To begin Shabbat with a laugh
Dr. Avram Veytikman calls his patient Mottl Bergstein.
‘Bergstein’, he says, ‘I have the results of your tests. I have bad news and very bad news.
‘OK’, says Bergstein, ‘tell me the bad news first’.
‘You have 24 hours to live’, says Dr. Veytikman.
‘And what could be worse than that?’ wails Bergstein.
‘I couldn’t reach you yesterday.’
Moishe was reading the local Jewish Daily when he noticed the list for those who won the lottery. He thought to himself that it would be nice if he would win the lottery. So, the next day, he decided to hang around after the morning minyan and stand before the Bema and pray to win the lottery. He did this for two hours every day for a week, then he checked the Jewish Daily to see if he had won. He did not. So, he decided that since he was a good Jew, there was no reason for him not to win the lottery except he was not praying long enough. For the next week, he doubled his extra prayer time after the minyan. Again, after a week, he bought the Jewish Daily and looked to see if his name was listed. Again, it was not! Well, obviously he was not praying enough. He decided to spend every day at the shul after the minyan in prayer to G-d to win the lottery. After a week, he bought the Jewish Daily and once again his name was not listed. Well, he thought, I must pray even more! He decided he would pray every day and every night until he won the lottery. He went to the shul and started to pray. Several days went by. Finally, as he stood before the Bema, he saw thunder and lightning raining down upon him. He realized he was in G-d’s presence and he anxiously awaited to hear G-d’s voice. After what seemed like an eternity to him, G-d spoke. “Moishe, I have heard your prayers. Would you do me a favor?” Moishe said, “Of course Lord, what can I do for you?” G-d responded, “Buy a lottery ticket!”
For months, Leah had been nagging her husband to go with her to the seance parlor of Madame Sadie.
“Cyril, Madame Sadie is a real gypsy and she brings the voices of the dead from the other world. We all talk to them. Last week, I talked with my mother, may she rest in peace. Cyril, for only $30 you can talk to your zaida who you miss so much.”
Cyril could not resist and at the next seance, there was Cyril sitting under the coloured light at the green table, holding hands with the person on each side of him. All were humming.
Madame Sadie, her eyes lost in trance, was making passes over a crystal ball. “My medium Vashtri, who is that with you? Mr Himmelfarb? Cyril’s zaida?”
Cyril swallowed the lump in his throat and called, “Grandpa? zaida?”
“Ah, Cyril?” a thin voice quavered.
“Yes, yes,” cried Cyril, “this is your Cyril, zaida, are you happy in the other world?”
“Cyril, I am in bliss. I’m with your bubba. We laugh, we sing, we gaze upon the shining face of the Lord.”
Cyril asks his zaida many questions and his zaida answers each, until –
“So now, Cyril, I have to go. The angels are calling. Just one more question I can answer. Ask. Ask.”
“Zaida,” sighed Cyril, “when did you learn to speak English?”