By most accounts, Sarah Marshak is a better Jew than me.

The 18-year-old George Washington University freshman has visited concentration camps in Poland through March of the Living International. She has observed Yom HaZikaron, Israel Memorial Day, and Yom Ha’Atzmaut, Israel Independence Day, while visiting Israel.

Sarah also belongs to a group on Facebook called simply “Israel”, which boasts more than 138,000 members to discuss current events and activities affecting Jews and the Chosen People’s motherland.

Yes, Sarah Marshak is probably a better Jew than me.

Except I never drew swastikas on my own door for attention.

Marshak is the person who first reported that someone had drawn the irregular icosagon on her dry erase board that hangs on her dorm door a few weeks ago. In an with the school newspaper GW Hatchet, for which she also works as a reporter, she claimed she only drew the final three of six swastikas in an effort to highlight the school administration’s “inaction”.

“I wasn’t looking to create this, sort of, insanity,” Marshak said in a phone interview with the Hatchet. “I wasn’t looking to become a media darling. I was just looking for acknowledgment from University that someone drew a swastika on the door.”

Upon hearing this story, most people (I imagine) might shake their heads and say, “What was she thinking?”

My first thought, though, was “Munchausen Syndrome”, or at least some form of the illness. Much like Lindsay Lohan constantly hurting herself or that mom in The Sixth Sense who purposely made her daughter sick, this case of a Jewish student drawing swastikas on her OWN DOOR has to be some form of sick attention-getting behavior.

Swastika drawings and other forms of racist or anti-Semitic messages are nothing new to college campuses. Earlier this year, at my own alma mater, students were subjected to signs depicting the Star of David dripping with blood and equating Israeli leaders with Nazis.

And when I was a senior there many years ago, I covered a story for my school newspaper of a Latino man who e-mailed a racist tirade to 59 Asian-American students and teachers blaming them for some perceived inequity.

In Sarah’s case, whether or not she was responsible for the original drawings is irrelevant. As a Jew, she must have realized the backlash she would receive if she were ever discovered (which she was after being caught on a camera set up outside her door by University Police).

And even if she had never been found out, she would have to live with the knowledge that she drew swastikas on her own door for attention, well-meaning or not.

Sarah has 1,283 friends on Facebook, many of them Jewish. I hope one of them acts like one.

UPDATE: GW Hatchet on the fallout in the blogosphere.

Most people by now have heard about Halle Berry’s semi-anti-Semitic on The Tonight Show with Jay Leno last Friday night. For those of you haven’t heard, Berry was on the show last Friday night showing off photos she took using Mac’s Photobooth feature, which distorts your face into a House of Mirrors-kind of way.

She took out a photo that made her nose look big and cracked, “Here’s where I look like my Jewish cousin.”

No one laughed and Jay Leno replied, “I’m glad you said that and not me.” The Tonight Show aired the segment though they deleted the “Jewish” part and added a laugh track.

Rightly so, many Jews and goyim have been offended.

But they are offended for the wrong reasons.

Halle Berry’s comment was ignorant at best and distasteful at worst. She claims that shortly before coming out on stage, one of her assistants was looking at the same photo and uttered the same comment. If anything, we should be indignant at her ripping off someone else’s joke.

What I can’t forgive, and what upsets me most of all, is that The Tonight Show added a laugh track.

Let me repeat that: THE TONIGHT SHOW. ADDED. A LAUGH TRACK.

They pretended the “joke” was funny by artificially making it seem like the audience was amused by Halle Berry’s guffaw. This offends me more than anything Halle Berry could say, considering the airing makes her look vapid and desperate for acceptance.

The episode, though, seems to have sparked more outrage than Ann Coulter’s recent declaration that Jews should be “perfected” into Christians. The difference is that Berry is an idiot and less aware of her image than she should be; Coulter actually believed in what she said.

There is a long history of Jews overreacting AND underreacting to perceived slurs, slights, and insults. When people call you a kike or make Holocaust jokes, you kick their ass. When they say it’s funny but you don’t look Jewish, you call them idiots.

Some of the funniest Jew jokes I’ve ever heard have come from friends of the Tribe, usually because they’re witty, self-deprecating, and illuminate something poignant about our collective identity. The most offensive jokes come from people who aren’t Chosen because they’re, intentional or not, cheap, cruel, and sadistic.

