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Dave’s Gone By Skit: RABBI SOL SOLOMON’S RABBINICAL REFLECTION #182 (3/23/2024): Jokes for Purim 2024

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RABBI SOL SOLOMON’S RABBINICAL REFLECTION #182 (3/23/2024): Jokes for Purim 2024

airs March 23, 2024 on Dave’s Gone By. Youtube clip: https://youtu.be/A3rIw1W5OFs

Shalom Dammit! This is Rabbi Sol Solomon with a Rabbinical Reflection for the joyous holiday of Purim.

Purim is one of those times when the Jews faced brutal annihilation and yet were somehow spared and got revenge — kinda like… last year. When reading the Purim story, the megillah, we use noisemakers to drown out the name of our bitterest antagonist, Haman, which is Persian for “Sarandon.” We also dress in costumes so the IRS won’t recognize us, and we’re supposed to get so drunk we’re unable to distinguish our friends from our enemies. In that way we’re like left-wing Democrats.

My manner of celebrating the Purim simcha is to laugh. Ha ha ha. But so I don’t seem psychotic, I attach my laughter to jokes. Freud said that comedy is an expression of the subconscious battling to be heard in a society that drowns out anything non-conformist. (I think that’s what he said; I don’t speak German.) So let’s examine the psyche of a couple of classic Jewish jokes:

Yankel has found this girl on J-Date, and he’s meeting in person for the first time. They’ve got an 8 o’clock reservation to meet at the swankiest Kosher restaurant in town, but it’s 7:50, and Yankel is circling the block unable to find a parking space. He drives around again and still no spot. Finally, he prays to God, he says, “God, this girl might be my bashert. Please let me find parking.”

But nothing opens up, and Yankel keeps driving. It’s now 7:55, and Yankel’s beside himself. “God,” he says, “If you find me a parking spot, I’ll never miss Friday services again.”

Still, no spaces, and he circles `round the block. Now it’s 7:59, and he’s frantic. He calls out to HaShem, “God, I swear, if you find me a spot, I’ll donate $500 to the United Jewish Appeal.” Suddenly, right in front of the restaurant, a car pulls out leaving a space. Yankel says, “Never mind, God. I found one.”

What does this joke tell us about taking the Lord’s name in vain? That we do it. That under duress, we are apt to say anything, make any promise. it’s what every person does going into surgery hoping they’ll come out of surgery. It’s every horny putz who tells a girl he’ll still respect her in the morning, and it’s every girl who believes him. It’s anyone who eats half a pizza pie and says, “Oy God, I’m never eating again.” Two hours later: “What, there’s one slice left over? Lemme just finish it.”

Humans show an uncanny talent for pivoting from need to satiation and right back to need. The little stops they make along the way to fulfill those needs — well, they’re often forgotten the way a pregnant woman can’t recall the pain of labor. After all, if mama did, she’d shoot the father, punch her OB, and strangle the infant with its umbilical cord. Instead, she’s moved forward, hugging the father, cradling her newborn, and wondering when her vagina will stop looking like the mouth of a camel.

Anyway, let’s have another joke—this one highly appropriate for our fraught and frightful times. When God was creating the world, he called his builders—the angels—together and told them His plan for a Jewish homeland called Israel. “It will be a magical place,” God said, “beautiful, with hills, gardens, and so many natural wonders. And the Jews will be smart and resourceful. They’ll build great cities and farms, make fantastic art, excel in science and engineering. Truly, Israel will be a beacon to all nations.”

“Sounds amazing, God,” said the angels. “But won’t the rest of the world see all this perfect stuff and be jealous of the Jews?”

“Nope,” the Lord replied. “Wait till they see who they have as neighbors.”

Of course, this joke has an especially jagged edge these days—even though, technically, Israel was attacked not by neighbors but by its own squatters: Muslims we were nice enough to give land to—inside the Jewish state—rather than forcing them to move to Africa or Arabia or, God forbid, Amityville. And the upshot is that for 75 years, while trying just to survive in our minuscule homeland, we have been confronted with non-stop terrorism and war. And now, the Arabs’ misinformation campaign has been swallowed up by the kinds of teary-eyed liberals who think shoplifting is the store’s fault, turnstile jumping is a human right, and blocking traffic is an act of courage rather than anarchy.

But I’m sorry — it’s Purim. I meant to keep things light. So here’s one more joke: It’s late night and a policeman sees a car speeding down the highway. He pulls the car over and is surprised to see the driver: a rumpled, middle-aged Jewish man.

