An Incident In Sherman Oaks

"The SJG is making a scene again." "Oh, goodie. Let's go watch." 

And in other news, a certain short Jewish gal who hails from a long line of panicky Russians went ballistic in Gelson's on Friday afternoon, when she saw the price of brisket. "TEN DOLLARS A POUND?!" she ranted to no one in particular. "Are you out of your godforsaken minds?" Flailing her arms, dramatically, she lost her footing, stumbled backwards and fell tush-first into a mound of shrink-wrapped luxury beef. "Help! Somebody! Help! I've fallen and I can't get up!" she cried. Just then, a hunky butcher came to her rescue and yanked her out of the meat case, informing her, "You land on it, you pay for it." "But it was an accident, Mr. Butcher." "It's got your booty imprint. No one's gonna want that slab now. That'll be sixty dollars, ma'am." "Oh, really? What if I refuse to pay on principle?" "Refuse all you want. But you and your badonkadonk will be banned from the premises."

"You wouldn't dare." "Would, too." "Wouldn't." "Would." "Oh, fine," she said, handing over an Israeli bond. "This should cover it. And I'll take that fryer medley, too. And throw in some extra wings. I've earned it." "Sorry. We don't take bonds. Just credit cards, cash, checks and first-born grandchildren," said the muscle-bound vendor. "Oy veysmere, are you in need of some serious atonement, mister," she said. "I'm just doing my job, ma'am. I don't make the rules." "Well, this six-pounder better be tender as the night, or you'll be hearing from my attorney, Mordecai Von Trapp." With that, she turned on her Achilles heel, stormed out with the brisket and the chicken and the 52 other items she'd purchased under duress, certain she'd forgotten something important on account of the badgering butcher. Her only hope was that it would come to her later. And it did. At 3 a.m., she sat up in bed, yelled, "Peas! I forgot the eff'n peas!" and went back to sleep.