Witz полностью

It’s My Birthday, is what I chalk on my board then hand it to her and refusing, again she spits on my shoes, by what calendar, she wants to know, then wipes her mouth with my mother’s low hem…you believe the nerve of such people, this chutzpah I can’t quite pronounce? me standing alone and unwanted for life in this street newly named amid bags and crates of grandopening trash, bannered and bunted homilies of yesterday’s business become scraps to be thrown to the, not even the dogs anymore but their old owners, the people…Amsterdam’s strays ranging west from the Park and nearing, coming closer with prey’s every scent that makes it in on the wind, their ravenous howls only an appeasement of memory, hollow prayers, appetite’s psalms. As the mob passes Him by up Broadway, other young menschs flood in on Him with consummating fires burning in their eyes, new baums and bergs, fresh steins and sterns, not intent on a ravage of a physical nature but on a savagery subtler, namely conversion, which is worse as it’s mental and emotional and physical, too, generational, perpetrated not only on you but on your kinder to come, each to hand Him bound sheaves of mimeographed brochures, and more leaflets, fliers, pamphlets, Redemption for Dummies one’s called, Abridged Kashrut another, a sheet outlining the laws pertaining to pamphletmaking, to flieruse and marital duties, what so and so has had to say about ziz or zat regarding and what, I’m supposed to do what with them, besides take them cordially, accept their enthusiasm, fervor it’s wasteful, then stuff their words into my shoes to speak their succor to the hurt of my feet, suck a wart. They leave Him with handshakes and a complimentary yarmulke emblazoned with the info for a shtiblach He’s apparently promised to attend if not this Shabbos then the next (and, they’re almost forgetting themselves, have you lain yet today, tallis, tefillin), also with late warnings against a mob reportedly in the area, and after any Unaffiliated — grumbling, unhappy with any unapproved incursions into their territory the upper west-most, it’s all ours down to Riverside Drive. We’re peaceful around here, we don’t take kindly to how they do it Downtown.

B follows them out, dispersing north then east toward the University’s gates on a mission on paper for their next personed, impressionable save. As for Broadway again, it’s denatured, silently without search, disappeared. All too easy and suspect; He’s expecting an ambush, an Amalek lying in wait, what schlock tactics even a kock could imagine. And so He makes to bringup the rear of their converting pogrom, more evangelically pleasant, less baseballbats and kitchendrawers’ knives: B crossing cautiously to stand in street’s middle, atop the trafficisland by the old IRT subway entrance turned almshouse seething with those without house or home, but with God — mouth agape, receiving the snow on His stump as if manna.