Witz полностью

On the Sixth Day, invite your mother-inlaw over for Shabbos just so that there’re no hard feelings and, never forget, on the Seventh Day, rest — I’m sure you know how to do that, Mister Jacobson; you seem quite capable in that department…hahaha, but seriously.

On Days One through Seven, you, Mister Jacobson, by first identifying your four beasts, ranking them, then dealing with them manageably, one at a time, will be able to get control of your life — and if He can do it, chaverim, then you’d be pitiful not to! Raving applause, Ben palms His forehead with a complimentary towel unrolled from a tabled hot stack. And now, the mensch won’t get held up in inspiration when time, which is five days older than mensch, means money and so much of it, which is far younger and more attractive, more useful, accommodating, understanding and pliant, we’ll break to take questions and refreshment, he says, the carted coffee and coffeecake rolling in to the rear, but make sure to be back in time for Session Two: The Book of Job: How to Be a Friend in the Midst of a Whirlwind, for which I hope you’ve all paid in full. Save your seats. Only six more weeks to go…and thank you, Mister Jacobson, for allowing us to make an example of you. You’ve been good people; have a slice, a sip, take a bow.

In the multipurpose, eminently convertible room opposite, opening up at the western end of the lobby of the Grand, this Ben, often billed as the Fantabulous Neb Disraelien, affectionately known as the Nebbish of Northern Illinois, in high demand at yeshivas, kollels, rabbinic courts, and community fundraisers, lifecycle rituals large, small, formal, semi, hemi, and demi, as Host, M.C., he’ll do your dishes, your windows, or just spend quality time as a reassuring presence, work whatever room you want him to work (Madison Square Garden, hotel, showroom kitchen or broomcloset) as a straightmensch, a narrowmensch, an eyeoftheneedle mensch, even as his own “beautiful assistant,” takes all comers and kinds shaved, waxed, and inordinately plumed, makes appearances at among others the first hopefully annual meeting of the Schnorrer’s Lodge, arriving in from the hallway’s wings on a unicycle and juggling babies and utilitybills mind the vomit and papercuts, then humming while pretending to play on a homemade varnishspattered prop of a Stradivarius violin: discontinuous excerpts from the classical repertoire, two bars each all he knows, interspersed with hot klezmer variants and sung parodies of zmirot, liturgical gems including but not limited to a flatulence/syncopation version of a popular Shabbos niggun, and a strained Arabian arrangement of the Kaddish entitled Muezzin on Up; and maybe just maybe if you asked nicely or took to justify to him a special occasion, a favor or bris milah belated, when he had to stretch or just the gelt did, he’d close with a set of magic, always the same tricks: doing two things at once, doing three things at once, which multitasking is perfected in his signature disappearing act, being in two places at the same time. Old hat, you might say, but the new one’s in the mail, he assures, being blocked. That’s how he makes rent and meets obligations, him and the other impersonators though maybe not all of equal skill; they make do how they make out: some doing alright, fulltimers with talent and good representation even impressively, you’d be jealous, while others limit their incarnations to secondlives, moonlit impersonation, Shabbos night pillowstuffing, deluding themselves backstage, on breaks in whispers to their agents their stagey, smothering mothers: it’s a hobby, it’s only a hobby, don’t take it so seriously, you know, the amatory amateur, I do it for the love…or else, making progress, I’m almost there, the big’s about to break just around the corner — and all of them, despite the dilettantish dereistic, and regardless of income, reported or not, and whether or not their involvement extended or ever will into an investment in a multitude of surgical options, whether loved, respected if not acclaimed, or just pitied or reviled for the fallen stars in their eyes, all are false, counterfeit Bens numbering in the hundreds of thousands (that is, if the original’s even real), each with alimony to think of, and court costs, the price of getting another Get, and, always, there’s the mortgage to make, mouths to feed, life.