By the same token, many non-Jews can easily be too paranoid about offending us. One of my favorite stories involves my friend , who, while we were discussing a few years ago our holiday plans, he said, “Are you celebrating, um, uh, Hanukkah? Did I say that right? Did I offend you?”

Of course, Jews aren’t immune to being overly sensitive to perfectly innocuous comments. Baby Bien once flew into a rage when a mutual friend described Jews as a race, not a culture or religion. I explained to our friend why that kind of comment could offend us but I also explained to Baby Bien why he was overreacting.

So until “Jews 101: How Not to Offend the Chosen People” becomes required reading in school, we’re all going to have to take a deep breath and gain some perspective on things.

Besides, those Photobooth pictures are .

During a staff lunch yesterday, a co-workers raised the idea of throwing a party for our pre-dominantly Indian office to celebrate Diwali. The following conversation ensued:

AJT: “What’s Diwali?”

Her: “It’s the ‘Festival of Lights’.”

AJT: “Cool! So it’s like an Indian Hanukkah?”

Her: “Man, Arjewtino, why do you have to Jewify everything?”

AJT: “It’s the way I filter the world.”

Fictional verbs aside, it sparked a thought. Why do I, as my co-worker so eloquently put it, Jewify everything?

Easter is nothing more to me than a reminder that Passover is coming up; a pinwheel hat reminds me of a yarmulke; and an essay by in which he describes eating nothing but Chicken McNuggets for a week prompted me to ask The Princess if I should try the same thing: but with matzo balls.

One could argue that we all do the same thing, merely filtering the world through the lens of our personal identities and experiences.

One could also argue that, since Judaism has been described by Americans in a poll as the “most admired religion”, we all should Jewify everything.

Think about it:

• Christmas would finally be called the “Christian Hanukkah”.
• The calendar would list today as the 12th of Heshvan, 5768. Also, I could tell people I was born on the 15th of Tamuz, 5735. Just rolls off the tongue, right?
• Fast-food places would serve gefilte fish to go.
• A teenager’s act of rebellion against his parents would consist of getting a B in math class.
• Ann Coulter would finally shut the fuck up.
• Beards would be in style.
• We would read everything from right to left, which makes more sense if you’re right-handed, which most of us are anyway.
• Purim – a time to get drunk, have a festive meal, and give charity to the poor — would become the greatest holiday of the year.
• Every time people gave their spare change to a homeless guy, we would call it an act of Tzedaka.
• There would be more pigs.

So the response I wish I had given, when asked by my co-worker why I “Jewify everything”, is this:

“Why doesn’t everyone?”

Credit

I’ve had people call me a “kike” at parties; I’ve been told to “go back to Jerusalem” by homeless guys in San Francisco; and I’ve had co-workers make Holocaust jokes to my face

But this sort of “mild” anti-Semitism (is there such thing as “mild” hate?) has never been a major problem since I tend to chill with open-minded people who are not bigots.

Still, what I wouldn’t give to figure out how to get 1.21 jigowatts of electricity into my flux capacitor so I could go back in time to last Saturday night.

Several friends and I got together at Asylum that night for their 25-cent High Lifes. We had spotted some guy earlier that evening flailing around the biker bar like some ADHD case on Red Bull auditioning for “So You Think You Can Suck At Dancing”. He provided mild entertainment but was otherwise a speck on the windshield of my evening.

Until I left.

Foregoing cheap drafts to watch a boxing match at a friend’s house, I left Asylum around 9pm after which Dancing Guy came to our table and became Heebophobe and All-Around Racist. This prompted our friend Banjo to explain something. With his fist.

Banjo, who is not a Member of the Tribe (MOT) but is now an honorary one in my book, reached across the table and punched the Jew-hater. In the face.

Here is the explanation as provided by my friend Klein during a GChat this morning, edited for brevity, anonymity, and decency:

Klein: [Anti-Semite] came over to our table and sat down
and I have no idea what he was saying there
because I was out with Banjo smoking
and then when I got back he was there
and people looked like they didn’t want him there
I went to the bathroom
when I came back a minute later all the guys were gone
and I was like, “Um, where is everyone?”
and they said “Banjo and that guy got into a fight!”
told me later that the guy, while at the table, was just being weird
they asked where he was from
and he said “Tel Aviv! Haifa! Jerusalem!”
and they said, “Oh, you’re Jewish?”
and he said, “FUCK NO!!!! FUCK YOU!!!”
that’s all I heard about the table conversation

Arjewtino: man

Klein: so, now I’m back from the bathroom
I see the blond bartender walking the crazy guy out of the bar
I follow behind
Banjo and are half way down the street
the guy sees Banjo and starts walking towards him screaming
“YOU BIG NOSE JEW! YOU POTATO [N-WORD]!”

