by Bill Boggs
“Oh, God, this is great,” Bud says, really excited. “Walk around for a while, Spike. I want to talk to Sinatra, but a couple people with the pass are ahead of me.”
I’m happy to be on my own, and just watch things, ’cause as my brother Billy says, “I may never be this way again.”
I’m sitting in a corner looking around. After a while, this guy comes up to me—kinda lonely, oddball guy; about sixty or so; bald, puffy face—and he says softly, “I saw you on The Tonight Show. You were great. I did that show a long time ago.”
“Here,” he says. “Have some milk and cookies.” And he takes out a bunch of cookies and puts them on the floor and empties a couple of little creamers into a cup and holds it so I can drink. “I used to give people milk and cookies after my shows.”
“Isn’t this swell?” I’m thinkin’, and I can tell he’s gonna pour his heart out to me, ’cause sometimes certain people do that to dogs. We got a great talent to listen, particularly while someone’s feeding us.
“You’ll be the only one I’ll tell.”
I’m so curious, I stop chewing.
“See that guy over there at the “Dead Comedians Who Killed” exhibit? He’s doing the lip-synch pretending to be Mighty Mouse singing? That’s me. I’m Andy Kaufman.
“I found a homeless vagrant who looked a lot like me and had a horrible disease, and paid his sister a hundred thousand dollars to switch our identities. He died; they thought it was me. I fooled them. Moved to Amish country outside Lancaster, Pennsylvania, and when I actually die, I’m going to be cloned and come back to performing at age thirty-five, same age as when people think I died. All I do right now is write the Not So Gorgeous George wrestling blog and watch TV. But I came here to see myself.”
I’m looking at him tryin’ to let him know that I think he’s the Albert Einstein of practical jokers. Robin Williams comes on after Andy, and then in the middle of Freddie Prinze, Bud finds me.
“There you are,” he says, and he looks at Andy and says, “Hi.”
“Hi, Bud,” Andy says. “I’m George Wagner. I saw you both on Fallon. How’s your back? Did you really hurt it?”
“Oh, God, yes, that was awful. I’m still trying to forget it.”
“I thought it was performance art; I loved it,” Andy says.
Bud’s looking at Andy. “Anyone ever tell you kind of look like Andy Kaufman, George?”
“Who?”
“No, never mind. Excuse us; we gotta go now. Spike’s got a big day tomorrow.”
“I like your dog. Bye.”
“He sounds like Andy, too,” Bud says on the way out, then stops and glances back. “What’s that stuff on the floor, Spike? Did he give you milk and cookies?”
I give Bud my “I’m just a stupid dog” look, and we head to the hotel.
The next night it’s time for me to deliver the goods to Karl “The Kitty” Williams. We’re in the drone-launching area by a ring entrance in the MGM Grand Garden Arena. It’s roasting hot in the flying laxative box. I’m draining my big-nipple bottle. I got my cape and crown on, and I’m set to go into action with the meat-soaked cat toy.
I can hear James Six bein’ interviewed by Al Bernstein next to the drone.
Six is telling Al that this’ll be the greatest entrance in ring history, and Al’s asking him what’s in the Max-Ex Laxative Drone box, but Six won’t tell ’im. Al says there are rumors that Money Piles took steroids, ’cause it looks like he gained about twelve pounds since the weigh-in.
James One jumps in sayin’, “No steroids. Money just eat a pizza from Money Piles’ Solid-Cheese-Crust Pizza restaurant, intersection Flamingo and Paradise Roads; for franchise opportunity, dial ‘you my money.’”
One says, “Here, Al,” and shoves a slice of pizza halfway down his throat. Al’s choking and gasping madly for air, while James One’s yelling the phone number over and over. Finally, Al screams, “I broke a tooth on your goddamn solid-cheese-crust pizza! Back to you, Steve.”
On the little speaker I hear Bud: “OK, Spike, here we go.”
The plan is the drone goes up just as Karl “The Kitty” Williams starts his ring walk. “All be watching drone; no one be watching ‘The Kitty,’” James Six said.
I’m slowly flyin’ up and tryin’ to listen to Bud, but the crowd’s screaming louder and louder and I can’t hear him anymore. He’s yelling something at me, but I don’t know what it is.
