There is one way and one way only to clean up the political disaster that is dragging our country into the mire, here and across the world. A constitutional amendment – the 28th – which will say, in toto: “All key terms of the laws of the United States, and of the several states, shall be written in Yiddish.”
     That’d fix it.
     Why, you’re asking?
     Because Yiddish is clearer than English, even to people who don’t speak Yiddish – even to the ferkakte schmucks in Congress and on the Supreme Court.
     One law – perhaps it should become the 29th Amendment – might say: “For every schlemiel there’s a schlimazel, so don’t be a schlemiel. Or a schmuck. And don’t kvetch about it. Don’t be a noodge.
     Clear enough?
     Then let’s move on.
     Wait a minute … my boss is calling.
     He says he’s having trouble following me here. What a schmendrick.
     “Following?” I says. “What following? I’m still writing the ferkakte thing. How can you be following, unless Mossad is shooting my thoughts directly into your brain?”
     “Never mind how I’m following,” he says, “explain it the Yiddish. A lot of your paisans don’t capisce.
     “That ain’t Yiddish, that’s Italian,” I says.
     “Yiddish, Italian, what?” he says. “You want to piss off Scalia? To piss off Scalia you don’t want.”
     “OK, OK,” I says. “I’ll explain it so even that putz Scalia can understand it.”
     So – Are you listening? Cause if you ain’t listening, why should I bother? – a schlemiel is a guy who’s always dumping the soup on somebody.
     The schlimazel is the guy who’s always getting the hot soup in his lap.
     In this country the schlemiels are the Republicans and the police, and the schlimazels are the shvartzes.
     So for every schlemiel there’s a schlimazel. Right? And the schlimazels are the shvartzes. Listen to those schmucks Trump and Cruz …
     Wait a minute … my boss is on the phone again.
     He says I can’t call the Negroes shvartzes.
     “What do you mean I can’t call them shvartzes?” I say. “All it means is black.”
     “But people might misunderstand it,” he says.
     “They might misunderstand black?” I say.
     “They might take it as an ethnic slur,” he says.
     A slur?” I says. “A slur in music is when you smear one note into another, with schmalz. Shvartze is shvartze, mit schmalz or mitout it. Shvartze you can’t schmier.”
     “OK,” he says, “but I want you to cut it from the column.”
     “OK,” I says, “so I’ll cut it. It’s gone.”
     What a kvetch, that boss. If I hadn’t inherited 6,000 years of oppression from the moment I was born, and adjusted to it soon as the doctor gave my mom 10 percent off the top at the bris, I’d holler. But why holler? What good will it do? It will do you good for nothing, that’s what good it will do.
     Want to hear a Jewish joke? OK, I’ll tell you a Jewish joke.
     A priest, a rabbi and an imam walk into a bar. And the bartender says, “What is this? Some kind of a joke?”
     OK, so that’s my Jewish joke. But I ain’t joking that they should make those schmucks in Congress write their laws in Yiddish.
     Why? I’ll tell you why. Because like my Oma said, it couldn’t hoit and it might help.

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