The officer runs his information and says, “Mr. Schwartz, we both know you were speeding. But it’s 2AM. Where were you racing?”

“To a lecture,” says the driver.

“A lecture?,” says the cop. “Who gives a lecture at this hour?”

“My wife.”

This isn’t technically a Jewish joke; it could work for anybody. But the joke tastes Jewish because it teaches us that you always answer for your deeds. If it isn’t to a policeman’s blotter or a judge, it’s to your spouse, or your boss, or your children, or maybe just that reflection in the mirror. So whenever possible, we try to be our better selves. Rather than dread the consequences of our actions, we want to anticipate the delight our efforts will bring to others. Needless to say, this is an ideal, and as flawed human beings we’re more likely to do the right thing for the wrong reason, or the wrong thing for any reasons, than be perfect people. But on Purim, when right and wrong are intentionally confuzzled, we can simply enjoy the mishegoss inherent in being human and Jewish.

This has been a Rabbinical Reflection from Rabbi Sol Solomon, Temple Sons of Bitches in Great Neck, New York. (spins grogger) Roger Waters. Jonathan Glazer. Susan Fucking Sarandon!

—> https://tinyurl.com/ne26enfs

Dave’s Gone By Skit: RABBI SOL SOLOMON’S RABBINICAL REFLECTION #181 (1/13/2024): New Jokes

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RABBI SOL SOLOMON’S RABBINICAL REFLECTION #180 (1/11/2024): New Jokes

airs Jan. 13, 2024 on Dave’s Gone By. Youtube clip: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mk70q6FrnN8

Shalom Dammit! This is Rabbi Sol Solomon with a Rabbinical Reflection to start the new year. A week or so after the new year.

What better way to get 2024 rolling than to have you, my beloved acolytes, rolling in the aisles with hilarious punch lines? I will share with you some Jewish jokes — brand new! written by yours truly! Or, if you hate them, written by Jo Koy.

Please note that if you are politically correct or take offense easily, these jokes are not for you. Then again, what jokes are?

Joke number one: Two Arabs are shopping for prayer rugs at a giant bazaar in Jerusalem. A little Jewish shop owner comes out and says, “Please! We have the best rugs! You must see!”

The Arabs are skeptical — what does this Jewish merchant know about prayer mats? — but they say, “Sure. What’ve you got?”

The salesman rolls out two small rugs and says, “My brother and I, we don’t sell any old schmattes like the others places. These are magical flying carpets.”

“Oh, come on,” the Arabs say.

“No, please! These were woven by the purest virgins and blessed by the highest Imams in all of Turkey and Iran. Sit!”

So the first Arab kneels on the carpet and waits. And waits. He says, “It’s nice, but it’s not flying.”

“Oh,” says the Jew. “That’s because you haven’t said the secret words. You have to think really hard of a phrase that has meaning to you. Whisper those words into the carpet. Then, when you’re ready, shout the phrase as loud as you can, and you will take flight!”

The Arab rolls his eyes. But then he shrugs, thinks a moment, leans forward, and whispers into the fringes of the rug.

“Get in position!,” calls the merchant. “And scream it out!”

The Arab takes hold and yells, “Free Palestine!” Suddenly, a big wind starts up, and the carpet rises off the ground, two feet, three feet, ten feet in the air. “This is incredible!” says the Arab. “Ahmed, you have to try it!”

His friend gets on the other carpet, whispers to it, then sits up and yells, “Death to Israel!” Another wind gust comes, and his carpet goes five feet, ten feet, fifteen feet high.

“How do I go up like him?” says the first Arab.

“You can both go much higher,” calls the Israeli. “You just have to close your eyes, concentrate, and keep shouting your secret words over and over.”

“Race you to the sky!” says Ahmed, as both Arabs close their eyes, think real hard, and start screaming, “Free Palestine!” “Death to Israel!” “Free Palestine!” “Death to Israel!” Both carpets go higher and higher: 30 feet, 50 feet, 70 feet off the ground.

The shop owner’s brother comes out from behind the counter and says, “Shmuley, should I do it now?”

“Nah,” says Shmuley. “Wait till they’re 100 feet up. Then turn off the blowers.”

Now, what do we learn from this joke? Well, first of all, if a person wants to believe something strongly enough, he or she or they will put aside rational judgment and go with it. This not only explains religion, and how we all worship to fairy stories written thousands of years ago, but it’s the reason we leave the house without an umbrella, even after the weatherman’s warned us: 60 percent chance of rain. We think: “It’s not gonna rain the ten minutes I’m outside.” It will, it does, you’re soaked.

