(With
spelling and grammar untouched by the editor’s hand.)
“Boot,” I shouted at the Rebbe, “covvy-net
or not, yer still cootin’ a wee bairn’s paenis oof. Wut kindoov man, air ye?”
Joost then, es emberrysing as it ‘twere,
the dour knooks ooopen and in cooomes the Rebbe’s niece, who I hae’ talked
aboot before.
“Woot is gooing oon here?” asks Malka,
“I hae been hearing noothing boot alterating larfing and screaming?”
“Ye ooncle,” sez I, “is noothing boot a unmentionable schnipper. He cooots the end oof oov yung bairns!”
Again, the Rebbe commencerates to
larfing.
“Ooov course tha’ is wha he dooz. He
ezza mohel and it is a religious rittchy-rol.”
“A mohel? Whoo cares hoo far he lives
frum his vickytims? He coots the tips a’ thar manhood with a implee-ment of
tur-cher.”
“A mohel!” sez she. “Nut a moil. A
mohel. Nut a distance like a moil, a ritchy-rol involving the brit-milah, the
covvy-net of circus-cision.”
Malka, I moost say, Dear Diary, cood
explain to me horse manooer oon a sour pickle and make it sooond appey-tizing.
She looked a’ me with her big brooon eyes, “Doon y’ oonderstan?” she said.
“Ah ah, well I do-do-doon know,” stutters
I.
“It is noothin berberic,” sez she. “Yer
Laird, Jeesus Christ wuz snipped th’ same way. And Ooncle Rebbe gives the bairn
soom wine and the tip snips oof like water oof a dooks beck.”
Tha phrase, Dear Diary, ‘the tip snips
oof like water oof a dooks beck,’ it fairly sends me a squaerming in the
mid-seckshun a’ me torso. Boot then, I
wuz bewitched by Malka’s orbsa brun anni coona protest n’more.
“Issa noo diffrent frum doonkin’ a bairn
en water, ez yoo do,” sez Malka.
“Aye, boot bein’ wet dun lasta loiftime,
now do it? Whereas the snippin’ a the schmeckl.”
An thar, Dear Dairy, I disgraced
me’self, sayin’ a narsty word like schmeckl in frunna a laidy like Malka. Boot,
insteada she slappin’ me in me face, she bursts oot larfin’, Dear Diary. Here
is whar I stoop fer tha e’een.
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