Cain and Abel

Come sundown 3.451 (or 1.7%) of WNBTv‘s constant readers will be home celebrating the (approximate) six thousand eleventh anniversary of the ‘creation’ of Adam and Eve.

This does not include our single overseas Jewish reader whom, last he contacted us, had continued to be openly persecuted if not outright tortured by his ongoing ‘grounding’ and parents’ excluding him from access to their home internet portal. 1

Mazel Tov! 2
Cain and Abel

Show 2 footnotes

  1. Also recently self-excluded from WNBTv‘s official subscription base is a neighbor at the bottom of the street: our neighborhood association recently rewrote its bylaws, in essence creating a neighborhood Hellenization pogrom (for which I wrongly took much blame: I no longer sit on the housing association board, much less serve as president of same). The end result of the new rules was a blanket prohibition against religious displays on one’s property, to include – housing, driveways, sidewalks etc etc etc. So of course just last week Howie’s daughter was ‘caught’ playing (somewhat early, if you ask me) with her dreidel on the sidewalk by a patrolling Neighborhood Youth lad, the young O’Brien boy, to be exact. Sean, overexcited at his first “collar”, clamped down on lil’ Babs (Yes – named for that Babs, unfortunately: she has yet to grow into her nose.) upper arm firmly enough that Babs’ mom two weeks later was still wrapping the rainbow colored bruise with raw pork once a day. Howeever, at that moment Babs’ inadvertent mistreatment caused her to cry out in pain, which in turn caused Howie, Babs’ dad, to storm outside, the Star still in hand, Profaning the Name, or chillul Ha-Shem. Not only that, but witnesses (the Adams boy) said Howie was also taking the four-letter name of G-d in vain. And while it is commonly believed that the four-letter name of G-d is unknown, Howie will tell you it’s not all that damn difficult to figure out if you follow the sports pages regularly, fuckin’ Royals. Well, Howie’s a big guy and he was was particularly incensed that morning over the Royals’ annual habit of winning meaningless, late season games as a deliberate affront (in Howie’s view) to their fans, so his G-dlessness was both loud and frightening, as though Moses were returned wailing from the Mount with the realization he had just been, you know, high and the stones in his arms were carved with naught but his own risible ravings. Which is to say Howie so scared the pee out of young Sean the boy immediately drew his new, shiny silver whistle and blew it as though he were an uncredited side-player with KC & the Sunshine Band. Anon came answering whistles from Sean’s fellow N.Y. members; the oldest Owen boy who lives on Cherry, Sherry Jungstrom all the way over on Main (the kids say she can hear what you haven’t quite said yet) and Timmy Skype (at 8 really too young for this sort of thing) whose parents just moved in the next block over on Judenhof. The shrill whistles first responded out of sync, but as the children raced closer to the trembling Sean they found a rhythm that sounded (again, according to the Adams boy) like a shofar, until soon a now bemused Howie was encirled by a ring of children blowing and blowing and blowing their silver whistles up in his face: Howie as Maypole. Eventually, looking around, the children realized no one else would be coming and so let their shiny little trumpets depend on their lanyards, their faces all flushed, mouths slightly agape and their breath coming in small, harsh pants, eyes glazed. Howie stepped out of the ring, took lil’ Babs by the hand and led her inside, thinking – he later told another neighbor – “It could be worse. I could be Catholic.”
  2. Or whatever’s appropriate in this situation.

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