I found a plethora of articles about Ben and Jerry’s boycott of Judea and Samaria plastered across the internet.
As I read each article, I smelt something in the air.
The smell of youth, revolution and manhood.
The smell of passion for a cause.
For I once I was a man of action, a man of the ’60s, and a man of the streets.
Fighting the good fight for truth, justice and the American way.
For I once fought the cops in Chicago; inhaled their tear gas and cried.
For I once missed being clubbed in the head by inches.
And for times in my life “Protest” was my middle name.
Yes, I protested in the battle for Civil Rights, in the Stop the Vietnam War Movement, in the Let My People Go Out of the Soviet Union rallies and in the Stop-Putting-Babies-in-Cages Marches.
So, I felt I had no choice but to drive up to Waterbury, Vermont.
To make my voice heard.
To scream at Ben and Jerry, “Sell your damn ice cream to the Jews of Judea and to the Semites of Samaria.”
To scream at the tourists licking their cones: When the Nazis boycotted Jewish stores, we understood. When the Arabs boycotted Israeli goods, we understood. But when our favorite ice cream boycotts Judea and Samaria, we don’t understand. And we shall never forget.
So I packed up my psychedelic VW camper with protest signs and provisions: Four bottles of Boone’s Farm, three packages of Twinkies, a six pack of Joya’s Marble Halvah, a box of rugelach from Katz’ Bakery, two glass jars of Yehuda Sweet Gefilte Fish–Straight from the Holy Land, paper plates, plastic glasses, plastic cutlery and napkins.
Yes, my hippie van with the peace signs and red, yellow, blue and orange flowers painted all over its exterior and the words: Flower Power, next to the words: Make Love Not War, next to the words, B&J Time To Reverse Your Anti-Semitic Decision.
Yes, my vehicle with the bumper stickers that read: “If it’s rocking, don’t bother knocking” and “Ben & Jerry’s Ain’t Kosher With Me!.”
And yes, as a revolutionary, I crawled up I-95 into the belly of the beast, deep into pro-Palestinian leftistland and into stench of Bernieville.
Yes, I’m on a mission to go into Ben and Jerry’s Waterbury Factory and Ice Cream Shop’s parking lot with my bullhorn and chant: The time to change your mind is now! and One, two, three, four, Ben and Jerry’s will be no more!
And yes, I shot out a bunch of emails, inviting my Zionistic buddies to the protest and telling them the who, what, when and where to meet off of Route 100 in Waterbury.
And yes, I packed my VW camper with handmade, hand-painted picket signs.
One read: Ben and Jerry’s “Keep Your Sticky Finger Boycotts out of the Middle East.” Another: My Lips Will Never Again Touch Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream.”
And yes, I jumped into the van, turned on the engine and listened to Greta Van Fleet’s, “You’re The One.”
And at that moment, I was the one.
The one ready to fight the anti-Semitic ice cream dragon.
The one who drove and pictured a boxing match between Ben and Jerry’s and small Jewish kid.
B&J throws the first punch. It’s a low blow into the kid’s groin and B&J yells, “You’re not allowed sell our ice cream in your occupied territories.”
The kid retaliated with jab after jab into B&J’s jaw and gut–Jewish grocery chains stop selling B&J, an employee of B&J resigns due to their policy, state governors threaten pulling state investments out of Unilever, Israeli politicians label B&J anti-Semitic and B&J loses its kosher designation.
The jabs bloody the nose of B&J.
The jabs bruise the body of B&J.
B&J hits the mat hard.
And after a ten count, the referee announced that David has vanquished Goliath.
Quietly B&J retracts its boycott.
And altz iz gut.
I smiled.
Victory is as sweet as a Baskin Robbins on a hot summer day with a Vermont summer breeze caressing your face.
It felt good watching the small Jewish kid punching the crap out of the anti-Semitic bully.
And as I waited for my friends to arrive, I pulled out my bullhorn and toured the grounds
I climbed up the hill; spotted the infamous Flavors Graveyard.
Here the dynamic duo of ice cream entrepreneurs paid homage to all those flavors that didn’t cut the mustard.
Flavors that died due to a lack of customer love.
As I read each headstone, I wondered, “What did that taste like?”
Then I saw a wooden gate with a Magen David carved into its center.
I smiled.
How becoming.
For I didn’t realize the Ben and Jerry had a Jewish section in their creamery cemetery.
But two New York yids not having a Jewish section would have been a shonda.
I opened the gate and studied the witty epitaphs on the granite headstones
In Memory of Gefilte Phish Ice Cream (1981-1982)
She was an acquired taste not to be eaten in haste.
For those who loved her, “Gefilte was not half bad with carrot and horseradish sprinkles.”
Gefilte had almost no following outside of NYC except for those with large wrinkles.
The week before Passover Seders she was a big hit.
The rest of the year customers didn’t give a shit.
May she R.I.P.
Here lies Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream (1978-2021)
The brainchild of two Jewish lads, Jerry Greenfield and Ben Cohen.
Both of them come here often and you can hear their moan.
They sold their company to some Brits, who allowed the B&J board to lose its wits.
Their boycott drove customer’s brains to bits.
Death due to a lack of customer love and to prejudices of her board.
May B&G rest in peace in heaven in the the company of the Lord.
As a cool Vermont summer breeze caressed my face, I closed my eyes and wondered,
“When will the first replica of the Ben and Jerry’s graveyard be erected in Judea or Sumaria.
And where the hell are my friends and when will they get here?”