The sides drop. The crowd goes completely nuts, standing, shrieking, yelling, roaring. They’re taking so many pictures, it’s blinding me. I’m up about sixty feet and chewing on the cat toy. I start descending to the center of the ring, and I spot what Bud musta been tryin’ to tell me—a shiny black panther on a thick leash is in the corner with “The Kitty.” He’s looking up at the drone like he wants to break loose and pounce on me the instant I land.
I finally hear Bud say, “His fight camp knows our plan; they’ve got a panther. Run, Spike; run and jump outta the ring.”
What would you do? Drop into the ring, and then with your tail between your legs run for your life? Or would you think it through?
I’m thinking…. I see the white knuckles on the guy holding the panther leash; he’s got a grip that’s telling me he’s not about to let go. Is “The Kitty” ready to damage his fan base by attacking me with his pet panther in front of twenty million television viewers who’ve already overpaid to watch his fight? No…they’re just trying to scare me and make Money look bad. I got no problem making Money Piles look bad. He’s already doin’ a pretty good job of that on his own. But I’m not about to embarrass my breed, so…
I land and charge straight at the panther, who’s straining to attack, as I do a leaping spin to my left. The panther snaps at me. He gets my cape between his jaws and rips it off, just as I flip the cat toy backward over my head. The toy hits Karl Williams in the chest, bounces to the floor, and the panther turns and starts chewing on the kitty toy himself. Panthermonium!
I’m takin’ a victory lap and winkin’ at Andy Kaufman, when I spot Maria, from Former Housewives of the Vegas Strip, sitting in the front row. I lift my leg way higher than usual to hit her with a nice warm stream of you know what. The crowd gives me a standing ovation. I’m thinking, “I hope Lombardo’s watching, ’cause he’s gonna love it when Bud tells him why I sprayed her.”
Money Piles won on a controversial unanimous decision, which of course had nothing to do with the three new bright green Chevy Malibus parked in judges’ spots out back.
7
“The Hebe Named Zebe”
Not many people back home coughed up ninety-five dollars to watch a fight that started at twelve thirty in the morning. But social media is spreadin’ all kinds of phone videos of me in the drone and my trick with the panther. The little number I did on the Vegas housewife seems to be a particular hit.
We land at the Greater Greensboro airport, and I imagine I’ll be greeted by a huge throng—like the good old days of Brad and Angie when they were arriving in any African country. I’m visualizin’ people thrusting handfuls of raw meat at me the way they’d hold out their babies for Brad and Angie to adopt—but no! The only person waving at us is Buffy, who’s gonna drive us back to the station.
Lombardo’s happy.
“Well, Bud, you and that dog seemed to be a big hit in Vegas, and someone finally embarrassed that bitch Maria, who gives us Italians a bad name on that moronic show, even if it was only your canine under my employ who did it,” he says.
“Her ex, Tony, told me it probably wasn’t the first golden shower she had that week,” Bud tells Lombardo.
“Revolting!” Lombardo says. “Now, Bud, I got a call from a guy I know, a FOX talent executive in New York who was impressed with you in that interview you did with Al Bernstein about his broken tooth after the fight, and he liked that thing you shot with Deborah Norville, too. Thought you were very funny.”
“I don’t know how that could have happened,” Bud says.
“Well, anyway you may hear something from them, but don’t call, just wait.
Meantime, Joel Isaac Israelson wants you to contact him. Probably about his annual do-it-yourself Nativity scene.”
“The crazy former rabbi who calls himself ‘the Hebe named Zebe’ now? Right?” Bud asks. “The guy who took his barnstorming pro volleyball team ‘The Hopping Hebrews’ to Israel and got thrown outta the country?”
“Yep.”
“Hey, why did they get thrown out, anyway?” Bud asks.
“None of the players was Jewish. They were all retired NBA guys,” Lombardo explains.
The Hebe named Zebe is a big character in town. He has a commercial claiming Lloyds of London insures his bris, but there’s a two-inch deductible. Never could figure that out, or why he wears a Frank Sinatra hat with a way- too-wide brim.
Bud asks, “What’s the story with him? All I know is he stages religious stunts, grows Christmas trees shaped like menorahs that don’t sell, and has those billboards saying, ‘The Hebe named Zebe—pick a god, I do the job!’”
