Izzy and the Hypocrite Lecteur

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Izzy and Fay were a match made in heaven. Fay was Izzy’s fresh-baked-this-morning cheese Danish and a hot cup of joe. And Fay’s Izzy, every time the matzoh balls of Fay’s little life sank to the bottom of her soucoup, old Iz knew just how to leaven them—“Kootchie-koo, Feigeleh!”—till they effervesced. They were up to their silk anniversaiy, common law of course, but they had never met each other—a lapse that Izzy, having spent twelve years of months of weeks of days bumping to the bottom of his priorities list, at long last decided to rectify.

So he gave Sarvaduhka a tinkle, his motel mogul chum in Buffalo, and talked him into a little bachelors’ vacation.

“Two weeks, Izzy? Am I Conrad Hilton? You think I can afford to have my cousin run the Lucky 3 for fourteen days during the tourist season?”

“Don’t argue, Savvy baby. You end up coming along with me regardless. This is all settled business, except for you jawjacking. Read Parmenides.”

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