Next joke: an Englishman, a Frenchman, and a Palestinian all die and find themselves at the gates of hell. The Englishman peeks in for a moment and says, “Well, it seems rather unpleasant, but so long as I can have my afternoon tea and spend the evening watching telly, I should get by all right.”

The Frenchman opens the gate of hell, wanders around a bit, then storms back, saying, “Mon dieu! Zis is an outrage! Ze heat, ze hard work! Soon as I can, I am starting ze labor union and everyone goes on strike!”

Finally, it’s the Palestinian’s turn. He takes a deep breath, throws open the gates, stomps in, and marches straight up to the devil. Then he says, “Honey, I’m home!”

This joke does not play well on college campuses, but then again, I do not play well on college campuses. They see me as a brutal colonizer, which is unfair. I’ve had many brutal colonics, but that’s not what they mean.

Anyway, these are difficult and ridiculous times for Jews everywhere. Our enemies surround us, sometimes they are us, and many are so naive they think they’re helping us by helping our enemies. As I said: ridiculous times. The best way to muddle through is to laugh — sometimes through gritted teeth.

Hey, how many Hamas militants can you stuff into an open grave?

I don’t know, but I sure hope we find out.

This has been a Rabbinical Reflection from Rabbi Sol Solomon, Temple Sons of Bitches in Great Neck, New York.

–> https://davesgoneby.net/daves-gone-by-skit-rabbi-sol-solomons-rabbinical-reflection-181-1-13-2024-new-jokes-lefkowitz/

Dave’s Gone By Skit: Rabbi Sol Solomon’s Rabbinical Reflection #167 (2/26/2021): PURIM JOKES 2021

RABBI SOL SOLOMON’S RABBINICAL REFLECTION #167 (2/26/21): Purim Jokes 2021

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(Rabbi Sol’s Rabbinical Reflections appear on the long-running radio show/podcast, Dave’s Gone By. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aAnTjN0qWOE&t=3s)

Shalom, Dammit! This is Rabbi Sol Solomon with a Rabbinical Reflection for February 26th — Purim 2021!

As I often do on Purim, one of the rare jolly holidays on the Jewish calendar, I’m going to forego my usual bitching and kvetching and, instead, tell a couple of hilarious jokes that you damn well better laugh at.

We begin on Delancey Street, where a guy walks into a deli and asks the old man at the counter, “Do you sell pickles?”

“Funny you should ask,” says the counterman. “I have sour pickles, half-sour, butter pickles, thin slice, jagged slice, pickles in brine, extra large, extra small, extra dill. And these are just the domestic.”

“Wow,” says the customer. “You must sell a lot of pickles.”

“Not really,” sighs the counterman. “But the guy I buy from? Boy can he sell pickles!”

What can we learn from this joke? We learn that sometimes it’s not what you’re selling but how you’re selling it. Nancy Reagan could tell teenagers, “don’t do drugs”; she might as well have told them “do drugs!” for all the good it did. But if Beyonce or Lady Gaga say it their way, the message might stick. Or if you’re trying to teach Talmud, or derech eretz to your children, and it’s not getting through, don’t give up; adjust. I suggest smacking them around and making them recite the sh’ma standing barefoot on ice cubes, but that’s just me.

On to the next joke. Many years ago, a great Rabbi and his favorite student were traveling together through Poland to get to Warsaw. One evening, after a long trek, they decide to stop and pitch their tent in an open field. After prayers and some talmudic discourse, they both retire for the night.

A couple of hours later, the Rabbi wakes up, nudges the student, and says, “Chaim. Chaim. Look up at the sky and tell me what you see.”

Chaim yawns and says, “I see a black sky with many millions of stars.”

“Yes, and what may we deduce from this?”

“Well, Rabbi, astronomically, the view conveys the vastness of the universe. Scientifically, we can tell from the sky’s color that it’s three o’clock in the morning. And theologically, we see the power and majesty of God and our own insignificance by comparison. What does it tell you, Rabbi?”

“Well, first of all, Chaim, it tells me someone has stolen our tent.”

What a delightful joke! Not least because, admit it, you were expecting something disgusting between the Rabbi and the kid sharing a tent. Shame on you! If it was a priest, okay, but not a Rabbi! Still, this is a gentle joke that balances mankind’s longing for the sacred and splendiferous with his earthbound ties to the earth and its more mundane attributes. It also makes fun of Polacks.

