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Deborah Lauter, civil rights director for the Anti-Defamation League, urged people to complain to Facebook, not just about the “F**k Israel” page itself, but also to flag and call Facebook’s attention to individual offensive comments and posts on the page.
The “F**k Israel” page, which has 36,000 “likes” as of Monday, features such sentiments as “God bless Adolf Hitler for what he did,” “Jews are children of apes and pigs …
“Palestinian Chicken,” arguably the crowning achievement of the entire series, came in the last season, the most gonzo scene featuring a supine David, glasses fogged, brow furrowed in concentration, gamely trying to meet the exacting demands of the hot-stuff Palestinian restaurateur writhing on top of him. After the waiter asks if he might like to sample the soup du jour, pumpkin, vegan, and apparently quite delicious—David, arms opening expansively, “Sure, why not? We get down to it., David has proclaimed on more than one occasion.
At first, it was not known which group were behind the attacks, later it was the Al-Qaeda's branch in Yemen which claimed they did.
Yet Jennifer Lawrence, as luscious a starlet as Hollywood’s ever produced, has it bad for him, is completely over-the-moon hot-for-his-bod gaga. As I read his message, “I’m terrible at these decisions”—mm-hmm, O. traffic, the reason David’s running a few minutes late. We order—the quinoa salad for both of us, though David’s initial impulse is to go with the lobster salad.
In the November issue of this very magazine she sotto-voce’d to contributing editor Sam Kashner, “I worship Woody Allen, but I don’t feel it below the belt the way I do for Larry David.”In case you don’t own a TV—are one of , which ended its eighth and perhaps final season in 2011 (David has been playing it flower-petal-pluckingly coy about the possibility of the show’s return, there-will-be-a-ninth-season, there-will-be-a-ninth-season-not), was the funniest thing going, not only on the small screen but on the big one as well. K.—and “dr’s app’t at one”—yeah, that sounds about right—then shot back a message of my own—the name of the restaurant, followed by a question mark—I thought, Oh goody, I’m in a real-life episode of , my favorite show, and Larry David, my favorite comic, is acting exactly the way I’d imagine he’d act, is behaving according to type. (Another e-mail communiqué.) I’m in the restaurant, at a table at the back, sipping a Diet Coke with lime, listening to the piano player work over that tune from , watching the lippy starlet sitting mutely at a booth with a couple of gangster-looking guys in fedoras loudly discussing the Spanish financing falling out of a movie one of them is developing. I turn and see him walking toward me, and that’s the precise moment my expectations go blooey. Larry David both is “Larry David” and is not “Larry David.” (For clarity’s sweet sake, I will, from here on out, refer to Larry David the human being as David, Larry David the semi-fictional alter ego as L. “But what if our salads come and yours looks better?
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At no point did it slow or slacken or flag or flake, go soft or through the motions, settle for shtick, descend into self-parody. They go still blooier as we settle in, exchange greetings and small talk, because here’s the thing you realize about Larry David when you encounter him in the flesh: there are actually two Larry Davids. That would be terrible,” he says, slipping into character for a moment, playing that Schadenfreude-spritzing fussbudget, L.