So it has come to this.
A mindless voice with mindless tune singing softly in the dark.
My friend, I promise you, on such a night even the sages are locked babbling in their rooms.
You think me mad?
“Well, my boyze.” (I talk in my best W.C. Fields voice).
“Well, my boyze. I had a hen who could lay a Golden Calf. And this weird guy – Moses was his name – yass. This Mo-zaz threw these stone tablets – threw, I say – these stone tablets on my hen, and killed her.
And I asked him – I said to him – hey, Mo-zaz, why did you flatten my hen and make the feathers fly?
And he said to me – can you believe this – he said to me:
‘W. C., I was damn hungry.’”
And I knew – my little chickadee, my little bottom-soft dumpling – I knew from that moment, that the man was not sincere.”