Jewish Humor Quotes

Screw up my life?" He stared at me for a second and then said, deadpan, "I'm a five-foot-three, thirty-seven-year-old, single, Jewish medical examiner who needs to pick up his lederhosen from the dry cleaners so that he can play in a one-man polka band at Oktoberfest tomorrow." He pushed up his glasses with his forefinger, folded his arms, and said, "Do your worst.

Jews don't camp...The last time the Jews went camping, they spent forty years wandering in the desert.

People who worry that nuclear weaponry will one day fall in the hands of the Arabs, fail to realize that the Islamic bomb has been dropped already, it fell the day MUHAMMED (pbuh) was born.

...'You haven't got a chance kid,' he had told him glumly. 'They hate Jews.' 'But I'm not Jewish,' answered Clevinger. 'It will make no difference,' Yossarian promised, and Yossarian was right. 'They're after everybody.

Even if you are Catholic, if you live in New York you're Jewish. If you live in Butte, Montana, you are going to be goyish even if you are Jewish.

Ramon looked closely at the little guy as he ate. "Maybe he's Jewish. I mean, if Sammy Davis Jr. could convert to Judaism, why not a chupacabra? We should name him Harry Mendelbaum." I held up my arms in protest. "You're all racist. Now shut up. We'll call him Taco von Precious of Svenenstein. There, everybody happy?" "Isn't von the same thing as of?" Frank asked. "Wouldn't that be kind of redundant?" "You're redundant," I said.

Disney will never make a movie about my life story, and that's a shame--I'd make a really cute animated creature.

The children were overwhelmingly morbid. Not a single adult asked me where butterflies go when they die, but this question was more popular than pixie sticks with the under-four-foot set. I cursed parents for not preparing their children. When I was five, my mother and sister sat me up on the kitchen counter and explained the facts of life: the Easter Bunny didn't exist, Elijah was God's invisible friend, with any luck Nana would die soon, and if I ever saw a unicorn, I should kill it or catch it for cash. I turned out okay.

over protective? a butler in a grade- B movie? someones jewish mother? you got it

In WASP families, if you don't get along with someone, you have as little to do with them as possible. In Jewish families, you move next door, to make them as miserable as possible.

A group of Nazis surrounded an elderly Berlin Jew and demanded of him, ‘Tell us, Jew, who caused the war?’ The little Jew was no fool. ‘The Jews,’ he said, then added, ‘and the bicycle riders.’ The Nazis were puzzled. ‘Why the bicycle riders?’ ‘Why the Jews?’ answered the little old man.

I wanted to tell him a story, but I didn't. It's a story about a Jew riding in a streetcar, in Germany during the Third Reich, reading Goebbels' paper, the Volkische Beobachter. A non-Jewish acquaintance sits down next to him and says, "Why do you read the Beobachter?" "Look," says the Jew, "I work in a factory all day. When I get home, my wife nags me, the children are sick, and there's no money for food. What should I do on my way home, read the Jewish newspaper? Pogrom in Romania' 'Jews Murdered in Poland.' 'New Laws against Jews.' No, sir, a half-hour a day, on the streetcar, I read the Beobachter. 'Jews the World Capitalists,' 'Jews Control Russia,' 'Jews Rule in England.' That's me they're talking about. A half-hour a day I'm somebody. Leave me alone, friend.

He has the memory of a convict, the balls of a fireman, and the eyesight of a housebreaker. When there is crime to fight, Landsman tears around Sitka like a man with his pant leg caught on a rocket. It's like there's a film score playing behind him, heavy on the castanets. The problem comes in the hours when he isn't working, when his thoughts start blowing out the open window of his brain like pages from the blotter. Sometimes it takes a heavy paperweight to pin them down.

Jesus." "I thought you were Jewish." He pressed his lips together for a second before looking at me. "Fine. I'll say Moses. Or Abraham. Happy?" "I doubt Jesus is.

