Not what Jefferson Davis had imagined

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I’m in Atlanta for the next few days for my friends’ son’s bar mitzvah and race driving school. The two events are unrelated but I don’t know why they can’t be.
It’s important to have an honest to god real bitchy New York Jew at your child’s bar mitzvah, especially in Goy-ville, Georgia.
I’ll be delivering such timeless lines as:

“She looks fantastic. That dress covers all the right places.”

“Very smart of them not to spend a lot of money on good wine. Most Jews don’t know the difference anyway.”

“I’m sure a 13 year old boy really needs a nice watch. Maybe he can return it or sell it.”

“If I had a 13 year old daughter and she was dancing like a sex crazed maniac, I’d be horrified. But these parents are very lucky they don’t seem to care. They probably are less stressed than I am. Good for them!”

Sort of related note. My father wanted to name me Jefferson. After Thomas Jefferson, not Jefferson Davis. My mom said no because Jefferson is a schvartze name.

Photo credit: ilovememphis / Foter.com / CC BY-ND

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