The Jungle Garden
In Wyoming, you may not take a picture of a rabbit from January to April without an official permit. In late twentieth century Illinois, you may (but probably shouldn't) foster a rabbi from December tenth to December eighteenth without an official hangover and/or casket.
Newlyweds Gignere and Yehudi brave the struggles of premature love and bygone religion. The Gentile wife and her Jewish bridegroom gambol among the many pizza parlors, hot dog carts, and licentious synagogues Hanukkah eve has to offer. In hopes to beguile his orthodox mother, the two conspire an extensive list of Hebrew blandishments. They contemplate rum without cherries, a Shabbat in chanclas, and maple-glazed apologies.
Her body is a holy temple, he wants her to let him inside ('Promised Land' he calls it). She, on the other hand, would soon as lief deflower Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Therapy Ice Cream (it puts psychologists out of business—and they're rich, in comparison to an ice cutter or human alarm clock, that is). Sometimes, Yehudi embraces a Pagan lifestyle because mistletoe gets more girls than Matzoh. But when a vulgar Semitic endorses Bisquick (it's kosher) and sly innuendo, he must compete with a man marrying dual European aficionados slightly north to the southernmost continent on his least favorite day of the year: tomorrow morning (a.k.a. the Festival of Lights). Meanwhile, his wife rather gossip with the zany zealot than her prosaic lover—she signed a prenup after all.
Think about it. If George Bush bought a bush and named it 'George,' he'd inevitably ensure an identity crisis. Likewise, when a rabbi fancies Rabelaisian humor as opposed to rabbinic law, covenants entail all the colors of the rectum and unfortunately not all the colors of the spectrum. He'll tell you to give him a hug so you can smell like his colon because he meant cologne and doesn't understand malapropisms. This biblical scholar will cleanse you from unrighteousness and midnight gashes that three martinis may or may not ensue upon bellyflopping onto the downstairs ottoman—(regardless if you're an Olympic diver, licensed bellyflopper, or a bored housewife). So prepare yourselves for a murderous brunch (and no, we're not referring to Mexican lasagna), because this Christmas season, you'll either sing a dirge, hymn, or carpool karaoke.
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Newlyweds Gignere and Yehudi brave the struggles of premature love and bygone religion. The Gentile wife and her Jewish bridegroom gambol among the many pizza parlors, hot dog carts, and licentious synagogues Hanukkah eve has to offer. In hopes to beguile his orthodox mother, the two conspire an extensive list of Hebrew blandishments. They contemplate rum without cherries, a Shabbat in chanclas, and maple-glazed apologies.
Her body is a holy temple, he wants her to let him inside ('Promised Land' he calls it). She, on the other hand, would soon as lief deflower Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Therapy Ice Cream (it puts psychologists out of business—and they're rich, in comparison to an ice cutter or human alarm clock, that is). Sometimes, Yehudi embraces a Pagan lifestyle because mistletoe gets more girls than Matzoh. But when a vulgar Semitic endorses Bisquick (it's kosher) and sly innuendo, he must compete with a man marrying dual European aficionados slightly north to the southernmost continent on his least favorite day of the year: tomorrow morning (a.k.a. the Festival of Lights). Meanwhile, his wife rather gossip with the zany zealot than her prosaic lover—she signed a prenup after all.
Think about it. If George Bush bought a bush and named it 'George,' he'd inevitably ensure an identity crisis. Likewise, when a rabbi fancies Rabelaisian humor as opposed to rabbinic law, covenants entail all the colors of the rectum and unfortunately not all the colors of the spectrum. He'll tell you to give him a hug so you can smell like his colon because he meant cologne and doesn't understand malapropisms. This biblical scholar will cleanse you from unrighteousness and midnight gashes that three martinis may or may not ensue upon bellyflopping onto the downstairs ottoman—(regardless if you're an Olympic diver, licensed bellyflopper, or a bored housewife). So prepare yourselves for a murderous brunch (and no, we're not referring to Mexican lasagna), because this Christmas season, you'll either sing a dirge, hymn, or carpool karaoke.
