Yiddishe Mamas by Marnie Winston-Macauley

gone.”
    — Dr. Eileen Warshaw
    Yes, Jewish humor is a powerful survival tool to manage pain by offering some relief, some point of view to get through, some liberation from torment and tormenters. And God knows, as Jews have known pain, we have been perfectly set up for being the purveyors of humor. Imagine for a moment Jews without humor. We’d have jumped off that roof with the Fiddler. Unlike some scholars who see Jewish humor as masochistic, I see our ability to use our comedic gifts as a testimony to our background, our will, and our strength.
    The Jewish joke is (obviously) about something Jewish—with or without others involved. The topics can be anything: children, husbands and wives, money, survival, health, food, enemies, “types” (the
shadchen,
the
shnorrer,
the
Chelmites)
in the community— almost everything is fodder, which is a key aspect to the Jewish joke. It’s democratic and yes, antiauthoritarian. Anyone, and anything, is treated with the same ironic wit and sarcasm.
    Jewish mother: “Hello, operator! Give me the manager from the fancy-dancy room service.”
    Manager: “Room service.”
    Jewish mother: “This is room 402, Mister Room Service. I vant to order breakfest.”
    Manager: “Certainly, madam. What would you like?”
    Jewish mother: “For me, I vant a glass orange juice, but bitter with pits. The toast, should be burned, till black! For mine children, the milk should curdled and—”
    Manager: “Madam, I can’t fill an order like that!”
    Jewish mother: “Aha! You did yesterday!”
    T he first recorded scriptural laugh is in Genesis when the aged Sarah laughs at the prospect of her pregnancy. When the Lord asks, “Is anything too hard for the Lord?”—she lies, saying she didn’t laugh, to which God replies, “You did laugh.” While not a knee-slapper, the subversive aspect of Jewish mother humor was born.
    Four rabbis engaged in theological arguments, and it was always three against one. Finally, the odd rabbi out appealed.
    “God!” he cried. “I know I am right! Please, a sign to prove it to them!”
    Suddenly, from a sunny day, it poured.
    “A sign from God! See, I’m right!”
    The other three disagreed, saying storms often cool hot days.
    So again: “Please, God, a bigger sign!”
    Lightning slammed a tree.
    “Is that not a sign from God?” cried the rabbi.
    “A sign of nature!” they insisted, again making it three to one.
    Just as the rabbi is about to beg an even bigger sign, the sky blackened and a booming voice intoned: “HEEEEEEEE’S RIIIIIIIGHT!”
    The rabbi, hands on hips, said, “Well… ?”
    The others shrugged, “So now it’s three to two.”
    As we see, even God is not off-limits. Unlike many other religions, God is humanized, intimate, and social. God can be spoken to, included. Yet these jokes coexist with our deep love of God and our rituals. Hey, we’re just kvetching.
    Jewish jokes are almost always verbal. (OK, yes, there’s Marcel Marceau, but he’s one the few exceptions proving the rule.) They often involve a canny, even convoluted or loony use of logic, irony, and surprise or the quick turnaround.
    Sophie demanded of Hannah a pot, which she claimed was never returned to her to make Sabbath dinner for her family.
    “In the first place, I never took a pot from you!”
    “In the second place, it was an old pot!”
    “And in the third place, I gave it back to you in better condition than when I took it from you!”
    Mr. and Mrs. Kornmell decided to go to the newest, fanciest Jewish fusion restaurant in New York to celebrate their twenty-fifth anniversary. They were served course after course of kasha with bananas, pupu poi and ying-yang tortillas. The owner himself brought over the anniversary cake of gefilte mousse.
    “So
nu,”
said the owner. “Did you enjoy your dinner?”
    “Well,” said Mrs. Kornmell, “to be perfectly frank with you, the food you serve here—
khaloshes!
Terrible! … And such small