Traditional Jewish Jokes and Anecdotes, No. 9

This is one of those slightly embarrassing, often politically-incorrect jokes that make their way around the email circuit, as they did before in whispered private conversations.  They depend, in part, on a surprise turn in direction, a bit of word-play, and a shock of recognition at the misplaced wit,  I have added some new details which I hope show further changes of direction.

Mrs. Goldstein works in an old folks’ home, and has done so for the past seventeen years, ever since her beloved husband passed on.  It has been satisfying work.  She thinks of it as serving the community and performing one of the great mitzvot of tikkun ha’om, repair of the world. It also fills up her timer, lets her gossip with the doctors, nurses and caregivers during breaks, and most of all keeps her children from bothering her during the day.  They feel she should spend more time with her own family, and especially be available to look after the grandchildren while they go on holidays or just spend time with their own friends.  They are particularly piqued when she claims to be too tired during the evenings when they need baby sitters.  Mrs. Goldstein sympathizes with them, yet not enough to give them more than a few hours every three or four weeks.

Anyway, one day while she is doing her rounds in the nursing home, she opens the door and sees Mr. Jacob Ornowitz standing up by the window, not lying down in the bed where she expected him to be. 

“Mr. Ornowitz,” she says, “this must be a good day for you.  You look very healthy.  How do you feel?”

“Look at me,” he said.  “Can you guess how old I am?”

At that, he rolls down his sleeve, and shows her his muscular arm.

“See that,” he says, “give a guess at how old you think I am.”

“Oh, Mr. Ornstein, I am not going to play games with you.  Maybe you should get back in your bed.”

“No, no. no.” he says  “So take a look here.”

He lifts his shirt and shows her his chest.

“Give a feel, right here.  Now tell me how old you think I am.”

“Very nice,” she says.  “But enough is enough.  It is time you took your nap.”

“Fehh, fehh,” he says.  “Nap shnap.  Come here and look at this.”

He rolls up one of his pants, points to his calves and his knee.

“Is that something or is that something?”

“Very nice,” she murmurs.  “Please.  It’s time for your afternoon nap.”

“What kind of a woman are you?” he asks.  “I want you to tell me, please, how old you think I am.”

At that, he opens the buckle of his belt, lets down his trousers, and opens up the flap in his underpants.

“Take a look here, Mrs. Goldstein.  Take a good luck.  Now tell me how old you think I am.”

She heaves a long heavy sigh.  

“OK, let me guess?” she says in an exasperated voice. “Well, I would say you were 92 years old.  Am I right?”

He looks at her in unbelief.

“You know?  How could you tell?” he asks.  “What a woman!”

She purses her lips, lets some air come between with a slight whistle, and says slowly, “Because you told me yesterday and the day before that and the day before that.  Now please pull yourself together and take your nap.”