. . . there was little to choose between Jews and Catholics. The Jews had holidays that turned up out of the blue and the Catholics had children in much the same way.

Jewish vampires: Crosses & holy water won’t hurt me whatcha gonna try next?

I was lucky to live in the 20th century, when gefilte fish could be purchased in a jar.

Greg was a supernice guy and a good tenant.” “I met him only once, but he seemed pretty cool,” I said. “Of course, the neighbor across the street was convinced he was up to no good.” “Oh, my God, that racist bitch? I swear, I wanted to rent the place out to a black Jewish gay couple just to piss her off, but then I figured it wouldn’t be fair to the black Jewish gay couple.

I was taught that candles are like house cats - domesticated versions of something wild and dangerous. There's no way to know how much of that killer instinct lurks in the darkness. I used to think the house-burning paranoia was the result of some upper-middle-class fear regarding the potential destruction of a half-million-dollar Westchester house the size of a matchbox. But then I realized the fear stemmed from something far less complex: we're not used to fire. Candles are a staple of the Judaic existence and, like many suburban residents before us, we're pretty bad Jews.

A few years back, an American Jewish feminist academic sent me a request for an interview... The professor presented herself as a `gender scholar`, another postmodernist discipline that fails to inspire my intellect. However, I was curious to see what a person who happens to be academically qualified in being a woman might come up with.

As it is, I guess I find "Jack and Diane" a little disgusting. As a child of immigrant professionals, I can't help but notice the wasteful frivolity of it all. Why are these kids not at home doing their homework? Why aren't they setting the table for dinner or helping out around the house? Who allows their kids to hang out in parking lots? Isn't that loitering? I wish there was a song called "Nguyen & Ari," a little ditty about a hardworking Vietnamese girl who helps her parents with the franchised Holiday Inn they run, and does homework in the lobby, and Ari, a hardworking Jewish boy who does volunteer work at his grandmother's old-age home, and they meet after school at Princeton Review. They help each other study for the SATs and different AP courses, and then, after months of studying, and mountains of flashcards, they kiss chastely upon hearing the news that they both got into their top college choices. This is a song teens need to inadvertently memorize. Now that's a song I'd request at Johnny Rockets!

Note to goyim readers: not every Jew who grew up in Brooklyn was rich. And as long as I’m on it, here’s another note: fuck you. That’s all. Whether or not you assumed we were rich, if you’re a goyim, fuck you. But keep reading, and tell your friends to buy the book.

Jewish vampires: We turn into cats not bats bwaaahaha

Jewish vampires: Garlic? As a weapon? No its a spice silly human

Solomon counted out the coins very slowly and in silence, and then said, "Are you certain you weren't born Jewish?" "No," said Dodger. "I've looked. I'm not, but thanks for the compliment.

My mother is the antithesis of a typical Jewish mother, she is very soft-spoken and takes more naps that a cat. As a result, I've always longed for someone to really annoy the shit out of me.

Our age is not only Jewish, but also the most 'feminine'; an age in which art represents only a sudarium of its humors; the age of the most gullible anarchism, without any understanding of the State and of justice; the age of the collectivist ethics of the species; the age in which history is viewed with the most astonishing lack of seriousness [historical materialism]; the age of capitalism and of Marxism; the age in which history, life, and science no longer mean anything, apart from economics and technology; the age when genius could be declared a form of madness, while it no longer possesses even one great artist or philosopher; the age of the least originality and its greatest pursuit; the age which can boast of being the first to have exalted eroticism, but not in order to forget oneself, the way the Romans or the Greeks did in their Bacchanalia, but in order to have the illusion of rediscovering oneself and giving substance to one’s vanity.

She turned and smiled. “Kitchen-sink pasta.” “My favorite. But you really ought to come up with a better name for it than kitchen-sink pasta. Sounds only slightly more appealing than bathtub gefilte fish.” She shuddered. “Who in god’s name would make bathtub gefilte fish?” “I dated a Jewish girl whose grandmother made it,” I laughed.

