I’m at my little brother’s bar mitzvah, and looking around at the life-size ice-sculpture recreations of the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, I begin to get the sneaking suspicion that our mom likes him better than me. Okay sure, I had Lord of the Rings ice sculptures at my bar mitzvah too GAA I mean, we’re fucking loaded GAA but I only got the Battle of Helms Deep.
I began to notice something was wrong at the service when improv rabbi Drew Carey from my bar mitzvah was replaced with the original British guy who was way better. Plus, whereas I read from
a solid gold torah, he read from a solid gold torah personally smelted by Moses.
At the party, Mom’s favoritism started showing even more. She had his bar mitzvah video directed by the Coen brothers. Mine was directed by the Wachowski brothers. My little brother’s DJ
is Eminem, and he’s been freestyling about how cool my brother is all night. My DJ was D.J., the chick from Full House. She played “Everywhere You Look” like four times and then spent the rest of the night smoking rocks in her car.
I guess I should have realized what was up when Mom first started planning this thing. I mean, my party theme was “Superheroes.” His theme is “Free Money If You Hit My Brother in the Nads
with This Putter.”
But what about the presents, you ask? Well, Mom gave my little brother one full night with Mandy Moore. She says she spent the same amount of money on my present, but there was just something
unsatisfying about my night with Mandy Patinkin. Oh, and even though we each got a pony, his can trot and gallop instead of just being a smaller-than-average keg. Also, it’s doubtful that my brother’s pony contains toxic levels of mercury and staples.
So as I watch my little brother and his friends shoot hoops with six-time NBA championship winners, I finally realize that Mom always liked
him best. I guess that’s why she named him Cool
Brownstein GAA because she thinks he’s the cool one. His middle name, “Er-Than-His-Shitsucking-Brother,” is probably a clue as well. And speaking of middle names, that time she changed mine to “Sir-Lynch-a-Lot” and had me transferred to Watts High seems, in retrospect, to be a pretty good barometer of her feelings. Oh well. At least I can always take comfort in the fact that when she dies, I’ll inherit a ridiculous amount of money.
