't have a brain?  That husky voice wouldn't fool a four year old sitting in Santa's Lap.

Leaping from a tall building, Batman glides down to confront the Joker.

Batman:  Hand me the detonator, Joker.  I'm going to stop you from destroying Gotham City!

Joker:  But destroying Gotham City is my hobby, Batman.  What do you want me to do,  take up Mah Jong?

Mrs. Wayne: Did I hear my favorite hobby mentioned? 

Joker:  Who are you?

Mrs. Wayne:  I'm Bruce's Mom.

Batman:  No, you're Batman's Mom!  Batman's Mom!

Mrs. Wayne: Sure, darling.  Mr. Joker, look at you!  This is how you come to destroy the city? You look like Flo from Progressive.

Joker:  How should I look, Mrs. Batman?

Mrs. Wayne: Go home, wash your face, put on a nice suit, and then turn yourself in to Commissioner Gordon.

Joker: I will!  Thank you, Mrs. Batman.  If I'd had a mom like you, I'd be a successful dentist by now.

The Joker departs.

Mrs. Wayne:  All done!  And it isn't even 9:00 P.M. yet.

Batman: I have to admit you're right, Mom.  But I have a question.

Mrs. Wayne: Yes, Bruce?  I mean, Batman.

Batman:  Is there any more soup? 

Mrs. Wayne: Of course, darling!  Nothings too good for my boy who just single-handedly saved Gotham City from the Joker!

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My Jewish GPS

I’ve always had a problem with directions.

Whenever I get them I pay strict attention to the lefts and rights but not so much to the distances between them.  If the directions say “turn left on Medford Street and continue straight for 1/10 of a mile, your destination is on the right,” I turn left on Medford Street and continue straight until I drive into the sea.

So I went out to buy a GPS.  

But which one to get?

There was the New Yorker GPS which sneers  if you ask directions to anywhere outside of NYC, the French GPS which gives directions that insult you, and the Comic Con GPS which takes you anywhere you want to go as long as it’s in Gotham City! 

I chose the Jewish GPS. How could I go wrong with a GPS that understands my ethnic identity and has the ability to locate places with great corned beef whenever I’m outside my home territory of Philadelphia?

"Now, Jewish GPS," I said as we left the store, "kindly direct me to 489 North Cavendish Street."

"North Cavendish Street, darling?" replied the Jewish GPS. "That's not a good neighborhood for a nice Jewish boy."

"Where's your sultry voice, Jewish GPS? You sound like Harvey Fierstein.”

"You bought the Jewish GPS with the matronly voice, boychick.  Hot is extra.”

“498 North Cavendish, please.”

“By the way, you’re looking frightfully thin!  Doesn’t you wife cook for you?”

"I'm not married."

"Single at your age!  What's the problem?  No steady income? You gamble?  Gay, bubbeleh?"

"Please, Jewish GPS! Just give me the directions to 489 North Cavendish Street."

"Drive straight for three blocks, then make a left on Buchanan Street. Go to the light and make a right. That's Fulcrum Road."

"Now we're getting somewhere!" 

"Then proceed about 100 yards to 453 Fulcrum, there's a nice Jewish woman lives there, 57 years old, an accountant!  Not a beauty, but neither are you!”

For the next several days, the Jewish GPS was carping, disagreeable, and always finding fault. I didn’t drive right, didn't park well enough, and wasn't anything like Joel, the Jewish boy who programmed her at the factory who goes to shul each week and never fails to call his mother.

"Jewish GPS, please give me directions to 15 Glasser Street."

"Why, so you can see some shikseh there?"

"No, no, no, it's a restaurant. I'm meeting some friends."

"What kind of food?"

"Burgers, fries, that kind of thing."

"Chazerai!  Why don't we go back home, I'll make you matzoh ball soup."

"You can do that?  But you're a GPS."

" I'm a Jewish mother first! I just need a chicken, some dill, and matzoh meal."

"We could get that at Acme.”

"If you don't mind, bubbeleh, I don't know where ..."

"Sure, Jewish GPS!  Turn left on Medford Street and continue straight for 1/10 of a mile … don’t go into the sea … your destination is on the right."

Yep, no more carping now.  Just delicious and well-appreciated matzo ball soup almost every night.

Can’t beat my Jewish GPS!

And her kugel is to die for. 

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