Marijuana will be legal some day, because the many law students who now smoke pot will some day become Congressmen and legalize it in order to protect themselves. You wouldn't believe how many people smoke pot. If anyone reading this would like to become mayor, believe me, there is a vast, untapped vote. Of course, you wouldn't want to be the Marijuana Mayor, so you'd have to make it a trick statute, like: 'The Crippled Catholic Jewish War Children in Memory of Ward Bond Who Died for Your Bill to Make Marijuana Legal.

I do not go to church. I don’t go to Christian church or Jew church or any other church. I don’t go to church at all. Not ever. A perfect Sunday for me is spent drinking green tea while reading the Sunday New York Times. Yikes! Why don’t I just turn in my Al-Qaeda membership form and call it a day? As if that wasn’t bad enough, not only do I not go to church: I don’t believe in God. How can I say the Pledge of Allegiance if I don’t believe in God? How can I spend our American currency which pledges “In God We Trust?” How can I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, so help me God? Answer: I can’t. It’s a real problem. Don’t get me wrong – I’d like to believe in God. I wish I did, especially if He was the kind of God that thought America was #1. But I don’t, which to many people is the same as not believing in America. Up until recently, I thought those people were lunatics.

It was hard to listen to Goldwater and realize that a man could be half Jewish and yet sometimes appear twice as dense as the normal Gentile.

And this young man, where is he?" "He had to go to his aunt's house." "Why? He didn't like the cooking here?

I stepped forward as commanded, wondering which of the many rules I had broken now.

And then there was Rodney Dangerfield telling us his mother wouldn’t breastfeed him. She only wanted to be friends.

cayuba is jewish y'all need to pray for him

Both mystic and comedian aspire to get the better of a world they are powerless to reform.

One of the traits of sophistication is the capacity to cross borders between different cultural relevancies. Humor is often, intentionally or not, the result if not the very technique of such border-crossing. Much of Jewish humor reflects a long history, perhaps all the way back to the Exodus, of Jews migrating between cultures. ... American Jewish humor functioned as a marker of insider sophistication.

As a result, Born was dismayed when it was announced in 1920 that Einstein had cooperated on a forthcoming biography by a Jewish journalist, Alexander Moszkowski, who had mainly written humor and occult books.

An old Jewish joke went - A man asks whether his town is now in Soviet or Polish territory. He's told, "This year we're in Poland." "Thank goodness!", the man exclaims. "I simply could not take another Russian winter.

it was Greenspan who through some excessive deregulation prepared the monetary ground for the rise of the subprime mortgage companies: a lending market that specialises in high-risk mortgages and loans. 'Innovation', said Greenspan in April 2005, 'has brought about a multitude of new products, such as subprime loans and niche credit programs for immigrants'. It is almost touching to find out that Greenspan cares so much about immigrants.

Two well-known Austrian folk figures, Count Rudy and Count Bobby, are standing in front of a globe and Rudy asks, "What are all these pink spots?" Bobby replies, "Those are England with all her colonies." "And what about the purple spots?" "Those are France and her colonies." "Well, then," Rudy asks, "what is that great big green area over there?" "Oh, that's the United States of America." "And how about the enormous orange one?" "That's Russia." "Do you happen to know what this little, teeny-tiny brown spot is?" "That's Germany." At this point Rudy becomes quite pensive, and then very quietly asks the question of the century, "Do you think Hitler knows that?

I resign," says Velvel. He takes off his glasses, slips them into his pocket, and stands up. He forgot an appointment. He's late for work. His mother is calling him on the ultrasonic frequency reserved by the government for Jewish mothers in the event of lunch.

