Pat:
Chutzpah is a characteristic that goes both ways, like Freddy Mercury. Actually, bad example. It goes both ways in the same way a really really thick chocolate bar filled with feces does. It is good sometimes, but otherwise you just end up with a mouth full of shit. It is forever stuck in a moral limbo that cycles back and forth between the positive and negative spectrum never choosing a resting place. I suppose with chutzpah, and most things in life, its merit lies in the context it is in. I am sure that when people opened their papers in the fall of 1939 they said, “Boy that Hitler has some chutzpah attacking Poland and whatnot.” In this case, obviously, chutzpah would be put into the mouth-full-of-shit category. But when people heard all about Martin Luther King Jr.’s march on Washington…well they were all pretty racist back then so they probably still said “That colored boy sure got a lot of chutzpah walking on Washington and whatnot” in the shitty mouth way, just before leaving for their Klan meeting, where they would then punish themselves for using the dirty words of a big-nosed, money-grabbin’ yid. But now, I’m sure at least a few people would say that colored folk have chutzpah in the good way, since racism is oh so unpopular now, except among the police force.
My views on chutzpah are more conflicted than my views on public masturbation, which in reality are not truly conflicted; public masturbation is awesome. It is daring and pleasurable all at once, like beating a kitten, or wearing a silly hat. Jerkin’ it in public, now there’s something that takes some chutzpah. Man, I love it.
…I’ll be right back.
-
Okay, I’m back. I think all would be wise to avoid the water fountain on fifth street.
Anyways, as I was saying…
Without chutzpah, we wouldn’t have America. But without chutzpah, we wouldn’t have America. How am I supposed to give a rating to a trait that is neither good nor bad, a characteristic that has no innate worth? Should I just give my opinion? No fucking way! Dammit…
Well, I wouldn’t say fuck Chutzpah, because some of my personal heroes have abundant amounts of it.
I also wouldn’t say “I won’t fuck it,” because I’d consider it.
At the same time though, I’d also consider not fucking it, so I can’t say “I’d fuck it.”
I respect it too much to do anything to it drunk…so that’s out.
If a five didn’t feel too generous, I would give it that.
And I would suck that dick, but I imagine Chutzpah has a gigantic one, so I can’t do that; I couldn’t possibly fit all of that cock in my mouth. So I’m just going to rate it based off of its penis merit. Chutzpah, I must say, that is a lot of cock you got going there.
Lev:
Wooaaaah doggy! Get back here! You just can’t control that thing. Chutzpah’s one charismatic badass motherfucker, but it’ll screw you over if you rub it the wrong way. You just can’t tame that shit. But that fucker’s got balls. You have to admit that. You ride that stallion into town and you’ll either look like a gigantic prick, or you’ll … well, you’ll look like a big cock. Basically, you’ll always come across as an anthropomorphic penis, but sometimes people like that. They just won’t always admit it. After all, it takes someone with chutzpah to tell a person in a position of authority that they’re full of it. It takes someone with chutzpah to advocate radical social reform. It takes someone with chutzpah to make a passionate work of art that’s commercially impractical. But it also takes chutzpah to be a total dick.
You know who had chutzpah? Robin Hood. He fucking stole from people. Fine, rich people, but they’re still human … kinda. You don’t take that lightly. You only steal from someone if you’re absolutely willing to have them view you as a moral derelict, a social pariah, an ass. Robin Hood was a thief, there’s no two ways about that. And not only that, but he gave what he stole to the poor. That’s even ballsier that just stealing crap and hoarding it. Indulging in vice is the easy way out. Robin Hood wanted to make a statement, as in “Things are fucked up and I need to do something to change that, even just a little.” And yes, in a way, he was a dick. You may say, “Who’s he to fuck with society?” “Don’t try to glamorize theft. It’s a moral wrong. Period.” Fine. I’m not saying you’re wrong, but I am saying that that is exactly chutzpah’s dynamic. It shifts wildly between being an ass and being a hero. It’s like a coin. It’s dual nature is both its charm and its curse. I myself, side with the idea that without chutzpah, without taking risks, you’re nowhere. But I also have to consider how many asses there are out there. Taking all that into consideration, I’m giving chutzpah our most controversial rating.
