Whence the acronym MOT

Member of the Tribe, that is, for my goyish readers.

I think even the non-Zionist Jewish readers will appreciate Harry's story of one day in the life of an Israeli soldier. Heading back to base, Harry flags down a tour bus for a lift:

As soon as I get on the bus, the tour guide, an Australian fellow throws a warm smile in my direction. He sees my seventh brigade tag and starts telling the group of American tourists my unit's historical significance. I ask him in English where the group is from and he says Long Island, New York. I think to myself this isn't happening and before I know it, regretting it as I begin speaking, I tell him that I grew up on Long Island. He immediately informs the tour group who begin to bombard me with questions.

"Where are you from on the Island?"
"Port Jefferson Station"
"Is that near Port Washington?"
"No, it's near Stony Brook"
"Where did you go to school?"
"SUNY Albany"
"Did you know my daughter Deborah Finkelstein? She was in AEPhi!
"No, I didn't really hang with the sorority girls."
"Do you have a girlfriend?"
"No"
"Debbie would be perfect for you."
"Thanks. I'll keep that in mind next time I'm in NY"

Amidst the rumbling I hear a voice call out, "Oh My Gawd. Harry? Is that you?"

I cringe. This isn't happening. Who could possibly know me on this bus?

"Harry, it's Fay. I play mahjong with your mother every Tuesday!"

Jesus fucking Christ. What are the chances? I needed to get off that bus immediately. I might be smiley and look happy, but eyes are glancing outside to see how much longer I have to deal with this until I get to my army base, which had suddenly become my fortress of solitude.

"So how are you Harry? You look great! So tan! I can't wait to tell your mother I saw you!"

"Thanks. Tell her to send me more chocolate licorice and a few more books. The classics. I feel neglected!" I said jokingly.

"I'll send her the message!" she tells me. Suddenly, she turns around and yells to everyone on the bus...

"I WAS AT HIS BRIS EVERYONE! I WAS AT HIS BRIS!!"

Harry, we all feel your pain. Well, not the bris pain, the mahjong-playing Fay pain. (Story comes via the amazingly named Protocols of the Yuppies of Zion)

Oddly, this really relates in my mind with the last post on the naked juice bar porn palace. I did go to South Dakota once. My family jointly owns ranch land in northwestern South Dakota (truly a scary region I must say). It's been handed down and no one lives there but a tenant farmer and a bunch of soybeans, but I got it in my head to make a pilgrimage one time. En route, I stopped at "hometown" where my dad grew up, and my aunt and uncle gave me a tour of the town. I made the great mistake of asking something like "It must have been tough to grow up here in a Jewish family." No, my aunt explained, there were plenty of Jews. And the rest of the tour was, in fact, the Jew tour, with aunt and uncle pointing and explaining "And there, that family is Jewish. Oh and you see that dentist's office? He's Jewish." And so on. In their defense, I will say that rarely have I felt so very Jewish as when I rolled into Faith, South Dakota in a Honda with my New Yorker friend. Regrettably, we had forgotten our ten-gallon hats. Someone must have alerted the authorities because we actually got a speeding ticket on our way back from the ranch land. ("Hey, get out there, Cletus. There's two Jews in a Honda driving.")