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Ten Jewberry Muds

To get the full effect, this message should be read out loud. You will understand what 'tenjewberrymuds' means by the end of the conversation. This has been nominated for the best email of 2005. The following is a telephone exchange between a hotel guest and room-service at a hotel in Asia, which was recorded and published in the FarEast Economic Review: Room Service (RS): "Morrin. Roon sirbees." Guest (G): "Sorry, I thought I dialed room-service." RS: "Rye..Roon sirbees..morrin! Jewish to oddor sunteen??" G: "Uh..yes..I'd like some bacon and eggs." RS: "Ow July den?" G: "What??" RS: "Ow July den?...pryed, boyud, poochd?" G: "Oh, the eggs! How do I like them? Sorry, scrambled please." RS: "Ow July dee baykem? Crease?" G: "Crisp will be fine." RS: "Hokay. An Sahn toes?" G: "What?" RS: "An toes. July Sahn toes?" G: "I don't think so."
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Our City

Tomorrow night, we will be celebrating the thirty-ninth anniversary of the return of Jerusalem into Jewish hands. Many people around the world continue to deny the Jewish people the right to claim the city as our eternal capital. On the Temple Mount, the Arabs do what they can to destroy any evidence of our ancient presence, yet, despite their efforts, they cannot erase the basic fact that Jerusalem has, is and will always be - ours. This is not to say that the city is less important to persons of another faith. What I am stating and categorically so, is that Jerusalem is accessible to anyone who wants to worship therein, but never it let be forgotten that, at the end of the day, we, the Jewish Nation are the only people who, since time immemorial have chosen this very special place as a destination for all our prayers - she belongs to us. Every time we pray to G-d, we face towards Jerusalem. Every single Ark in every single Synagogue faces towards the city. It’s presence in our psyche
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Oh, To Be Loved

I confiscated a tub of Vaseline from a Year 8 student today. The same kid admitted to throwing a stub of paper at me from the back of the room. After the end of the lesson, I refused to return the Vaseline to him, whereupon he curtly told me to “drop dead”. When he approached me at lunch and asked me again for his precious tub, I told him that he could have it back if he wrote me a letter of apology. His response - “shut up”. Sometimes, I wonder why I bother teaching these children. I know that moaning about it here won’t help in the slightest, but at least it makes me feel a little better by getting it out of my system
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