The marriage of a Jewish son is a bittersweet prospect. There is relief, always, that he has navigated the tantalizing and plentiful assemblies of non-Jewish women to whom the children of the Diaspora are inevitably exposed: from the moment he enters secondary school there is the constant anxiety that a blue-eyed Christina or Mary will lure him away from the tribe. Jewish men are widely known to be uxorious in all the most advantageous ways. And so each mother fears that, whether he be short and myopic, boorish or stupid or prone to discuss his lactose intolerance with strangers, whether he be blessed with a beard rising almost to meet his hairline, he is still within the danger zone. Somewhere out there is a shiksa with designs on her son. Jewish men make good husbands. It is the Jewish woman's blessing as a wife, and her curse as a mother.

But in vain did he apostrophize the insect in this new language, born of sudden inspiration, as a cockroach's understanding is not equal to such a tirade: the insect continued on its journey to a corner of the room, with movements sanctified by an ageless ritual of the cockroach world.

The Nazis have no sense of humor, so why should they want television? Anyhow, they killed most of the really great comedians. Because most of them were Jewish. In fact, she realized, they killed off most of the entertainment field. I wonder how Hope gets away with what he says. Of course, he has to broadcast from Canada. And it’s a little freer up there. But Hope really says things. Like the joke about Goring . . . the one where Goring buys Rome and has it shipped to his mountain retreat and then set up again. And revives Christianity so his pet lions will have something to—

If he didn’t touch me, then I’d be the one to touch him, and if he didn’t respond, I’d let my mouth boldly go to places it’d never been before. The humor of the words themselves amused me. Intergalactic slop. My Star of David, his Star of David, our two necks like one, two cut Jewish men joined together from time immemorial.

The first time I read Isaac Babel was in a college creative writing class. The instructor was a sympathetic Jewish novelist with a Jesus-like beard, an affinity for Russian literature, and a melancholy sense of humor, such that one afternoon he even “realized” the truth of human mortality, right there in the classroom. He pointed at each of us around the seminar table: “You’re going to die. And you’re going to die. And you’re going to die.” I still remember the expression on the face of one of my classmates, a genial scion of the Kennedy family who always wrote the same story, about a busy corporate lawyer who neglected his wife. The expression was confused.

Three modern rabbis are arguing about which of the three is the most progressive. “I am definitely the most progressive,” says the first rabbi. “We allow smoking during services.” “That’s nothing,” replies the second rabbi. “We serve pork spareribs during Yom Kippur.” “Not bad,” replies the third rabbi. “But I have you all beat. During Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, we post signs at my temple—closed for the holidays.

In February 1878, Grant braved rain, wind, and snow to become the first American president to visit Jerusalem. He met with a delegation of American Jews who distributed relief to their suffering brethren in the Holy Land and he promised to carry their message to Jewish leaders at home. As they entered religious sites, Julia was susceptible to powerful emotions, her active imagination a perfect foil for her husband’s skeptical, deadpan humor.

The Romans may be known for many things, but humor isn't one of them. As usual, this interpretation relies on a prima facie reading of Jesus as a man with no political ambitions whatsoever. That is nonsense. All criminals sentenced to execution received a titulus so that everyone know the crime for which they were being punished and thus be deterred from taking part in similar activity. That the wording on Jesus's titulus was likely genuine is demonstrated by Joseph A. Fitzmeyer, who notes that "if [the titulus] were invented by Christians, they would have used Christos, for early Christians would scarcely have called their Lord 'King of the Jews'."[..] the notion that a no-name Jewish peasant would have received a personal audience with the Roman governor, Pontius Pilate, who had probably signed a dozen execution orders that day alone, is so outlandish that it cannot be taken seriously.

[On famous Nobel Laureate Niels Bohr] [Niels] Bohr's sort of humor, use of parables and stories, tolerance, dependence on family, feelings of indebtedness, obligation, and guilt, and his sense of responsibility for science, community, and, ultimately, humankind in general, are common traits of the Jewish intellectual. So too is a well-fortified atheism. Bohr ended with no religious belief and a dislike of all religions that claimed to base their teachings on revelations.