Ryan:
When writing a review, there is a certain amount of bias. Personal biases often cloud your mind and make a review less about the quality of the thing being reviewed and more about personal preference. A certain level of personal preference always goes into a ‘review,’ but too much can be a highly dangerous and stupid thing… And sometimes reviews aren’t about quality or preference, instead they are about how much money the studio is paying Todd Gilchrist to give the Transformers 2 a good review.
This review was written with as little bias as possible, because I made sure to masturbate four times before writing it, so as to avoid my personal libido getting in the way of an accurate review of chutzpah.
From my near nirvana state of post-quatrogasm clarity I have several main criticisms of chutzpah. First off, while it seems to be a valid alternative to being intelligent and well mannered, it isn’t. Even though chutzpah is the classiest way to talk about the size of one’s balls-mostly because it’s in a foreign language, sort of like menage a trois is the classy way to say ‘three way fuck-fest’-people of truly high status and intellect will not be fooled. Basically, using this word in an upper crust party would cause you to be friends with the ditsy, cocky bastards who are dicks to waiters and assume that money grows them brain cells, the people who say thing like “Oh Charles, you’re such a riot.”
Chutzpah just tries too hard to be something its not. First of all, it is not innately funny just because it’s Hebrew and a euphemism for balls. The medical name for balls is more humorous than chutzpah, hell, the medical name for the pleasure center of the vagina is funnier than the word chutzpah. CLITORIS. HA. HA. HA. The only people who can make the word chutzpah funny are Jewish people. And even then, its more of a laugh on the inside than the raucous laughter created by the word CLITORIS. Secondly, it isn’t even a hugely valid substitute for general ballsiness in an average non-Jewish male. Having your ‘fly’ white friends tell you that you ‘Got allotta chutzpah, bro’ isn’t exactly as high a praise as ‘Shiiiiittt dawg, yo balls be so big you need two fresh, fit pack mules to carry them!’ It’s a clear step below. Unless you’re Jewish. And the person talking about your abundance of chutzpah is older. With a long beard. And those swirly Jewish sideburn things.
The power of the word ‘chutzpah’ is just beyond the average white male. That is assuming he’s not Jewish. So yeah, chutzpah, you’re getting a 2 out of 7 because you just don’t do it for me in my current after vigorous masturbation state of clarity. Put that 2/7 in your pipe and make a holocaust joke out of it.
William Henry Icabold Taft- Esquire:
As I sat down to write my review for Chutzpah, I found myself at a loss. What experience have I had with Chutzpah? Have I ever eaten, watched, or read a Chutzpah? If I woke next morning and found a naked Chutzpah laying next to me, would I freak out, cover it with my blanket and throw it out on the street? Or would I fry it some eggs, wake it with a kiss, slap its ass and have sweet morning after sex, leather masks and all?
As a reviewer, I am ashamed to admit that I am wholly unprepared for this review. Some may say, “But William Henry, surely you have met some acquaintances who exhibit Chutzpah?” To this I say, “I’m white. All my friends are clones of me.”
By this, of course, I mean what exactly is Chutzpah? Who, in my expansive social circle, could be described with so foreign an adjective? Does flicking off a cop use Chutzpah, or bravery? Do I rape people because I have Chutzpah, or because my mother would beat me in horrible menopausal rages as a child?
With the Texas police hot on my trails for molesting customers of my local masseuse, and with a burning desire for answers, I set out to Auschwitz. I could think of no other place with more historical Jewish significance. Unfortunately, the Holocaust had been over for over 60 years when I arrived, and my journey had been mostly pointless. However, I soon found the answers passing by an Amsterdam children’s museum on the history of marijuana. I was brushing the dazed and naked children off the hood of my car when a beautiful prostitute propositioned me in a beautiful dark brown voice, informing me it would only cost $7.49 for exactly 221 seconds of fellatio if I called her handsome.
I fell in love with this angel. 15 seconds into our contract, I experienced an ecstasy far greater than beating Ash on Pokemon Tournament Day (mysteriously referred to as “Superbowl Sunday” by some, possibly referring to 10-gallon bowl of Doritos present at competitions) or hiding your phone number in the panties sold in Victoria Secret. Truly, it was Chutzpah that gave her the strength and the vision to sell herself in front of a drug-themed children’s museum, marry me, and reveal her manly equipment to my grandparents, and so it was Chutzpah that made me, once again, believe in love. I give Chutzpah a 7 out of 7, I would fuck it (again).
Final grade:
