A man stumbles up to the only other person at a kiddush in shul and asks if he could offer him a drink.
"Why of course," was the reply.

The first man then asks: "Where are you from?"
"I'm from Williamsburg," replies the second man.
The first man responds: "You don't say, I'm from Williamsburg too! Let's have another round to Williamsburg."
... "Of Course," replies the second man.

Curious, the first man then asks: "Where in Williamsburg are you from?"
"Clymer Street," was the reply.
"I can't believe it," says the first man.
"I'm from Clymer Street too! Let's have another drink to Clymer Street."
"Of course," replies the second man.

Curiosity again strikes and the first man asks:
"What school did you go to?"
"UTA," replies the second man.
"I graduated in 'Mem Zoyen."
"This is unbelievable!" the first man says.
"I went to UTA and I graduated in 'Mem Zoyen, too!"

About that time in comes one another kiddush goer and sits down near the Rabbi at the other table.
"What's been going on?" he asks the Rabbi.

"Nothing much," replies the Rabbi. "The Schwartz twins are drunk again."

Twas the night after Seder, and all through the house;

Nothing would fit me, the same with my spouse.

The matzah, the farfel, the charoset, I embraced;

After both Seders, they had settled at my waist.

When I got on the scales there arose such a number;

When I tried to walk, I only lumbered.

I remember the marvelous meals we prepared;

The turkey, the brisket, the tsimmes we shared.

The matzo balls, the soup, the kugels, if you please;

For on these Seder nights there will be no Chinese.

As I tied myself into my apron again;

I spied my reflection and disgustedly then,

I said to myself, "you're such a weak wimp",

"You can't walk around resembling a blimp!"

So--away with the last of the meatballs so sweet;

Get rid of the turkey, chopped liver and meat.

Every last food that I like must be banished;

Till all the additional ounces have vanished.

I won't have any more macaroons from the box;

I can't wait till next week, (Ah, bagels and lox.)

I won't have any luxion, farfel or marrow bones to gnaw;

I'll munch on carrots and celery or wire shut my own jaw.

If I have to peel, slice, dice, mash, or cook one more chicken,

I think that I will start a riot;

So a zissen pesach to you all . . . and to all a good diet!

AH, THE GOOD OLD DAYS!

If you get this and you are not Jewish, I cannot even begin to explain it to you.

This actually goes back 2 generations, 3 if you are over 50. It also explains why many Jewish men died in their early 60's with a non-functional cardiovascular system and looked like today's men at 89.

Before we start, there are some variations in ingredients because of the various types of Jewish taste (Polack, Litvack and Gallicianer).

Just as we Jews have six seasons of the year (winter, spring, summer, fall, the slack season, and the busy season), we all focus on a main ingredient which, unfortunately and undeservedly, has disappeared from our diet. I'm talking, of course, about SCHMALTZ (chicken fat). SCHMALTZ has, for centuries, been the prime ingredient in almost every Jewish dish, and I feel it's time to revive it to its rightful place in our homes. (I have plans to distribute it in a green glass Gucci bottle with a label clearly saying: "low fat, no cholesterol, Newman's Choice, extra virgin SCHMALTZ." (It can't miss!) Then there are grebenes - pieces of chicken skin, deep fried in SCHMALTZ, onions and salt until crispy brown (Jewish bacon). This makes a great appetizer for the next cardiologist's convention.

There's also a nice chicken fricassee (stew) using the heart, gorgle (neck), pipick (a great delicacy, given to the favorite child, usually me), a fleegle (wing) or two, some ayelech (little premature eggs) and other various chicken innards, in a broth of SCHMALTZ, water, paprika, etc. We also have knishes (filled dough) and the eternal question, "Will that be liver, beef or potatoes, or all three?"

Other time-tested favorites are kishkeh, and its poor cousin, helzel (chicken or goose neck). Kishkeh is the gut of the cow, bought by the foot at the Kosher butcher. It is turned inside out, scalded and scraped. One end is sewn up and a mixture of flour, SCHMALTZ, onions, eggs, salt, pepper, etc., is spooned into the open end and squished down until it is full. The other end is sewn and the whole thing is boiled. Yummy!