Excuse me, Mr. Kleinman,” Stein says. “I used to live around the corner, and forty years ago I left a pair of shoes with you for repair. Is it possible you still have them?” Kleinman looks at Stein and says, “Vas dey black ving tips?” Stein remembers and says, “Yes. They were!” “And you vanted a half sole mit rubber heels?” “Yes,” says Stein. “That is exactly what I wanted.” “And you vanted taps on the heels only?” “Yes!” says Stein. “Do you still have them?” Mr. Kleinman looks up at him, squints, and says, “Dey be ready Vendsday.

The shots and shouts of the attackers rang out quite clearly but were already gone some distance away. Here I lay on my back in the warm sun; under the circumstances, I would have been expected to spring to my feet and begin attempting to justify mu most awkward situation. Defying all the rules, still flat on my back, I cracked my heels together, threw my hand to my forehead in salute, and yelled up to the oberleutnant, "Funder Rauch died for the Führer, Folk, and the Fatherland!" Where there's a war, there have to be dead bodies, I reasoned

Sa‘sa was attacked at midnight – all the villages attacked under the ‘Lamed-Heh’ order were assaulted around midnight, recalled Moshe Kalman. The New York Times (16 April 1948) reported that the large unit of Jewish troops encountered no resistance from the residents as they entered the village and began attaching TNT to the houses. ‘We ran into an Arab guard,’ Kalman recounted later. ‘He was so surprised that he did not ask “min hada?”, “who is it?”, but “eish hada?”, “what is it?” One of our troops who knew Arabic responded humorously [sic] “hada esh!” (“this is [in Arabic] fire [in Hebrew]”) and shot a volley into him.’ Kalman’s troops took the main street of the village and systematically blew up one house after another while families were still sleeping inside. ‘In the end the sky prised open,’ recalled Kalman poetically, as a third of the village was blasted into the air. ‘We left behind 35 demolished houses and 60–80 dead bodies’ (quite a few of them were children).73 He commended the British army for helping the troops to transfer the two wounded soldiers – hurt by debris flying through the air – to the Safad hospital.74

There is no rule without an exception except for this one. (Which, of course, makes it an exception to the rule)

The weird thing is”—Simon wound a curl of her hair around his finger—“I was joking with Isabelle about vampires right before it all happened. Just trying to get her to laugh, you know? ‘What freaks out Jewish vampires? Silver stars of David? Chopped liver? Checks for eighteen dollars?’” Clary laughed. Simon looked gratified. “Isabelle didn’t laugh.” Clary thought of a number of things she wanted to say, and didn’t say them. “I’m not sure that’s Isabelle’s kind of humor.

Until the rise of Trumpism, Judaism was easy, not just for me but for millions of American Jews. It was cafeteria-style: observe or don't, join a synagogue or attend the occasional Jewish film festival, read Philip Roth, eat bagels and babka, say 'oy' ironically. You could be Jewish by religion, Jewish by culture, Jewish by birth or identity - take your pick. In October 2013, the Pew Research Center asked the American Jewish community what it meant to be Jewish. The answers said a lot: 73 percent, the largest category, said remembering the Holocaust, followed by another category that was even more nebulous, who said leading a moral or ethical life. Then there were the 56 percent who said that being a Jew meant working for justice and equality, the 49 percent who said it meant being intellectually curious, the 43 percent who said it meant caring about Israel, separated by a statistically insignificant gap from the 42 percent who said it meant having a good sense of humor. Second from the bottom, at 19 percent, was observing Jewish law, followed only by eating traditional Jewish food. Oy.

If the future of the free world depends on me, please accept my apology in advance

Sure, Bob Dylan had some good songs. But he could have been a doctor.

Suddenly I had visions of being sent to prison, drilling until I fell over dead, or, at the very least, peeling potatoes into eternity.

The men only do something when they’re told to. That’s why they’re called drones. You’ll see a lot more humor in this someday when you’re married, trust me.

