Self-proclaimed sexual abuser of her sister Lena Dunham has now turned her rapier wit to the quaint anti-Semitic custom generally reserved for Nazis and radical Muslims of comparing Jews with dogs. Writing in The New Yorker, Dunham penned a piece comparing her dog to her Jewish boyfriend, asking, “Do the following statements refer to (a) my dog or (b) my Jewish boyfriend?”
She then lists a series of descriptions ranging from the silly to the blatantly anti-Jewish. “He’s crazy for cream cheese,” she writes (presumably about her boyfriend). “If it were up to him, every room in our place would be carpeted,” she jokes (presumably about her dog).
Then she gets to the anti-Semitic. “[H]e comes from a culture in which mothers focus every ounce of their attention on their offspring and don’t acknowledge their own need for independence as women. They are sucked by their children, who ultimately leave them as soon as they find suitable mates,” she writes, presumably about her boyfriend (who may be a dog). “As a result of this dynamic, he expects to be waited on hand and foot by the women in his life, and anything less than that makes him whiny and distant.”
Jews are cheap, too, Dunham writes. “He doesn’t tip,” says Dunham. Jews are also Woody Allen-style hypochondriacs: “He has a sensitive stomach and has to take two Dramamine before entering any moving vehicle…Every week it’s some new health issue: urine crystals, sprained foot, beef allergy.” Jews are also hairy! “In fact, he has hair all over his body, like most males who share his background.” And Jews are desperate for hot shikses:
One spring afternoon, we walked to Dumbo to check out a new artisanal-Popsicle stand, when we ran into my friend Jill. Jill is actually more of an acquaintance—I don’t know her well, but I really like her; she curates high-end terrariums and she’s a clog designer on the side. She’s really slim and well dressed, in an all-American, J. Crew-model sort of way. He was immediately all over her, panting and making a fool of himself. It was humiliating. Because here’s the thing: I am not a Jill. I will never be a Jill. And if that’s what he is looking for—some anorexic hipster with a glossy braid and freaking Swedish clog boots she sewed by hand—he should never have set his sights on me in the first place.
The anti-Semitic voice of a generation strikes again.