In the world of progressive liberalism, there’s theoretical acceptance, and then there’s having your daughter marry a black guy.

In the world of progressive liberalism, there’s theoretical acceptance, and then there’s having your daughter marry a black guy.

In 1999, I had been dating my wife for about 6 months when we decided that it was a wrap. It was obvious to each of us that the other was the one, and that it was time for us to forsake all others and live happily ever after.

We were still living in the Bay Area at that point, and hadn’t yet taken a trip “back east” together. Yep: we were engaged before I had even met her parents.

Listen, I had taken a lot of batting practice over the years, and had certainly met more than my share of white girls’ parents. As you know, I’m charming as hell, barely black, and was therefore able to put parents at ease with a 100.00% success rate.

Maybe because of these past successes though, this time around I had an uneasy feeling. Maybe it was just an irrational fear that I’d used up all my magic on parents that ended up not even mattering. Maybe THAT would be my punishment: great at the ones that don’t matter, CANCER at the ones that do. So unfair – these parents were more important than all the others put together.

The fears swarmed around my head: What if they were able to talk her out of it? They’d never come right out and tell her not to marry me, but what if they made the suggestion insidiously? What if just by their calm, liberal, academic energy they made assertions that “YES, everyone is equal, but honey, people are so different, and marriage is so hard, you might as well start out with something like THIS in common.” What if this soothing, patronizing logic was enough to fuck up her head and kill our momentum? The installation of even a minimal doubt or disruption could destroy our entire fairy tale.

By the time we finally pulled up to her parents’ upper west side apartment in a taxi, I was shaking like a bitch. We literally had to go to a pay phone and call to say we’d be 10 minutes late – then we went around the corner to TAP A KEG on Broadway and 103rd to get me a shot of vodka to calm myself. Believe it.

Finally I made it to their foyer. Their apartment building had all the trimmings of passive upper-west-side wealth: The doorman, the shiny, waxed lobby, and an elevator smelled like Murphy’s Oil. By the time we got up to her parent’s floor, I was thanking jesus for the shot of vodka. Thank god my fiance understood. I was set to marry the coolest girl in the world; please god don’t let her parents fuck it up.

I was standing behind my fiance when her mother opened the door. When it swung open, her mother gave my fiance a huge jewish hug, awkwardly avoiding eye contact with me as I hovered and waited for the hug to end. My wife introduced me afterwards, and on the surface, her mother appeared completely thrilled to make my acquaintance. She didn’t *hug* me however – ME – the guy engaged to her daughter. Instead, she gave me a very VERY warm and loving handshake, which if you’re a jew, is roughly equivalent to a kick in the nuts.

Jews hug. If you’re given a handshake, you better be selling insurance.

…and that wasn’t the last un-jewy thing that came out of these jews!

The ladies walked me inside to meet the father, who did a very convincing imitation of someone who was delighted to meet me. Not bad! (Give the man some credit and remember, his only daughter had just come home with a shfatza.)

We had a glass of wine in their “den” and my audition went pretty smoothly. We talked about the 2000 elections and the coming doom of the y2k bug. I proclaimed my love for Joe Lieberman and emphasized the fact that I was Jewish. I was on my game, and things started to loosen up. I felt like it might be alright; never ONCE did her dad fall to his knees and beg me to kill myself, ask how much money it would take to make me forget his daughter, or ask if I had ever been in prison.

Unfortunately, that was the high point of the evening…

When we proceeded into the dining room, I became aware of a sort of gurgling in my stomach. It wasn’t nerves, because I was finally in the flow of my performance – it felt more like gastric hate comments being left by the vane$$a in my stomach.

Their family dog – “MAZEL” (literally) – walked in front of me and looked up, as if he could detect my stomach winds like the imperceptible screetches of a dog whistle. He sat underneath my chair at dinner, whether to guard or to curse me I just won’t know.

The other un-jewy thing of which I spake: The table. It was set PERFECTLY, like the WASPIEST Lesley Afrin Connecticut table setting you’ve ever seen. It really did look JUST like that table from Meet The Parents or Wedding Crashers or whatever HBO on Demand shit my wife is always wanking it to. No wunduh.

So I’m sitting there, remembering which fork to use for which course (thank god for Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman who taught EVERYONE of my generation which fork to use) — but then the stomach waves come back.

And they started to build.

And soon, they were those diarrhea waves where they GRAB YOUR BALLS YOU’RE DEAD and then let go and you’re feeling fine again GRAB YOUR BALLS YOU’RE ABOUT TO DIE everything’s fine again.

Finally, in the middle of our silent soup, there was a fart inside me that wanted to get out so bad that my choice was to release it or die. I chose death, but even still, my body override me and let out the tiniest of audible little ass freeps.

I thought I was going to die. Everyone at the table had heard it; how could they not?! I was sure my life was over.

At that moment though, by the grace of Jesus, I had a Mel Gibson moment. Like the parting of Red Sea came the greatest gift that god had ever given me:

My wife’s mother turned red, and looking horrified, she turned and looked at the dog that was sitting under my chair.

“MAZEL!” she scolded, “NO! BAD! go AWAY!”

Next to the birth of my children, it’s still the greatest thing that ever happened to me. My marriage was saved.

Dinner continued, and before long, I was forced to wrestle with more shittastic waves of pain. There were a few times that I had to stop eating in order to concentrate, focus, and take deep breaths. It was a close call, but I was coming out on top.

Toward the end of our main course though, I lost it. I don’t know how to explain what happened- it’s like a fart wave just JAPPED me – sneak attack! Its sudden velocity left me helpless, and all at once it built up inside me and BUSTED out of my anus like Elliot Ness with battering ram.

Rrrrrip!

The father looked down in shame. The mother turned red, and I looked on, horrified but hopeful.

“MAZEL!” She blurted, this time far more forcefully, “BAD dog! come HERE right NOW – HERE!”

Mazel couldn’t give a fuck though, and chose to remain my savior, planted like a potsy under my seat like a little canine Lee Harvey Oswald. My hostess, not wanting to extend her proxy humiliation any further, let farting dogs lie and pretended to ignore his disobedience.

We continued with dinner, and I was able to stifle my pains for the remainder of our meal. As my luck would have it though, and because god has a sense of humor, my hostess insisted that everyone take part in coffee and desert.

Each sip of hot coffee sank into my stomach like an ex-lax.

The pressure was unbearable, but there was nothing I could do. Each moment I did not run to the toilet was like another round of Farter’s Russian Roulette, with my wife and future as my ante.

It soon became too much for my reptilian brain to bear, and, using the precedent of Mazel’s culpability, my bowels overrode my crude attempts at self-sacrifice:

The vodka, the wine, the soup, the meat, the cake, and now the coffee, all pushed down upon my valve, and out came the wettest most grotesque trumpet blast that even I had ever heard.

My hostess looked up, bright red, almost in tears, and half-choking on her piece of cake, she screamed to the dog at the top of her lungs:

“MAZEL, WHAT did I say?? Get OVER here before that nigger SHITS on you!!!!!”

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