The Jungle Garden
In Wyoming, you may not take a picture of a rabbit from January to April without an official permit. In late twentieth century Illinois, you may (but probably shouldn't) foster a rabbi from December tenth to December eighteenth without an official hangover and/or casket.
Newlyweds Gignere and Yehudi brave the struggles of premature love and bygone religion. The Gentile wife and her Jewish bridegroom gambol among the many pizza parlors, hot dog carts, and licentious synagogues Hanukkah eve has to offer. In hopes to beguile his orthodox mother, the two conspire an extensive list of Hebrew blandishments. They contemplate rum without cherries, a Shabbat in chanclas, and maple-glazed apologies.
Her body is a holy temple, he wants her to let him inside ('Promised Land' he calls it). She, on the other hand, would soon as lief deflower Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Therapy Ice Cream (it puts psychologists out of business—and they're rich, in comparison to an ice cutter or human alarm clock, that is). Sometimes, Yehudi embraces a Pagan lifestyle because mistletoe gets more girls than Matzoh. But when a vulgar Semitic endorses Bisquick (it's kosher) and sly innuendo, he must compete with a man marrying dual European aficionados slightly north to the southernmost continent on his least favorite day of the year: tomorrow morning (a.k.a. the Festival of Lights). Meanwhile, his wife rather gossip with the zany zealot than her prosaic lover—she signed a prenup after all.
Think about it. If George Bush bought a bush and named it 'George,' he'd inevitably ensure an identity crisis. Likewise, when a rabbi fancies Rabelaisian humor as opposed to rabbinic law, covenants entail all the colors of the rectum and unfortunately not all the colors of the spectrum. He'll tell you to give him a hug so you can smell like his colon because he meant cologne and doesn't understand malapropisms. This biblical scholar will cleanse you from unrighteousness and midnight gashes that three martinis may or may not ensue upon bellyflopping onto the downstairs ottoman—(regardless if you're an Olympic diver, licensed bellyflopper, or a bored housewife). So prepare yourselves for a murderous brunch (and no, we're not referring to Mexican lasagna), because this Christmas season, you'll either sing a dirge, hymn, or carpool karaoke.
Newlyweds Gignere and Yehudi brave the struggles of premature love and bygone religion. The Gentile wife and her Jewish bridegroom gambol among the many pizza parlors, hot dog carts, and licentious synagogues Hanukkah eve has to offer. In hopes to beguile his orthodox mother, the two conspire an extensive list of Hebrew blandishments. They contemplate rum without cherries, a Shabbat in chanclas, and maple-glazed apologies.
Her body is a holy temple, he wants her to let him inside ('Promised Land' he calls it). She, on the other hand, would soon as lief deflower Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Therapy Ice Cream (it puts psychologists out of business—and they're rich, in comparison to an ice cutter or human alarm clock, that is). Sometimes, Yehudi embraces a Pagan lifestyle because mistletoe gets more girls than Matzoh. But when a vulgar Semitic endorses Bisquick (it's kosher) and sly innuendo, he must compete with a man marrying dual European aficionados slightly north to the southernmost continent on his least favorite day of the year: tomorrow morning (a.k.a. the Festival of Lights). Meanwhile, his wife rather gossip with the zany zealot than her prosaic lover—she signed a prenup after all.
Think about it. If George Bush bought a bush and named it 'George,' he'd inevitably ensure an identity crisis. Likewise, when a rabbi fancies Rabelaisian humor as opposed to rabbinic law, covenants entail all the colors of the rectum and unfortunately not all the colors of the spectrum. He'll tell you to give him a hug so you can smell like his colon because he meant cologne and doesn't understand malapropisms. This biblical scholar will cleanse you from unrighteousness and midnight gashes that three martinis may or may not ensue upon bellyflopping onto the downstairs ottoman—(regardless if you're an Olympic diver, licensed bellyflopper, or a bored housewife). So prepare yourselves for a murderous brunch (and no, we're not referring to Mexican lasagna), because this Christmas season, you'll either sing a dirge, hymn, or carpool karaoke.
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The Jungle Garden
The Jungle Garden
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Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940162843375 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Yours Truly, Never Truly Yours |
| Publication date: | 08/14/2020 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| File size: | 4 MB |
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