Welcome

Shalom, readers inside the internet. My name is Sol and I am coming to you from my typewriter, which my son then puts on the internet, because I don't know what it is. Can anybody explain to me what an internet is? Herschel (that's my son) assures me it is a very successful business venture, but it is hard to understand him when he is not speaking Yiddish. I once tried smiling and nodding, and then he handed me a bowl of noodles and a book on architecture. Another time I shook my head, and he gave me a handgun and two menorahs. I have also tried simply staring at him, but then he thought I couldn't hear him and rented a skywriting plane just to ask me if I wanted a glass of Manischewitz wine. Oy vey, the things that boy spends American dollars on! He should be saving for a good bordmumkhe! (that's Yiddish for groomer of the face afro.)

But enough about Herschel, let me tell you about myself. I have a 33 year-old son named Herschel. He lives with me because his mother is an alcoholic and, I suspect, a terrorist. I have tried to notify the police about this matter, but the only Yiddish cop in the department will not speak to me because he saw me accidentally glance into a television store that was playing an old episode of Roseanne, which has been boycotted in our synagogue. Herschel is 33, and he is my son. Did I say that already? Gvald geshrign, I am getting old. My 33 year-old son, Herschel, says that he is going to put me in a retirement home and convert the house into a two-story wrestling ring for the women. I don't understand his jokes.

In conclusion, your blatant exploitation of non-kosher ham is of great offense to the Jewish people, and if you do not remove it from your sign, I will be forced to tell Rabbi Widdowitz when the topic arises in conversation.

Sincerely,

Sol Q. Schwartz, Esquire

P.S. I apologize for that last part. I thought I was writing a letter to the deli on 32nd and 5th. Herschel, please delete this part when you put it on top of my internet.