“He came here about ten years ago,” Lombardo explains, “and was running Synagogue Beth Shalom, and doing OK. Then the new Beth Israel Synagogue opened across town. The place looked fabulous, like Ralph Lauren decorated it, with little touches like boxes of designer Kleenex in each row.
“You know Jewish people and guilt, right? So what happened is, the new place has a female rabbi who sings, and sounds like Streisand, and their cantor’s a dead ringer for Barry Gibb. Each week when they sang ‘Guilty,’ the congregation went nuts.”
“Ha,” Bud laughs, “that’s great.”
“Yeah, who ever heard of encores in a Shabbat service, right? People were fleeing his place over to Beth Israel like the Pharaoh was chasing them down Main Street with a stun gun. Only ones left in his congregation were old timers—purists who just liked the early Streisand and never saw Saturday Night Fever, but there weren’t enough of them.”
“That’s sad,” Bud says, “that they never saw Saturday Night Fever.”
“True…so suddenly he’s got no money, and panics and screws up big-time by selling the naming rights to the synagogue to the Rodney Dangerfield estate. Beth Shalom becomes Temple Rodney Dangerfield, but now he can’t get a single Bar Mitzvah ’cause parents don’t want Rodney Dangerfield’s name embossed in gold on the copy of the Torah that the kid reads at the ceremony.”
“So what happens?”
“Bud,” Lombardo says, “the guy quits being a rabbi and totally reinvents himself by going rogue to serve all religions as the Hebe named Zebe, and he patterns himself after his favorite deejay, Jerry Blavat, from Philadelphia.”
“My father knew Jerry Blavat!” Bud says. “‘The Geator with the Heater,’ ‘The Big Boss with the Hot Sauce.’”
“Who? Yeah, well anyway, go over there and talk to him, but remember, he’s an irredeemable con man now, so watch your wallet, too.”
A couple of days later we drive over to meet the guy. Bud’s got the soundtrack from Fiddler on the Roof playing to get us in the mood. His eyes are misting up listening to “Sunrise, Sunset,” thinking about a marriage he hasn’t had, children he hasn’t had, and the marriage those children he hasn’t had aren’t having. I’m not sure if he wants to go the “Sunrise, Sunset” route, but he’s having a peak experience thinking about it. I’m with him either way.
We park in front of The Dangerfield Syna-Church, Mini-Mosque, and Part-Time Funeral Home. There are handwritten signs plastered all over the front door.
“Welcome All!”
“Our Fasts—Gluten-Free”
“Drive-Thru Gay Weddings”
“It’s Never Too Late for Circumcision!”
“Atone by Phone”
“Grab-n-Go Communion”
“Jesus Christ Superstore Now Open”
Bursting through the front door, snappin’ his fingers, lookin’ at Bud and barkin’ out, “My man!”…snap, snap. “My man!” is the Hebe named Zebe. He’s got a long gray and white beard dotted with breadcrumbs and a couple of tomato soup stains, and he’s wearin’ an all-black suit with the big hat. Actually, he’s not really an old guy, but the beard makes him look way older. I’m imaginin’ Justin Timberlake in this same outfit with a beard confined to an assisted living residence in Boca.
“Great to see you, my man, my dog.” Snap, snap. “You’re talkin’ to the Hebe named Zebe”…snap, snap. “The Jew who’s new”…snap, snap. “Jesus your boss? We’ve got the cross”…snap. “Muhammad your man? Stand in our sand”…snap, snap. “Religious alt-right? We’ll keep you uptight”…snap. “The Jewish tribe? You’ll dig our vibe”…snap. “No god at all? Your own private stall!”…snap, snap. “Need to confess, use the email address.”
“My man, Bud—Bud, bo bub, banana fanna, mo mud, me my, po-pub, Bud…. You’re cool and that dog’s no fool; let’s go inside.”
He gives me a couple of towels to lie on, which is good ’cause I’m gleamin’ from getting washed, and the rug hasn’t been vacuumed since Golda Meir went to her senior prom. We’re in his basement office with no windows or signs of ventilation. He’s got images and slogans from every religion all over.
Behind him are two freshly painted signs promoting new ventures:
“Burial? Cremation?