And it reminds us not to miss the forest for the trees—or the tent for the stars. We get bogged down in the mechanics of life and get ground up in the gears of detail. Sometimes it behooves us to stop, take stock of our surroundings, and maybe put an alarm system around our tents.

Our final bit of humorosity, also goes back in time—this one to Soviet Russia in the 1970s. A Red Army officer is visiting a school and questioning all the students in the classroom. He goes to a Russian girl and says, “Who is your father?”

“The Soviet Union,” she replies.

“And who is your mother?”

“The Communist party,” she says.

“And what do you want to be when you grow up?”

“I want to work with my comrades for the state.”

The officer goes to a little Russian boy sitting behind her.

“Who is your father?”

“The Soviet Union,” says the boy.

“Who is your mother?”

“The Communist party.”

“And when you grow up, you want to be . . . ?”

“A worker for the glorious party.”

The officer smiles and moves on to a scrawny child in the back of the room.

“What’s your name?”

“Mordecai Groizman.”

“Ah,” sneers the Officer. “Who is your father?”

“The Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.”

“Mm hmm. And who is your mother?”

“The Communist Party of the Russian Federation.”

“Very nice. And do you know what you want to be when you grow up?”

“Oh yes,” says the boy. “An orphan.”

Ah, the beauty of mordant Jewish wit. Even at the expense of angering an enemy who could send his parents to Siberia, the child tells the truth and embeds a curse inside it. You can always hope your adversary is too stupid to get that the jokes on him. But, let’s face it, it’s a little stupid of you to take that chance. At a time when we scrutinize—and sometimes over-scrutinize—things goyim say about the Jews, it’s nice to have a joke where the Yidl lobs a grenade the other way.

And isn’t that what happened on Purim? Haman planned to kill all the Jews, but Queen Esther convinced the Persian king that was a bad idea. Not only was Haman hung from the noose he’d built to murder Esther’s cousin, but Haman’s ten sons were killed in battle by Jewish commandos. The only thing left of Haman was his three-cornered hat and his name, which we drown out with noise in the synagogue. Very often Jews taste the first misery but get the last laugh.

Happy Purim! This has been a Rabbinical Reflection from Rabbi Sol Solomon, Temple Sons of Bitches in Great Neck, New York.

Dave’s Gone By Skit: Rabbi Sol Solomon’s Rabbinical Reflection #156 (8/11/2018): JOKE TIME

RABBI SOL SOLOMON’S RABBINICAL REFLECTION #158 (8/11/18): Joke Time

(aired Aug. 11, 2018 on Dave’s Gone By. Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fAW_GRHETiI)

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Shalom, Dammit! This is Rabbi Sol Solomon with a Rabbinical Reflection for the week of Aug. 11, 2018.

Well, my friends, I hope you’ve been having a terrific summertime. I haven’t. I’ve been in pain, I’m getting angry letters from my accountant, and my local deli raised prices on everything but the free mustard, so I am seething, my friends. But what better way to get me out of my funk, out of my relentlessly pissed-off state than with jokes? I love sharing jokes with a Jewish flavor and then offering a bit of interpretation, some talmudic reconnaissance, if you will, to put the comedy in a Kosher context.

Full disclosure: This joke comes from the comedian Jackie “The Jokeman” Martling, who is not Jewish but might be circumcised. It’s about a guy who has suffered for years with terrible headaches. He’s been to doctors, neurologists, acupuncture, meditation—nothing helps. Finally, he visits a specialist who checks his eyes, checks his pulse, listens to his heart, and tells him, “Okay, I’ve got good news, and I’ve got bad news. The good news is: you can cure your headaches completely once and for all.”

“That’s amazing!” the guy says. “What do I do?”

“The bad news,” the specialist says, “is that you must have your testicles removed.”

“What?” screams the man. “Castration?”

“I’m sorry,” says the doctor. “That’s the only way. Chop off the testicles, and you’ll be fine.”

Distraught, the man goes home to think it over. But he can’t think because his headaches are so bad. Finally, he says, “I can’t take this anymore. I’ll do it.”

So he goes for the surgery: cuts his nuts off. After a couple of days recovering, he’s walking around the house cleaning, dusting…and he realizes, “Oh my God! I’m not in pain. My headache is gone! I feel great!” He starts dancing, singing—he’s so happy, he doesn’t know what to do with himself. That’s when he thinks, “You know, I feel like a new man, so I’m gonna change my life. And the first step is getting myself a new suit of clothes. I feel like a million bucks; now I wanna dress like it.”

