No one who wasn’t at Zachary Rosenstein’s Bar Mitzvah believed that GG Allin had actually shown up … until he got the photos. And there he was, king of the Scumfucs, yarmulke and all, up on the dais, doing the Hora, chowing on Challah and beating the shit out of DJ Joel and his “fuckface hairdo.”

GG was scheduled to play a gig in Vancouver, British Columbia, but was denied entry into the country after telling the Border Patrol agent she should lick him where he shits. Also, he didn’t have a passport. Not wanting to lose the money GG and his band were promised, his enterprising Jewish manager booked them a last minute gig at the Rosenstein Bar Mitzvah since the hired band had come down with the flu.

GG had never been to a Bar Mitzvah service before, but he quickly realized it was going to be a decidedly boring affair. Everyone onstage was reading from what looked like a giant roll of toilet paper and wearing nylon Frisbees on their heads. Not one to let an entertainment opportunity pass him by, GG stormed the stage and helped Zach with his Torah portion. “Bereshit bara Elohim et hashamayim,” GG spewed as the rabbi looked on. “Vayomer Elohim cum stains! Suck buttholes!” Zach’s friends roared. This was gonna be the best Bar Mitzvah ever.

At a reception held at the local Radisson, GG charmed the pants off Nana Rosenstein, Zachary’s 98-year-old grandmother, regaling her with wild stories of life on the road. “That’s nothing,” she thought, “he should have seen the Holocaust.” Later, GG rode the hoisted chair as he led his band through a double-time version of “Hava Nagila,” in which he stagedived headfirst from the chair into the presents table.

The band soldiered on, and six or seven vodkas later, GG’s years of bloody body torture paid off: he finished third in the limbo competition. He celebrated his near-victory by stripping down to his dirty jockstrap and dancing with Zach’s sister Rachel, who thought he looked cute, “kinda like that guy from E.R.” The Scumfucs closed their set with a rousing rendition of Kool and the Gang’s “Celebration,” during which GG changed the lyrics from “celebrate good times come on,” to “masturbate six times your mom!”

GG finally passed out in the hotel lobby just north of 3 a.m., but not before shitting on the double chocolate cake (“Now it’s a triple-fudge shitcake,” he roared) and shoving one of the Rosenstein’s heirloom candlesticks up his ass base first. As the sun came up, his band dragged him to the van and promptly drove 500 miles to Boise where they played four songs in a half-full warehouse before being shut down by the cops.

Zach is in college now, but were it not for the three framed photos of that night hanging in the temple’s hallowed halls, Zach Rosenstein’s punk rock bar mitzvah might have been forgotten forever.

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