THE RABBI AT MY BAR-MITZVAH

Anyway, they were quick to discover that my Rabbi was enjoying the Bar-Mitvah festivities and drinking as if he were from Dublin and not Minsk. So, naturally, they encouraged him to imbibe even more, and it wasn’t long before they laid poor Rabbi Nagdiman on his back on one of the flat serving tables and crossed his arms over his chest and left him there with his Yarmulke all askew.

The only clue that he was still alive was the broad contented smile that said to one and all, “This must be Heaven.”