My personal all-time favorite is watching my Zaida (grandpa) munch on boiled chicken feet.

For our next course we always had chicken soup with pieces of yellow-white, rubbery chicken skin floating in a greasy sea of lokshen (noodles), farfel (broken bits of matzah), tzibbeles (onions), mondlech (soup nuts), kneidlach (dumplings), kasha (groats), kliskelech and marech (marrow bones)

The main course, as I recall, was either boiled chicken, flanken, kackletten, hockfleish (chopped meat), and sometimes rib steaks, which were served either well done, burned or cremated. Occasionally we had barbecued liver done to a burned and hardened perfection in our own coal furnace.

Since we couldn't have milk with our meat meals, beverages consisted of cheap soda (Kik, Dominion Dry, seltzer in the spritz bottles).

The El Al plane landed at Ben Gurion Airport, and as it taxied to the terminal, the voice of the captain was heard:

"Please remain seated with your seatbelts fastened until this plane has come to a complete stop at the gate, and the seatbelt signs have been turned off.
We also remind you that cell phones may not be used until the exit doors have been opened.

"To those of you still seated, we wish you a Merry Christmas, and hope you enjoy your visit to Israel."

"To those of you standing in the aisles talking on your cell phones, Happy Hanukkah and welcome back home."

"I would like a Jewish bra for my wife, size 34C.

With a quizzical look the saleslady asked, "What kind of bra?"

He repeated, "A Jewish bra. She said to tell you that she wanted a Jewish bra,

and that you would know what she wanted."

"Ah, now I remember," said the saleslady. "We don't get as many requests for

them as we used to. Most of our customers lately want the Catholic bra, or the

Salvation Army bra, or the Presbyterian bra."

Confused, and a little flustered, the man asked "So, what are the differences?

The saleslady responded. "It is all really quite simple. The Catholic bra

supports the masses, the Salvation Army lifts up the fallen, and the

Presbyterian bra keeps them staunch and upright."

He mused on that information for a minute and said: "Hmm...I know I'll regret

asking, but what does the Jewish bra do?"

If you are Jewish, and grew up in city with a large Jewish population, or are gentile with Jewish friends or associates, the following will invoke heartfelt memories.

The Yiddish word for today is PULKES (PUHL-kees). Translation: THIGHS.

Please note: this word has been traced back to the language of one of the original Tribes of Israel, the Cellulites.

The only good advice that your Jewish mother gave you was: "Go! You might meet somebody!"

You grew up thinking it was normal for someone to shout "Are you okay?" through the bathroom door when you were in there longer than 3 minutes.

Your family dog responded to commands in Yiddish.

Every Saturday morning your father went to the neighborhood deli (called an "appetizing store") for whitefish salad, whitefish "chubs", lox (nova if you were rich!), herring, corned beef, roast beef, coleslaw, potato salad, a 1/2-dozen huge barrel pickles which you reached into the brine for, a dozen assorted bagels, cream cheese and rye bread (sliced while he waited). All of which would be strictly off-limits until Sunday morning.

Every Sunday afternoon was spent visiting your grandparents and/or other relatives.

You experienced the phenomenon of 50 people fitting into a 10-foot-wide dining room hitting each other with plastic plates trying to get to a deli tray.

You had at least one female relative who penciled on eyebrows which were always asymmetrical.

You thought pasta was stuff used exclusively for Kugel and kasha with bowties.

You were as tall as your grandmother by the age of seven.

You were as tall as your grandfather by age seven and a half.

You never knew anyone whose last name didn't end in one of 5 standard suffixes (berg, baum, man, stein and witz).

You were surprised to discover that wine doesn't always taste like cranberry sauce.

You can look at gefilte fish and not turn green.

When your mother smacked you really hard, she continued to make you feel bad for hurting her hand.

You can understand Yiddish but you can't speak it.

You know how to pronounce numerous Yiddish words and use them correctly in context, yet you don't know exactly what they mean. Kaynahurra.

You're still angry at your parents for not speaking both Yiddish and English to you when you were a baby.

You have at least one ancestor who is somehow related to your spouse's ancestor.

You thought speaking loud was normal.

You considered your Bar or Bat Mitzvah a "Get Out of Hebrew School Free" card.