Arjewtino: OH. MY. GOD

Klein: Banjo is behind me screaming at the guy
I’m in front of the guy, shoving him in the chest
pushing him back from Banjo
he keeps screaming racial epithets
Banjo is screaming back
Runjit comes over and starts helping me corral the guy
this goes on for a minute
then two cops come over
Banjo and Shiftless Badger disappear
one cop pulls the guy over and is like, “Ok, calm down. What happened?”
the guy says that Banjo sucker-punched him
the other cop is standing off on the side laughing hysterically at the situation
the cop talking to the guy says, “Look. It is WAY TOO EARLY FOR THIS. Just go home. everything’s fine now.”
at this point, Runjit and I thank the cops and leave
we call Shiftless Badger and Banjo to find them

Arjewtino: damn, what a night

Klein: and SB is like “Uh, we’re hiding in an ally.”
Banjo don’t dig cops
oh, another thing the crazy guy was saying was that he was a “pure blood Spaniard.”
Now, Banjo and I had pointed this guy out earlier because he was clearly, from 6 pm on, the drunkest.guy.at.the.bar.

Arjewtino: yeah, I remember him

Klein: right
so, it was interesting times

Arjewtino: I can’t believe I missed a fight with an anti-Semite

Klein: Heather was, apparently, REALLY MAD

Arjewtino: I would have loved to have decked him

Klein: well, I’m upset that I missed the actual FIGHT

Arjewtino: I know, fucking bladder

Klein: Seriously

Arjewtino: You’re like a schoolgirl

Klein: my left arm sez otherwise
My right arm is a bit more school girlish

There might still be time for me to go back in time to relive this fight. A night in jail, to me, would have been totally worth it.

For many Jews, our parents’ most powerful warning growing up was this:

“If you get a tattoo, you can’t be buried in a Jewish cemetery.”

This dire warning, which always sounded vaguely apocryphal yet was never dismissed outright, was as “factual” to Jewish children as the requirement to get good grades. Questioning our parents’ logic when it came to Jewish law was tantamount to praying for Jesus to save us.

Credit

A conversation I might have had with my mother could have gone like this:

“Don’t ever get a tattoo.”

“Why not?”

“Because you won’t be able to get buried in a Jewish cemetery.”

“So?”

“Aye, dios mio!”

But despite such near-desperate pleas from our parents to never permanently mar our skin, all three children – led by my younger-yet-more-rebellious-sister, eventually got tattoos.

I had always wanted a tattoo. I found them meaningful and aesthetically impressive as a child. And when I graduated from college, as a present to myself, I went to a tattoo shop on Ventura Blvd., picked out an arm-band I had liked, and got my flesh stabbed repeatedly by dozens of ink-filled needles for two hours.

I kept the tattoo a secret from my parents, showing only my friends and siblings.

One day, however, while relaxing on the couch at home, my arm sleeve was pulled up inadvertently and my mom spotted a dark stain gripping my bicep.

“Que es eso?” she asked.

“Nada,” I replied, fixing my sleeve.

But she knew. She turned her head, made a stoic face, and didn’t talk to me the rest of the afternoon.

I eventually learned that though the adage that tattooed Jews can’t be buried in a Jewish cemetery was a highly perpetuated myth, it did violate the Torah – specifically, Leviticus 19:28:

Ye shall not make any cuttings in your flesh for the dead, nor print any marks upon you: I am the LORD.
Of course, Leviticus also proclaims I shouldn’t turn my daughter into a whore, go to a psychic, or shave my beard, so reading the Bible takes several grains of salt, so to speak.

Credit

I still find tattoos fascinating and have been considering a second one for years. They make women infinitely more attractive (look at my new favorite photographer Cindy Frey, photographed above) and the idea of regretting mine has never crossed my mind, even 9 years later.

One of the most common arguments I still hear from the anti-tattoo lobby was, “What are you going to do when you’re old and have a tattoo on your flabby arm?”

I tell them, “If I have a flabby arm when I’m old, a tattoo will be the least of my problems.”

Besides, I could have inked any of .

The act of atonement during Yom Kippur can elicit some emotional confessions and pleas for forgiveness.