The Stair of Death was the epitome of SS thinking — why install a more efficient mechanical conveyor when criminal and Jewish labour was so cheap and the process so satisfyingly punishing?

What the hell does the Jewish Museum know about Guatemalan pricks? This particular prick isn't even circumcised.

A woman I met told me to go to her house that night. She said no one would be there. I went. No one was there.

Man does not control his own fate. The women in his life do that for him.

As Billy Crystal once put it, “Women need a reason to have sex. Men just need a place.

A Jewish man asks to be cremated and have an urn of his ashes placed in Bloomingdale’s since he knows his wife will visit him often.

If a Jew dies in the forest, will his wife go shopping?

The Jewish wife’s perfect house? Six thousand square feet with no master bedroom and no kitchen.

A Jew suddenly finds himself by the entrance to a time machine, thrown back to Roman antiquity and placed inside a Roman galley, rowing with other slaves under a Roman soldier’s whip. The Jew turns to the slave next to him and asks, “How much are we supposed to tip the whipper?

You seem kind of ancient for this type of work. What experience do you have?” The old Jew immediately responds, “I chopped many trees down in the Sahara forest.” The employer says, “You mean the Sahara Desert?” The old Jew: “That’s what they call it now.

Schlemiel folk humor is embedded in the stories of the so-called wise men of Chelm. They sold books about how to read. By the same token—if schlimazels sold umbrellas, we are told, the sky would cease raining.

I always liked Canadian-born comedian David Steinberg’s line about his father never getting to see his dream of an all-Yiddish-speaking Canada come true.

When the black entertainer and Rat Pack member Sammy Davis Jr. converted to Judaism, a joke went around that Sammy tried to get on a bus in the Jim Crow South and was ordered by the bus driver to get to the back of the bus. “But I’m Jewish,” Sammy pleaded. Whereupon the bus driver said, “Get off the bus.

A couple of landsmen, fellow Jews, see a sign offering a hundred dollars to any Jew who will convert. One of the two Jews, Murray, decides to investigate and asks his friend, Harry, to wait for him. Murray is gone a long time, and when he finally returns, Harry asks, “Well. Did you get the money?” Murray says, “Why is that the first thing you people think about?

Or the joke about the Israeli rowing team: one man rows while the others stand up in the boat yelling. Or the joke about the man who is flying on El Al, the Israeli airline, and is asked by the flight attendant if he wants dinner. He asks, “What are my choices?” The flight attendant says, “Yes or no.

Woody Allen took stereotypes of Jewish cheapness to another level in his line “I’m very proud of my gold pocket watch. My grandfather, on his deathbed, sold me this watch.

A dignified-looking Japanese gentleman, complete with top hat and walking stick, goes up to a Jewish woman in Manhattan and asks if she can tell him the best way to find the library. She looks him up and down, then says, “Pearl Harbor you could find, but you can’t find the library?

A new Jewish Japanese restaurant opens. It’s called So Sue Me.

A priest, a minister, and a rabbi, all friends, decide together to purchase new cars. The priest and the minister baptize their new cars, while the rabbi takes a hacksaw to his and cuts three inches off the tailpipe.

When Henry Kissinger, then the U.S. secretary of state, declared that he was first an American, second secretary of state, and third a Jew, Golda Meir supposedly responded to him by saying, “That’s fine, Henry. But in Hebrew everything is written from right to left.

Impure blood” was understood literally, not as a metaphor. This contributed to the belief in seventeenth-century Spain that Jewish males menstruated. Menstruation was thought to involve the body trying to purge impure blood, since woman’s menstrual blood was commonly believed to have contained excess humors.12 As a result it was believed that female saints did not menstruate; since their holy bodies contained only pure blood, they had nothing to purge.

