Velvel couldn’t stop dreaming about Magda Pritzovsky.
Every Sunday, he’d see her headed to the Greek Orthodox church with the extra little crosses on top of the crosses. Extra Christian.
She would always go with her father. He had a long white beard and reeked of potato vodka.
He looked like Rasputin.
She looked like a potato.
And yet, that was all he could think of. Feeling up her moist pushka. His shmeckl harder than a week-old challa.
Velvel knew what he was doing was wrong. He should be fantasizing about Yentle the Gefitefishmonger’s daughter. Or about Feige, the Rabbi’s niece who’d been adopted after the last pogrom.
And here he was, salivating over a common pushka.
He knew he must be the most evil yeshiva bochur in all of Poland.
But he couldn’t stop.
One day, when the cravings were getting too much to hondle, Velvel found himself sneaking into the yeshiva kitchens. It was Friday afternoon, the cholent was already on the fire. The herring was in the corner, pickling hard.
Velvel looked around guiltily. He reached into the herring shlocher and pulled out a handful in his bare hands. Unzipping his pants, he thrust his shmeckle right into the thick of this makeshift pushka…
Oh what bliss!
It was so slimey. So cold. So briney. Velvel did not last long at all.
He returned the herring back to its rightful place, and hurried gultily back into the study hall.
He made sure to drop an extra zrotl into the pushka, to atone for his sins.