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No Room at the Hotel

It was the 1940s, and Yetta Rosenberg gets off the train in Miami. Exhausted, she schleps her suitcase to the first hotel she sees and walks up to the desk clerk.

"Goot evening. I'm Yetta Rosenboig. I voot like a room for da night."

Looking at her disdainfully, the clerk replies, "I'm sorry, madam. There are no rooms. The hotel is completely booked."

Just then, a man with a suitcase drops his key at the desk, pays his bill, and walks out the door.

"Oy! Vot luck! I'll take his room," she bursts out, slapping the desk with assurance.

"I'm sorry, madam," says the clerk. "I thought you understood my meaning. We do not cater to Jews."

"So, who's a Jew?" she protests, shrugging her shoulders. "I'm Ketlic."

In obvious disbelief, the clerk asks, "If you're a Catholic, madam, then answer this question: 'Who is the Son of God?'"

"Oy, det's easy! Jesus!" she replies accommodatingly.

Still not convinced, the clerk leans forward on his arms and asks, "Who was Jesus' mother and father?"

"Mary and Joseph!" she replies slowly, her temperature rising.

"And where was Jesus born?"

"In a manger in a barn!" she seethes through clenched dentures.

"And why was Jesus born in a manger in a barn?"

"Because a kholerye* like you vootn't rent a room to Jews!!"

* Lit., cholera. By implication, a horrible person.

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לֵב שָׂמֵחַ יֵיטִב גֵּהָה וְרוּחַ נְכֵאָה תְּיַבֶּשׁ־גָּרֶם׃

A merry heart doeth good like a medicine;
but a broken spirit drieth the bones.

(Proverbs 17:22)

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