Vos a shtik fleish mit tsvei oygn.

We Jews put our meat through an ordeal so grueling it would make even the most hardened Harvard applicant sweat. As absurd as it sounds, there are actually some strong parallels to be drawn between these two infamously rigorous processes:

1. A whole slew of unworthy candidates are dismissed right off the bat; solid-hoofers, “D” students, and bottom feeders need not apply!
2. Officials confirm that both anxious applicants have enjoyed an upbringing that could survive the closest scrutiny (vegetarian diets and extracurriculars are a must!).
3. Both the Kosher meat and Ivy League contenders must have “graduated” (from this mortal coil and high school, respectively) with the highest of honors.

With this said however, before all you eager cockeyed-college candidates take this analogy and run with it, there is one rather large discrepancy: While it’s imperative that Kosher meat candidates chew their cud, I would strongly discourage any gum-chewing during your interview process! OK, so my comparison may have some holes. I’m certainly not going to suggest that both processes share a ritualistic throat-slitting procedure ... but I have heard some things, and the rumors suggest that Shochets, our revered Kosher slaughterers, could teach admissions personnel a thing or two about humane practices!

So, with all this time and effort invested in our meat—all you very mature adults who are now snickering, let’s just try and get through this with a modicum of dignity, shall we? I’m dodging innuendoes left and right in this article!—you’re probably thinking that, coming from us, the supposed insult housed in this particular proverb doesn’t sound so bad. Well, not really. …

Laws of Shechitah aside, at the end of the day, kosher or not, a piece of meat is still just a piece of meat. It just kind of sits there. Other than its colossal contributions to the pastrami sandwich, meat doesn’t serve much of a purpose, especially when compared to human beings … well, except those of us who are deserving of this insult.

Appropriate usage?

Ruthie found herself compulsively checking the grandfather clock in the living room as she angrily went through the motions of folding laundry. She couldn’t believe it was half-past-two and her batlen of a son was still asleep. Three days into his two-week suspension, Jake, a junior in high school, was on the fast-track to Shnorror-ville. Ruthie’s mind raced. ...

Ruthie: “He’d better write that letter of apology to Mr. Elmwick. I can’t believe I raised such a disrespectful son! It’s only October and he’s already suspended! How many suspensions is it until expulsion, two or three? Oh G-d, let it be three! I can’t believe this is what I’m dreaming of for my son! His cousins are pre-med and he’s going to get kicked out of high school! Oh, I can’t bear it! What a shonda!!! Well, that’s it!”

She physically punctuates this exclamation at the expense of a pair of her husband, Frank’s, briefs.

Ruthie: “If he’s not going to be in school, then he’s sure as hell going to get a job! But who will hire a high school drop-out!? Oyf mir gezogt gevorn! ‘Drop-out’ implies that he took action!!! Didn’t Frank’s cousin’s boy work at McDonald’s for a summer? I’ll have to ask Deborah … oh G-d, is that her name? ‘Deborah’? She always wears those ridiculous cardigans with ducks all over them. ... Why can’t I remember her name? I’m too young to be forgetting names this often. Yesterday with the pharmacist and now Frank’s cousin!?! Those pharmacists should really wear name tags! They probably refuse, bunch of gantzeh k’nockers! Even stock-boys who never leave the back wear name tags! I wonder if you need your high school diploma to be a stock boy? Oy vey. How did we get here? It’s all that Marcus’ fault, that gonif! Ever since Jake started hanging out with him, I barely recognize him! My own son! Oh G-d! What if he and Marcus go on to big-time things?! I’ll wind up with a convict for a son! Like that boy from Temple. Oh G-d, what’s his name!? The Rosenbaum’s boy ... ugh! I have to ask Ma if Alzheimer’s runs in the family. This can’t be normal! I’m 42! What time is it?? 2:53!?!? That’s it! I’m going up there!!”

Ruthie storms up the stairs and throws open her son’s bedroom door. ...

Ruthie: “Jacob Aaron Saltzer! Get up! I’m not going to have you lying in bed all day like You’re a piece of meat with two eyes!”

Jake: [muffled] “Come on, Ma. Ten more minutes.”

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