A Bupkes Pesach story

We are pleased to report that the Golden Calf is alive and well.

It’s somewhere between day 4 and 73 of Passover. The annual Jewish festival, which the goyim tend to forget is why they get to chase chocolate eggs at about the same time of year, drags out long enough to make wandering through the desert feel like a walk in the park.

Exodus has it all: miracles, plagues, mixed marriage, suspiciously low tides, morally ambivalent first-born infanticide, unlucky lambs, divine elocution lessons, godly yoga, food in the form of precipitation, more rules than you can shake a staff at, and enough counting to ensure you will never get to the Seder meal to sop up the four glasses of wine you’ve downed — but definitely need all that wine to get through the counting.

… four questions, four sons, a bunch of rabbis wondering aloud if it was ten plagues or 200 — or 250? Was it all the days of their lives or the nights, too?

Holy kneidlach, the Haggadah is the most Jewish thing, like, ever. Oy gevalt.

It’s the story we tell that tells the story of rabbinical bros tell…