But with the relative safety of the Internet guaranteeing a modicum of anonymity, many Jews over the weekend took advantage of of the Web — more specifically, Jewcy’s message boards — to confess some pretty sick — and often humorous — sins.

As for me, I spent the weekend atoning for the following:

• Going to Cagey’s surprise birthday party Friday night, where I drank beer, ate all the food, and played Super Mario Kart
• Breaking my abridged fast Saturday night at Fogo de Chao, where our waiter flirted with The Princess while I gorged myself on Brazilian beef and, yes, pork
• Discussing celebrity gossip with HAL and J-Vo
• Driving past the Holocaust Museum after watching from Gravelly Point the planes land at National Airport and thinking about oral sex

Here are the results from Friday’s poll deciding whether fasting during Ramadan or Yom Kippur is harder (results are as of this morning). Either 87% of you are wrong or I’m just ridiculously stubborn:

There is no close date on the poll, so you can still vote here.

Tonight marks the beginning of Yom Kippur, the holiest Jewish holiday of the year and the most brutal 24 hours Jews go through outside of not calling their mothers for a week.

On top of fasting (no food OR drink), we don’t have sex, wear leather shoes, bathe, or anoint ourselves with various lotions.

I’ve been for 13 years and have learned how to get through it without ripping off my own arm and eating it. I’ve also gotten pretty good at bitching and moaning at how tough it can be, especially the last few hours when your head hurts and you think God himself is telling you to stop watching so much TV.

But Muslims also have it hard.

They observe Ramadan, which entails fasting during the daytime for a month.

Both Yom Kippur and Ramadan are “cleansing” or “purification” holidays of atonement, which I find ironic considering it’s the dirtiest days of our lives.

I have argued for years that Muslims have it easier. Sure, they have to fast for an entire month, but they get to eat when the sun goes down. They get to have sex when they go to bed at night. They get to wear tanned cow corpse on their feet when they go out.

We have 24 hours IN A ROW of magnificent torture.

So I asked my Muslim friends Zaimah and Sonny to argue five ways Ramadan is tougher than Yom Kippur. Here are the results:

What do you think? Which religion has it tougher? Judaism or Islam? Which period of repentance is harder? Ramadan or Yom Kippur?

Vote below:

For an outstanding blog post on a failed attempt to seek forgiveness. read this.

BBstucco, a prolific and talented writer at This Is By Us, recently experienced a hysterical encounter with some Orthodox Jews. Hilarity ensued and, in honor of Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish new year, I asked him to guest blog about his episode with the Extreme Chosen.

L’Shana Tova!:

I am not Jewish.

Actually, that statement’s not 100% accurate. My Grandfather WAS Jewish, but he left the Faith and Family to marry my un-chosen Grandmother. So by blood, I’m 1/4 Jewish. However, by culture, I’m a gentle gentile, all the way.

Back in about 1 or 2 B.C. (Before Children), Wife and I were invited over to Shabbat by good friends of ours who are Jewish and, for the purposes of this article, are named Gustav and Helga. We were both quite honored, and very excited, because 1) Helga’s a great cook, and we were interested in what sort of “Holy” food she’d be making, and 2) we wanted to see Jews in their natural habitat, as it were.

In fact, Gustav’s parents were in town as well and his father was an actual Holocaust Survivor (he was a very young boy at the time, and does NOT speak of his memories at all). So there was something very solemn and cool about the whole thing.

The Gustavs lived in a small neighborhood off Melrose near The Grove in LA. This area is HIGHLY Jewish. In fact, though Gustav and his family (including his Holocaust-surviving father) are moderate, there are a TON of very strict, Orthodox and Hasidic Jews all around.

We met one.

After dinner, Wife and I had said our goodbyes and walked out to our car. A woman comes hurrying up to us, dragging two little children behind her, panic on her face.

“Excuse me, are you Jewish?”

I was about to launch into the story of my Grandfather, and how I’m 1/4 Jewish, and so I feel their pain, and all that. But Wife, knowing where that was going, stopped me and told the woman that, no, we weren’t Jewish.

“Oh, Thank the Lord. I assumed you wouldn’t be since you were about to drive a car on the Sabbath, but..” (and here she suspiciously eyed the home of our hosts) “…some Jews aren’t as observant as others.”

