I went to my first bris Sunday morning. Well, actually I should amend it to say it's the first bris I've been to in which I wasn't the snippee. Gotta hand it to us Jews, we can even take the slicing of a new-born baby's penis and turn it into an excuse for bagels and lox.

Having never actually seen the act, I wanted to see it. It couldn't be as bad as people make it out to be, right? Remember the Cheers episode in which all the gang tried to hide the Crane's baby before it's bris? And Lillith, who wanted it the most, wound up passing out (or was it Frasier, I can't remember?). Male genital mutiliation my ass.

Couldn't watch it. I went into the room where the deed was to be done, stood there with the proud (and also unable to watch) papa, his sister, and a few other friends and couldn't watch it. I got right up to the snip part and I turned away. Just couldn't do it. Not…gonna…happen…..

It's not that I felt it brutal or "mutilitation" it's just that I felt awful for the kid. There he was, all fast asleep, in happy baby-land, only to be grabbed by a bunch of people, thrown down into his bed, forced wine down his throat and then probably the most sensitive part of his anatomy gets sliced away. That's gotta hurt. I know he's got all the wine and he's still young and all, but if I were him, it's gonna be a long time before I go to sleep.

Hell, maybe that could all explain my insomnia.