You think eating half a jar of dill pickles is a wholesome snack.

You're compelled to mention your grandmother's "steel cannonballs" upon seeing fluffy matzo balls served at restaurants.

You buy 3 shopping bags worth of hot bagels on every trip to Montreal and ship them home via FedEx. (Or, if you live near Montreal or another Jewish city hub, you drive 3 hours just to buy a dozen "real" bagels.)

Your mother or grandmother took personal pride when a Jew was noted for some accomplishment (showbiz, medicine, politics, etc.) and was ashamed and embarrassed when a Jew was accused of a crime... as if they were relatives.

You thought only non-Jews went to sleep away colleges. Jews went to city schools... unless they had scholarships or made an Ivy League school.

And finally, you knew that Sunday night and the night after any Jewish holiday was designated for Chinese food.

Zei gezunt!

Moishe, a Yeshiva boy, graduates high school and is about to go to college. He was born and lived in Brooklyn his entire life but he gets a full scholarship to the University of Montana and it is such a generous deal that his parents, who would prefer to keep him in Brooklyn forever, let him go.

Six months go by and they have not heard from him. They're frantic. They call the dorm and are told that he doesn't live there anymore. They call the Registrar who says that he is no longer enrolled. They are about to fly to Montana when a letter comes from Moishe:

'Dear Mother, Dear Father, Sorry I have been so negligent but I met the most wonderful girl and we plan to marry. That is why I dropped out of school. Little Feather is a Native American, a princess in her tribe, and her father is the Chief.

He has made me a member of the tribe. I had to leave school because of the nonsense they teach about Native Americans - the lack of respect, the distortions of history. But now I understand things better. I have decided to take a Native American name which the Chief helped me decide. From now on, please call me Running Deer. I will NOT answer correspondence addressed to Moishe.'

A few days later he gets a reply:

'Dear Running Deer. Your dad and I are pleased that you have finally found a woman to love and that you are happy on the reservation. We regret that she is not Jewish but to celebrate your new love and upcoming marriage we also have decided to take Native American names...

I am now SITTING SHIVA and your father is GOING MICHUGA.

The Israelis and Arabs realized that, if they continued fighting, they would someday end up destroying the whole world. So they decided to settle their dispute with an ancient practice: a duel of two, like David and Goliath. This "duel" would be a dog fight.

The Arabs found the biggest, meanest Dobermans and Rottweilers in the world. They bred them together and then crossed their offspring with the meanest Siberian wolves.

The negotiators agreed each side would take 5 years to develop the best fighting dog they could. The dog that won the fight would earn its people the right to rule the disputed areas. The losing side would have to lay down its arms for good.

They selected only the biggest, strongest puppy of each litter, fed it the best food and killed all the other puppies. They used steroids and trainers in their quest for the perfect killing machine. After the 5 years were up, they had a dog that needed steel prison bars on its cage. Only expert trainers could handle this incredibly nasty and ferocious beast.

When the day of the big dog-fight finally arrived, the Israelis showed up with a very strange-looking animal, a Dachshund that was 10 feet long!

Everyone at the dogfight arena felt sorry for the Israelis. No one there seriously thought this weird, odd-looking animal stood any chance against the growling beast over in the Arab camp. All the bookies took one look and predicted that the Arab dog would win in less than a minute.

As the cages were opened, the Dachshund slowly waddled toward the center of the ring.

The Arab dog leaped from its cage and charged the giant wiener-dog.

As he got to within an inch of the Israeli dog, the Dachshund opened its jaws and swallowed the Arab beast whole in one bite. There was nothing left but a small puff of fur from the Arab killer dog's tail floating to the ground.

The stunned crowd of international observers, bookies and media personnel let out a collective gasp of disbelief and surprise.

The Arabs approached the Israelis, muttering and shaking their heads in disbelief. "We do not understand," said their leader, "Our top scientists and breeders worked for 5 long years with the meanest, biggest Dobermans, Rottweilers and Siberian wolves, and they developed an incredible killing machine of a dog!"

The Israelis replied. "Well, for 5 years, we have had a team of Jewish plastic surgeons from Boca Raton working to make an alligator look like a Dachshund."