In the old days we could use good material. We could be funny then. (I mean really funny. Not what you call funny.) Now everything's so uptight that even the Jews can't take a joke. Everyone's afraid. God forbid they should laugh at themselves.
So we give the shleppers what they want.
Like Polish and frog jokes. (Yes, the Poles are the true heroes of America. They can take a joke and prosper.)
But you always want one more Polish joke, right?
Okay, shtumie. Everybody knows that European and South American banks have taken over the country. You see them everywhere, right? But have you ever been to a Polish bank? They have a new policy: You give them a toaster and they refund you three hundred dollars.
Ha-ha.
That's what you pay for. You deserve it.
The frog joke. The oldest one still gets a laugh. Can you believe that? Oy, someone doesn't know the frog joke. What's green and red and goes sixty miles an hour?
Go figure it out.
Okay, now I'll tell you about Shearjashub Mills. He's the one who got me into all the fairy trouble in the first place.
Nobody knows what Shearjashub means, or how he got the name because he's not telling. He likes to be called Hub, and he's as Jewish as bacon--pure Wasp, yet he smells from herring and speaks a passable Yiddish, which is mostly a shtik.
He was born on a shtetl in Galicia; that's how come the Yiddish.* Hub is not quite six feet tall (but he lies about his height and his age), has gray frizzy hair, a pot belly, and a beautiful girl always on his arm. How he does that is beyond me. He says it's the meat and the motion. It certainly couldn't be the money.
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