So the guy does some research and learns that the best tailor in New York is, of course, in the garment district. He makes an appointment saying money’s no object, shows up at the cramped little shop on 38th Street, and asks for the famous Chaim Shmulovitz.

After a couple of minutes, a wizened old Jewish man shuffles out of the back room. He says nothing as he stares at the visitor, taking him in from head to toe. “Okay,” says Chaim. “You need a Borsalino hat, short-brim, size 7 1/4. Then we’ll get you a double-breasted, executive-cut suit, two buttons, size 40 regular. The pants also 40 with a 28 inseam. Silk tie with patterning. Shoes you’re an 8 1/2, wide-width, Oxford. Oh, and can’t leave out the underwear: you take a Hanes medium V-neck and size 38 briefs. Come back in a week, and you’re all set.”

“Wow,” says the guy. “I heard you were good, but that’s amazing! Just by looking at me, you got my whole style to a T, including the sizes.”

“Of course I did,” says Chaim. “I’m not in the business 60 years without being the best.”

“However,” says the guy, “you did make one mistake. For the underpants, I take a 34 brief, not a 38.”

“Mister, don’t tell me my job. You take a medium undershirt and size 38 on the briefs, and that’s that.”

“Excuse me,” says the man. “You may know your job, but I know myself, and I’ve been shopping for my own clothes all my life. I take a 34 or I take my business elsewhere.”

“Okay, okay,” says Chaim. “The customer is always right—even when he’s wrong. You want a 34? 34 it is. But I warn you: if you wear size 34 briefs, your left testicle is gonna slide out the side and hang down, the right testicle is gonna spill out and mash against your thigh, the middle will pull up in between. You will get the most terrible headaches.”

Now what do we learn from this joke? First of all, if you do business with an old Jewish man who has six decades experience, you probably want to listen to him—just as when we consider laws in the bible. HaShem invented these rules for living 2000 years ago, so even if we think we know better, we probably don’t know better. So if you’ve been coveting thy neighbor’s ox, even today, you’re better off disregarding your neighbor and buying your own ox. And getting therapy.

We also learn from this joke that sometimes the solution to a problem is easier than you think—you just haven’t thinked it yet. God knows how many different chemical compounds Alexander Flemming was futzing around with before he came back from a vacation, saw mold growing in a petri dish, and bing-bang-boom! goodbye syphilis. So whenever you think you have a solution for a crisis, take one more moment to make sure you’re not cutting off your beitzim to spite your punim.

On to the next joke:

Irving, my second cousin, is a very troubled man. Every night, he gets drunk on Manischewitz, and then his wife starts yelling at him, “Oh, you’re killing yourself with that alcohol. You keep drinking that much, you’re gonna die.”

Finally, last week Irving wakes up after passing out the night before, looks across the room, and starts to laugh. “Serves you right, Marjorie,” he yells. “You’re so worried about me killing myself with booze, but you’re the one lying dead with your head bashed in.”

What do we learn from that joke? Nothing, we learn absolutely nothing from that horrible joke. Let us just move on.

Although he denies it, my uncle Benny has been having hearing problems. He and my aunt Sophie argue about it all the time. Finally, she demands he visit an audiologist. Benny tells the guy, “I’m fine. There’s no problem. I’m only here because my wife says she has seen some changes.”

“Oh?” says doctor. “Can you describe the symptoms?”

“Of course I can,” my uncle says. “There’s Homer, who’s bald and yellow. His wife Marge who has big blue hair…”

Ah, the vanity of older men. We don’t want to admit that once we’re 50, everything goes downhill faster than a Raisinet falling out of the box and rolling under your couch. For many of us, admitting to a physical or mental weakness is tantamount to giving up. Today we spot one gray hair in the beard, tomorrow we’re in a nursing home. But as we live longer and longer in the world, we have to get used to diminished capacity and asking for help when we need it. If you can’t walk across the room without a cane, you don’t vist avek forever in a chair; you grab a cane and walk. If you have diabetes, you poke your thumb every morning and get on with your day. If it’s your anniversary and your wife wants a little fun, you take a blue pill, you wait an hour, and then you give her the best two-and-a-half minutes of her life. In all cases, you acknowledge the obstacle and then work your way around it. Just remember: whether it’s diabetes, hearing, or headaches, change your underwear first. You never know.

This has been a Rabbinical Reflection from Rabbi Sol Solomon, Temple Sons of Bitches in Great Neck, New York.