If you are anything at all like us, you savor those blessed four times during the year when The American Historical Review hits the newsstands. Nothing makes our hearts skip a beat quite like the arrival of the good oleÂ’ AHR. (Well, to be honest, a steady diet of circus peanuts might do it, but that is neither here nor there.)

We would be remiss if we did not mention that the delicious articles in the rag aren’t the immediate focus of our attentions. Obviously, we look forward to diving in to such landmark works of scholarship as Alon Rachamimov’s “The Disruptive Comforts of Drag: (Trans)Gender Performances among Prisoners of War in Russia, 1914-1920.” That ought to be a page-turner.

But it’s the storied “Communications” section of the AHR that really draws us in. For those (few) among us who don’t regularly peruse the magazine, allow us to inform you that this section allows various academics to lash out at one another, usually as a result of withering book reviews in previous numbers. As you might imagine, it’s a veritable cornucopia of fun.

Take, for example, Professor Y. Michal BodemannÂ’s letter in the April 2006 issue of AHR. It pertains to Professor Lynn RapaportÂ’s nasty review of his work, A Jewish Family in Germany Today: An Intimate Portrait, copies of which, we presume, are flying off the bookshelves.

Most of Mr. BodemannÂ’s letter deals with substantive issues, which are naturally of no concern to us. But the end of the missive makes it all worthwhile:

I should like to stress that I welcome critical reviews of my work. Indeed, some years back, I reviewed Professor RapaportÂ’s own book on German Jewry quite critically. But I believe I did provide solid evidence to back up my critique.

Slam! Take that, Ms. Rapaport! We donÂ’t know about you, dear reader, but we found this simply delightful.

Note the use of “indeed.” It makes it seem as if Mr. Bodemann’s second sentence has a logical connection with the one that precedes it. “I love criticisms of my work; indeed, I criticized your work.”

Might we be bold enough to suggest that Mr. Bodemann offered this sentence in order to take an un-subtle dig at Ms. Rapaport, and to suggest that she had a sordid motive in panning Mr. BodemannÂ’s tome? We may have gone out on a limb with that assertion; but perhaps not.

If you think thatÂ’s good stuff, just get a load of Ms. RapaportÂ’s reply. Again, we havenÂ’t the slightest interest in the substance of her response; we merely love the polemic. And here it is:

Finally, Bodemann gratuitously brings up his long-forgotten review of my own work, Jews in Germany after the Holocaust: Memory, Identity, and Jewish-German Relations (Cambridge University Press, 1997). He should be informed that my book won the 1998 Best Book Award in the Sociology of Religion from the American Sociological Association.

Take that, smarty-pants! How do you like ‘dem apples?

To be honest, we have the sneaking suspicion that Ms. Rapaport actually remembers Mr. Bodemann’s “long-forgotten review” of her book. Perhaps his mention of it caused Ms. Rapaport to engage in a little self-puffery?

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Well, dear reader, as hard as it may be to imagine, weÂ’re in a terrible mood today. But, we must add, thereÂ’s a darn good reason. Just this morning, we took our fleet of gray Honda Civics to the local petroleum dispenser to fill them full of what we call gasoline, and what Kitty Dukakis calls brunch.

Perhaps we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are the only ones who’ve noticed this, but it’s true nevertheless: Gasoline prices are outrageous these days. In fact, they’re so awful that, when we were filling up our cars, we had the peculiar feeling that we were in some God-forsaken country with horrid petrol prices. Like France.

A quick perusal around Al GoreÂ’s World-Wide Web has informed us that Americans of different political persuasions cite different causes for the obscene cost of gas. Our liberal friends blame President Bush and his dubious relations with various oil barons and Saudi sheiks. Our conservative friends blame the US government, which apparently adds a hefty tax to our gas bill, driving up the price.

It seems as if we have to choose whoÂ’s the cause of this mess. Is it the likes of Halliburton? Or is it the fault of the likes of the Democrats in Congress, who probably use our beloved gasoline tax to buy heroin for illegal immigrants?

We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” don’t want to burst anyone’s bubble (except, of course, for John Travolta’s), but we simply don’t feel like taking sides on this one. After all, why must we choose between odious Saudi sheiks and tax-loving mis-managers as the objects of our contumely? We can’t think of a reason either.

In fact, we hereby declare that we loathe everything about this mess. And we blame absolutely all parties involved: OPEC; Pat Riley (who uses all that oil in his hair); Ryan Seacrest (isnÂ’t Vaseline made from petroleum?); &c.

But letÂ’s not allow our newfound disgust at this situation keep us from expanding our umbrella of hate, if you will. ThereÂ’s no reason to stop here. We think gas stations in general need a good drubbing.

We mean, come on: Their attached convenience stores are normally an even bigger rip-off than the gasoline. And why the heck do the owners of these things think that Slim-JimÂ’s make suitable decorations for them? DoesnÂ’t anyone else realize that they taste disgusting?

DonÂ’t get us started about the magazines in gas station convenience stores. The periodicals rack at such establishments are for the type of people who think People is just a tad highbrow.

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