Why are you wearing Jewish stars?

“I’m not. It’s just a pattern.”

Everything’s just a pattern until you slather some meaning on it. You’re all Jewishy.

“Nope.”

You’re Hora-dancing in a burning room.

“I am not.”

Play me some Klezmer music.

“Stop it. These are not Stars of David. It’s just a pattern.”

What about your shmata?

“It’s not a whatever-you-called-it. It’s a custom bandana.”

From Bandana Dan?

“No. His sister.”

Bandana Jan?

“Yeah.”

Sure.

CELL PHONE NOISE

“C’mon, man.”

You dressed yourself. You did this to yourself.

“Asshole.”

…

“You’re on with John.”

“Ah’ll eat your asshole with biscuits and gravy, boy. An’ not inna pervert way, you filthy Semite.”

“Hey, Sarah. Once again: I am not Jewish.”

“Then why you wearin’ all them Jew stars? You think you’re Sammy Davis or sumpin?”

“I do not think I’m–”

“You ain’t half the man Sammy Junior Davis was! Don’t you never pretend to be no Candyman! That’s an affront to our community!”

“Your community?”

“The sloppy eyeballed”

“Not a community.”

“Ah’ll throw Peter Falk’s corpse at you, boy.”

“Please stop calling me.”

“President Trump, Praise Be Unto Him, just signed an Executive Order makin’ you illegal.”

“Me?”

“You personally. You ain’t no person no more.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Ah can’t, but He can.”

“Are you capitalizing pronouns referring to the president now?”

“Ah am. He deserves that respect.”

“Hanging up the phone.”

“Shoulda been you in that synagogue, boy.”

“Stop calling me, you monster.”

“YOU AIN’T NO SAMMY JUNIOR DAVIS!”

DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGH PHONES NO LONGER DO THAT

…

“Is there any way to get those calls to stop?”

Vote.

“I hate you.”

Oh, you hate yourself.