On the surface, it would seem Mr. Jordan Bratman, while perhaps unfortunately named, is a fine example of the young, successful and upwardly mobile modern American Jewish Boy. Jordan, who graduated from the business school at a certain venerable and august collegiate institution known for being home to many an intelligent, witty, urbane and dare-I-say-it-handsome Jewish boy, Tulane University, got an early start in the recording business and quickly established himself, producing singles for Madonna, Michael Jackson, and several other artists not connected to Kabbalah and/or Shmuley Boteach.
Sounds like Jordan probably would any Jewish mama proud, right?
Wrong! Despite being a connected, monied, successful New York Jewish boy, with his pick of thousands upon thousands of eligible New York Jewish girls, girls with soft, uncallused hands who have never borne the burden of anything heavier than a Louis Vuitton bag, girls who, since reading Tuesdays with Morrie in high school, have never grappled with anything more intellectual than asking the waiter at the hip Soho cocktail bar what “lychee” is, despite all this, Jordan has fallen pray to the siren call of the shiksa.
Yes, Jordan has married his longtime girlfriend, some overpainted blonde hussy named Christina Aguilera, in a private ceremony on a California vineyard.
Jordan: we need to talk. I realize that for a nice Jewish boy like yourself, the prospect of having principal mating rights with someone who has in the past gone out in public in outfits whose main bonding agent is not stitching but nipple glue is enticing. But really, if you’re that attracted to shallow, stupendously wealthy, overmedicated young women who measure your personal worth and marriageability by the size of your bank account, you really could have found a great girl right down the block who would have made the family happy too. Why do you snub your people’s traditions, Jordan? Come back! Come back to us!
And how do I know he’s Jewish? Well. Come on. Look at that punim. It’s a face only a mother, and apparently an international pop star worth millions of dollars already, could love.
Anyway, mazel tov to Jordan and the new Mrs. Christina Bratman. And Jordan, think about what I said. It’s not too late to come ’round and marry the right girl and make beautiful Jewish babies that you can raise for Torah, chuppah, ma’asim tovim and spectacle bat/bar mitzvahs that’ll put that Riddinger twerp to shame. Come on, I’m thinking like Studio 54 with tallits here. Is it worth giving all that up for a passel of kids who will have to live with the psychological damage of having a mother famous for displaying her crotch tattoos and inspiring a million jailbait fantasies about “rubbing her the right way”?