Well, there we go. That was lovely. And she stood there, awkwardly waiting. Not sure what for. A friendly handshake? Some praise in uncovering my non-Jew-hood? We took another step towards our car, she followed. Still waiting. Starting to freak me out. Gustav, who was standing at his door having waved us goodbye, ran up to us and took me aside.

“She wants help with something. But she can’t actually ask you for help, not on the Sabbath. It’s a sin.”

So Wife and I looked at each other, then over to the Woman, who could certainly hear our conversation. Yet still she waited. Smiling. I stepped forward.

“Do you need some help?”

Silence. She was desperately trying to find a way to answer that wouldn’t be a sin. I hadn’t asked the question quite right. I tried again. “Can I help you with something on this fine Sabbath?”

That must have done the trick, because she finally opened up. She and her children were locked out of their house. The husband had gone to spend the night with his parents. She and her brood had walked next door for Shabbat with a neighbor, but hadn’t left the door unlocked. See, they can’t actually use a key on Sabbath. That would be a sin. It would be “work”. So they leave all their doors unlocked on the Sabbath if they go out.

Only, her doors were locked.

She couldn’t call a locksmith because she’d be asking someone to work on the Sabbath, and besides, she can’t use the telephone on the Sabbath. Something about unnaturally extending her voice or some such. She couldn’t ask any of her Jewish neighbors for help, because it was a sin to ask fellow Jews to break the Sabbath. But me and Wife, we’re already heathens doomed to an afterlife of torment and misery, so we’re cool.

Now in my day, I was, in fact, pretty good at breaking into a house. Not like a burglar or anything, I mean I’d trip the alarm if there were one. But I could get in when friends locked themselves out. Except not tonight, because every single window is covered by bars. Even the really, really small bathroom window on the second floor that a canary couldn’t even squeeze through. It’s like the entire house is the set of Oz or something.

So we’re back at square one. Except I can tell she has another idea, but can’t offer it unless I ask the right questions. Let me just say, playing 20 Questions when you’re trying to do a huge favor to total strangers is a pain in the ass. But play we did. Eventually, we figured it out. Her husband has a key with him. He’s staying with his parents. They live about 12 blocks away. It’s too far for her kids to walk, so she can’t go and get the key. (Remember, they can’t drive. It’s the Sabbath.) But here again, the non-Jews can save the day.

We get the address, hop in the car, and drive over. The place is dark. No lights anywhere. Quiet as a tomb.

We knock. No answer. We ring the doorbell. No answer. We call out to whomever may be inside. No answer. We return to the stranded family.

“He’s there. They just didn’t answer you because they don’t know who you are.”

Well, how do we get them to come to the door and give us a key so you can get in your house and we can go home and start drinking wine? They’d open the door for you, right?

Of course, but she can’t get over there. It’s a sin. So.. do the parents have a phone? Yes, but they won’t use it. Not tonight. Do they have an answering machine? Yes. Will they hear a message as it is being left on the machine? Yes. Can we call them? She can’t use the phone. Can she speak loudly when a phone happens to be being used?

There’s this long pause. She’s weighing her odds. Possible sin vs. staying outside with her kids all night. She can’t ask another Jewish family to take her in on the Sabbath, that would be.. well, you know. Of course, one of the other families could, in fact, OFFER to take her in. But I get the feeling they don’t like her, because they’re all watching us and nobody’s lifting a finger. Or maybe they were just laughing at the silly Gentiles jumping through hoops.

Eventually, we go back to Gustav’s to use the phone. Except, of course, the woman won’t let Gustav or Helga use their own phone. So she gives me the number and I make the call. The plan is, the woman will be having a loud conversation with Wife while I randomly hold the phone up. The message beeps, I hold up the phone.

“It’s so nice to meet you on this Sabbath. I have locked my family out of the house. My husband has a key, but he is staying at his parent’s house. They live at 69 Boogiedown Lane. His name is Simon.”

“That’s nice to learn. I think my husband and I will drive over to that house for you and see if we can pick up the key.”

“Oh, that is so very kind of you. I wouldn’t want to impose or ask you to do any work on the Sabbath.”

“It’s no problem. We’re not Jewish. You’re not asking us to do anything. We were going to drive in that direction anyway, so it’s no trouble at all. We’ll leave right now.”

I hung up. This had better work.

So we drive back to the parents’ house. Still dark. Still quiet. I knock. We call out. Finally, there is movement. The door opens. Simon appears. He’s a nice enough guy. Looks like your every day, average Orthodox Jew, like straight out of Witness. (They were Amish, but the look is similar.)