The history of the bagel suggests that Americans’ shifting, blended, multi-ethnic eating habits are signs neither of postmodern decadence, ethnic fragmentation, nor corporate hegemony. If we do not understand how a bagel could sometimes be Jewish, sometimes be “New York,” and sometimes be American, or why it is that Pakistanis now sell bagels to both Anglos and Tejanos in Houston, it is in part because we have too hastily assumed that our tendency to cross cultural boundaries in order to eat ethnic foods is a recent development—and a culinary symptom of all that has gone wrong with contemporary culture. It is not. The bagel tells a different kind of American tale. It high- lights ways that the production, exchange, marketing, and consumption of food have generated new identities—for foods and eaters alike.

The Tao does not speak. The Tao does not blame. The Tao does not take sides. The Tao has no expectations. The Tao demands nothing of others. The Tao is obviously not Jewish.

Chanukah; It's a miracle anyone can spell it!

When you wake up the next morning and see a bag filled with stale pieces of bread, a candle, a wooden spoon, and a feather, you may be wondering what you did last night and weather anyone got hurt [Note: This is some strange Jewish custom].

that there are limitations to the Jewish response of humor when Jews today face murderous, humorless terrorists in the Middle East or the cowardly politicians of Europe seeking the votes of their increasingly Muslim electorates.

The reflexive sense of wonder, of crying over a medal of the Madonna del Granduca and not knowing why, will be mostly replaced by survival and knowing perfectly well why. And survival will mean replacing the love of the beautiful with the love of what is funny, humor being the last resort of the besieged Jew, especially when he is placed among his own kind.

Why not?

Stand-up comedy is all about nerve--a battle between aggressor and victims with wit as the weapon and laughter as the prize. Different from prizefights that pit people against one another in the presence of paying spectators, comedy pits the fighter against the paying customers, with silence as the killer, and the detonation of laughter as the victory.

The Borsht Belt became to stand-up comedy what New Orleans was to jazz -- an incubator of a new form of entertainment that gradually emerged from its formative center into the U.S. mainstream and beyond. Not that this comparison of Jewish comedy with jazz should obscure the contributions of Jews to the development of jazz itself, or black Americans to the growth of native comedy. The two forms of entertainment were similarly informal and improvisational. But the value placed by each community on its special cultural pastime dictated the opportunities for talented individuals within that community. Comedy and jazz depend on patronage, which rewards what it craves.

My wit is often characterized as being Jewish comedy. Occasionally, that’s true. But for the most part to characterize my humor as purely Jewish humor is not accurate. It’s really New York humor. New York humor is not just Jewish humor. It has a certain rhythm. It has a certain intensity and a certain pulse.

On the one hand, I don’t know a single person who says, “Yay! Purim is my favorite holiday!” On the other hand, if there’s any holiday concept more Jewish than “Here’s the awful story of what happened to your great-great-grandmother. Have a cookie.” I don’t know what it is.

What did the teacher say that made the Jewish kid upset when he answered the question correctly? You get a

Jewish

Jewish proverb: he that can’t endure the bad will not live to see the good.

Joan Rivers claimed she knew she was an unwanted child because the bath toys her parents gave her were a toaster and a hair dryer.

Two Texans are sitting on a plane going to Dallas with an old Jewish man sitting between them. The first Texan says, “My name is Roger. I own 250,000 acres. I have 1,000 head of cattle and they call my place the Jolly Roger.

JESUS SAVES. MOSES INVESTS.

Two Texans are sitting on a plane going to Dallas with an old Jewish man sitting between them. The first Texan says, “My name is Roger. I own 250,000 acres. I have 1,000 head of cattle and they call my place the Jolly Roger.” The second Texan says, “My name is John. I own 350,000 acres. I have 5,000 head of cattle and they call my place Big John’s.” They both look down at the little old Jewish man, who says, “My name is Lenny Leibowitz and I own only 300 acres.” Roger looks down at him and says, “Three hundred acres? What do you raise?” “Nothing,” says Lenny. “Well then, what do you call it?” asks John. “Downtown Dallas.