Love Me, Daddy

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“You know what Olam Habah is?” Explains the Slonimer Rebbe. “Olam Habah is the entire earth covered in dump trucks full of gold. And then stack them on top of each other until you reach the sky.”

That’s a fuckton of gold.

Go get some.

“Love me, daddy,” says Michael Friedberg, deftly plucking the strings of his guitar while explaining the finer points of the five levels of pleasure to the students of Intermediate II. “I have already made three kids shomer shabbos this month, another two have just broken up with their non-Jewish girlfriends.”

But Rabbi Weinstein is quick to remind him that it’s a holocaust out there. Has he not noticed that Yechezkel Lutzker’s numbers are way up this month? Maybe he should take up surfing? Secular people eat that shit up, when a rabbi surfs.

He’s said this a thousand times, but it’s worth repeating: “it’s not how much you’ve done, it’s how much you still have left to do.”

By all means, strum harder.  

“Even in Olam Habah,” explains Rabbi Zilberstein, “you’re gonna look over the white picket fence of your Castle of Splendor and notice that your neighbor, Yankel, has a bigger one with longer towers, thicker moats, and a deeper connection to Hashem. You will be consumed with jealousy. That is what hell is.

By all means, study harder.

“Love me, daddy,” says Lisa Brilliant, wrapping up her video about the beauty of Judaism from the perspective of an Empowered Jewish Woman Who Is The Center of Her Home ™. Soccer moms dig empowered Jewish women.

It is no use; Rabbi Weinstein is quick to remind her that although she already had a million views on her videos, there were six million Jews who had died in the holocaust who hadn’t seen it yet.

“Oh father, our king, we have sinned before you!” The cantor’s voice cracks artisinally. He knows what he’s doing. He’s a pro. Highest paid and most sought-after cantor around. An hour after everyone else is already breaking their Yom Kippur fast, he’s still going strong. Chew on that, motherfuckers.

And the crowd responds. “Amen, may his great name be blessed, for now and for all the worlds!” Shuki screams with all his might, but still he’s no match for the 324 other boys packed into the room who have perfected their shrieking down to a science. They were born with bigger lungs.

The room smells of sweat and desperate resolutions. How in the hell was he supposed to grab God’s attention?

“Love me, daddy,” says Elyakim Blackstein, informing Rabbi Weinstein that he’d raised another four million dollars this week.

But Rabbi Weinstein has been gone for months, his chair vacant at the front of the study hall. Over time, the seat filled with discarded books, which students pulled off the shelves for reference but neglected to return.

Word is, Rabbi Weinstein is away fundraising.

Lightning flashes. Thunder booms. The heavens themselves shake, as God reveals himself on a throne comprised of a dark rolling storm clouds. Rain lashes down upon the miserable masses below, their heads craning upwards.

“God, what impressive soles you have,” they wonder in awe.

“The better to ignore you completely with, my dears.”

God passes on, looking forward instead of down.

“Love me, daddy,” says  Elimelech Kopenschmaltz, waving a report indicating that enrollment at the yeshiva is at an all-time high. If the Nazis kept meticulous records for evil, we must keep meticulous records for good.

Alas, Rabbi Weinstein has been dead for over 10 years.

But his memory lives on.

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