I smile, introduce myself, hold out my hand.

He smiles and ignores my hand, his own clasped in front of him, solemnly. Wife, growing impatient, jumps into it. “So your wife and kids are locked out of their house. Do you have the key?”

Silence. He completely and utterly ignores her. Smiles at me. Waiting. A growing suspicion creeps into my mind. Very weakly, I ask, “Do you have a key we can bring to your family?”

“Yes. Thank you for helping my family. Let me get the key.”

He turns and walks back into the darkness. I slowly turn to Wife, who is fuming.

“He… didn’t.. even.. look.. at… me.”

“Now Honey, I’m sure you, as a Gentile woman, are just one big temptation into sin. So he can’t acknowledge your presence. The temptation would be too great, one look and he’d start sinning you right in front of me. Nobody wants that.”

She growls. We’re going to need more than one bottle of wine when we get home.

Simon returns, hands me the key. We turn to go.

“Could I ask one more favor?”

Well, no. But at this point, I’m pretty beaten down. So I turn back.

“Could you carry the key in your shoe?”

This is LA. So at this point, I figure I’ve been set up all along and am being filmed. Perhaps I was and Synagogues across the world watch the video of the Stupid Non-Jew Who Carried The Key In His Shoe and laugh their asses off. But if so, Simon put up a good front.

“My shoe?”

“If you’re not carrying it in a normal way, then it’s not, officially, work. We’ve spent many years coming up with ways to… get around some of the more restrictive rules of our Faith.”

Yes, it’s become quite obvious this evening how well that’s working out. I take the key. I remove my shoe. I place the key in the shoe, and we leave. I put metal to the pedal and we return to woman and children. I promptly remove my shoe and withdraw the key. She looks at me quizzically.

“Why did you put the key in your shoe?”

“I.. uhm.. your husband.. said….” I give up and offer her the key.

You think I’d offered her a heaping pile of sin or something, the way she recoiled in horror. I mean, OK, it’d been in my shoe, but I don’t think it smelled or anything. But no, to return to the initial problem, she can’t use a key on the Sabbath. So I open the door for her, and the problem is resolved. She now insists on feeding us, some very scrumptious baked goods that we scarfed down as quickly as possible so that we could leave, go home, and drink.

Eventually we said our goodbyes and walked back across the street to Gustav’s. He met us at the door, electric lights on all through the house, and put his arms on my shoulders.

“On behalf of My People, I’m really sorry. We’re not all like that.”

And his Holocaust-Survivor Father, sitting in the chair reading a People magazine, looked up, shaking his head.

“Yeah. Those Jews are nuts.”

Exodus is a powerful word. It signifies rebirth, movement, and lots of sand.

To my people (the Chosen kind), Exodus means an escape from a pissed off Egyptian suffering from a severe inferiority complex. And matzo balls.

To Google, Exodus is the number-one ranked Web site of a ministry that wants you to believe “freedom from homosexuality through the power of Jesus Christ” is possible. The ministry fails to share its views on leprechauns and unicorns but implores you to seek help for gay Tooth Fairies.

And to the great city of Vancouver, Exodus is the name of a paintball team that seems to take its man-child activity pretty seriously.

To me, though, Exodus is the theme of our next Blogger Happy Hour, named such to honor the departure, or “exodus”, to South America of my favorite DC-area-based, minimalist-themed, pump-and-dumping blogger, Roosh.

Often, exoduses, or exodi, are events accompanied by a conflicted sense of nostalgia and fear. I find myself overwhelmed by Roosh’s self-enriching goal to travel yet dread his expected plowing of my birth country, Argentina.

You don’t have to know Roosh to come to the happy hour, though. Come alone, with a friend, or your entire kickball team. As always, I’ll be there playing patty-cake with my three co-hosts (I hear VK loves “Down by the Banks” and “Miss Lucy”).

Yesterday we established that the Virginia DMV is not a fan of the Chosen People — based purely on its online personalized license plate generator.

Today we’ll continue with your submissions. Send in either a jpeg/gif of your creation at , or let me know the category/lettering you’d like and I’ll post it for you.

Click on any license plate for a mini-slideshow.

From Phil at Playaz Ball:

From :

From Horizontal:

From :

From :

From :

From Nenesmom:

From Florida fan Jim Swift (as a UCLA fan, I’m posting this against my better judgment):

From :