Shalom, and thanks for coming to my Bark Mitzvah. I'm officially 13, which means you need to buy me something nice, and I'm not talking about a ballpoint pen or a football. I want something tasty and delish, and maybe some bling. A collar with my name spelled out in diamonds would be gangsta. Nothing too showy, of course. If you didn't bother to get me anything (cuz you're cheap or you were raised in a barn) don't worry, I have my own PupPal account. We'll figure something out. Anyway, it's really cool that you made time in your busy schedules to join me on this important day. As luck would have it, my Torah portion comes from Deuteronomy: Blessings for Obedience. What does obedience mean to me? Not much, as it turns out, except when it comes to food.
Here I am, obediently accepting my birthday donut.
But does that make me a bad boy? Not even. My mommy loves me, unconditionally. She never stops calling me silly names and making kissy sounds and calling me a good boy, even when I do things I'm not supposed to, like poop in the house (which I haven't done recently, I swear). In my puppyhood days, obedience was more of an issue. I'd steal socks and shoes, destroy personal property, eat through the carpeting on the stairs, scratch and jump on people. My mommy took me to Obedience School and I learned how to walk beside her and listen to her commands. I graduated with honors, and then proceeded to forget everything I learned. Did I mention I'm a dog? These days, I don't have the energy to stir up trouble. I hardly get off my doggy bed. It's so comfy, why should I make the effort? Let's face it. For the past 13 years, I've brought my family nothing but joy. I'm done chasing after balls and entertaining them. Still, I should probably thank them for the party. There is going to be a party, isn't there? I didn't learn Hebrew for nothing. Okay, so, this is the end of my Torah portion. L'chaim, bitches! And please, leave some hors d'oeuvres for me.
No comments:
Post a Comment