“Egged cuts humans from J’lem bus ads,” reads a headline this morning. Soon there will be no humans in J’lem, only angels and jackals. Meanwhile, women still walk on J’lem’s streets. But what kind of women? One answer comes from Canaan Media, the ad agency with exclusive rights to place ads on Egged buses. According to Canaan, the women in Jerusalem cannot be represented in ads in sleeveless tops and if they appear at all (which they won’t, apparently) their sleeves must be elbow-length.
I always thought my elbows were my best feature. When I was younger, I would walk down Jaffa Road, turn left up Strauss, take a right on Prophets, a left on Tribes of Israel to the Street of One Hundred Gates. Behind me trailed a bunch of holy men who had dropped whatever business they had to do downtown to follow me, whispering in Hebrew, Yiddish, French, English, “Your elbows, oh your elbows.”
The more naughty men even tried to touch my elbows. That’s when I learned that, not only were they my strongest erogenous zone, they were also my strongest weapon. Not a few holy men received one of my elbows in their ribs.
If any words of Torah had been in their heads before their morning jaunt to downtown Jerusalem, the only words these holy men could mutter after they saw my arms were, Elbow, Elbow, Elbow. Due to the first two letters of this word, their strong sexual desire got mixed up with religion. They interpreted this confusion as a message from their Evil Inclination.
I saw this in their scared and confused eyes when I turned around to the group of men, now numbering in the hundreds, at the center of Sabbath Square. I folded my arms and raised my elbows heavenward. The holy men shrunk. Then I clapped my elbows together, hiding my face, opened them abruptly, my lascivious elbows pointing east and west to the ends of the earth. I repeated this clapping movement several times until most of the holy men were flat on their backs on the street, unable to control themselves. Some panted. Others wet their pants. Some foamed at the mouth. I had never known I had such power and, truth be told, rather enjoyed it.
Once all the holy men covered the Square and traffic from Kings of Israel came to a halt, I belted in elementary Hebrew, Stop hounding me. My voice, like my elbows, was beautiful back then in my twenties, which caused the men to become even more helpless.
Fortunately, years later I left Jerusalem. Now I live .7 kilometers west of the Holy City. Life is normal here in the Judean hills, with only the cemetery and the forest separating me from insanity. Of course, unlike angels, I’ve aged. My elbows are wrinkled, the skin chapped.
But my wrists, ahhh my wrists. Whenever I do go up to Jerusalem and wait for the Light Rail on Jaffa Road, those wrists make the men go crazy.