Torn Apart Deciding?
…Try our ‘half and half special!’”
“Son’s Law School Rejection?
…Custom made high-quality pre-recorded wailing, crying, and moaning at reasonable rates.”
On his desk there’s a picture of his daughters—Faith, Hope, and Mindy—plus dusty bobblehead dolls of Jesus, Sandy Koufax, and Muhammad.
“Let me get right to the point; oh, wait, want a joint?” he asks.
“No, actually, no thanks. It’s a little hard to breathe in here as it is,” Bud says. “Oh, ah, what do I call you, Hebe? Zebe Rabbi? Holy One? Joel?”
“My man! Call me Zebe. Remember, I’m not a rabbi anymore. Ha! I just play one on TV. Now here’s the deal, it’s real—I gotta use the head to make college bread, which I dread. I got a wife—she’s strife. Guilford Community’s no cost, but Sheila’s the boss. Harvard, Penn, Yale, that’s millions for bail.”
“At least,” Bud says.
“She spends and spends with no end. Twice a week she’s got a team of migrant workers cleaning the house at two hundred a pop, cash off the top. All kids go to astronaut camp, their space suits—twelve hundred, plus boots. Who cares if they’re the first Jews on Mars? Not me, unless it’s free.”
The Zebe looks at the ceiling, shaking his head. “She’s now demanding I work as an accountant for her father. Can you see me on the corporate ladder?”
“No, and it sure doesn’t sound like fun,” Bud says. “But where do we come in?”
“My man! Wait”…snap, snap, snap. “Let me break through to the other side. So first I thought, you know—just start a new religion…. I’m not kiddin’! Sheila’s grandmother was a friend of Isaac Asimov, and you know what L. Ron Hubbard told Asimov when they were poor struggling sci-fi writers?”
“Become an accountant?” Bud says.
“My man! Ha, ho, but no! He says to Asimov, ‘If you want to make money, Isaac, start a religion.’ Can I invent a religion? Not forbidden! Easy to do. Big bucks from a lotta schmucks. But look what could happen while you’re nappin’? Jamestown is renowned. Scientology? Where’s the apology?”
As intently as I’m listening to his rap, I can’t help being distracted by the moldy rug smell making me dizzy, so I climb up on a chair.
“My dog!” he says. “A big greeting, and welcome to the meeting, ’cause here’s where you come in, big guy, or is it goy? Bud, my man, remember Christmas when you were a boy?”…snap, snap. “Pretty bright, toys in sight, right?”
“Indeed,” Bud says, “we always had great Christmases.”
“But let’s start hissing at all that’s now missing! I’m gonna drop my rhyme, that’s
no crime—fanatics like Mayor Gordon and groups all over the country who’re against the Christmas-ing of Christmas? They want you to say ‘merry federal holiday,’ and they’re makin’ Santa Claus in the mall just wear a big red bow tie—kids are lucky if maybe he’s got a white goatee. He’s surrounded by spray-tanned elves who look like they should be working in Sephora, not making toys in the North Pole.”
I’m feelin’ sorry for Bud, ’cause I can see by the look in his eye he’s recallin’ happy times from the past, some childhood memories, like mine with me and Billy rolling around on the rug the first time we got out of the big box.
“Well,” the Zebe says, “my man, I’m planning to get rich by doing something new for a Jew—saving Christmas. And your Wonder Dog here, whom I’m extoling, is gonna get the Yule log rolling.”
The Zebe is about to explain how I’m personally gonna save the beloved national holiday of Christmas when his cell phone rings. Before it’s at his ear, he’s in a screaming fit with his wife about a fur coat she just bought. Judgin’ by the volume of the Zebe’s barking, and his fist pounding on the desk, it’s likely several innocent fur-bearing creatures paid an even higher price for that coat than Mrs. Zebe did.
He slams down the phone, throws up his hands, and is running around the office yelling, “No more! No more! Why didn’t I marry Christine Edmundson?”
Bud’s got that look on his face people get when someone two feet away is makin’ a fool of themselves. I’m figurin’ maybe the Zebe should save up, buy a razor blade, shave that beard, and go marry Christine.
He’s panting hard like I do after a three-mile run in the sun: “My man…my dog…my life is strife ’cause a the wife.”
