Christopher Jon Bjerknes
The jews regularly wreak havoc on humanity, but today takes the cake, or rather, the sandwich. Shopping for a snack at the grocery store, I grabbed what I thought was a corned beef on rye sandwich, only to discover it was a corned beefish on jewish ryeish breadish.
I have had real rye bread in Germany, and from Baltic and Russian bakeries, and it is a heavy, rich, peasant bread. It is chewy and chunky and filling and gives you what you need to work through the day. The coarseness of it makes you feel the mill in your stomach grinding to digest it. A loaf of it will anchor a good sized ship, or man. It is nothing like the ethereal wonder bread of jewish ryeish.
The jewish ryeish sandwich was pale and insubstantial, kind of weak, but tricky, sort of the Peter Lorre* of breads. It lured me in and I bought into it. . . until I bit into it.
The general outline of it leads you to believe it is bread, lets you hope it is bread, but then it crumbles into powder and disappointment in your mouth, struggling down your gagging throat like a dry snake, only to curl up into a painful ball in your bawling belly. Shoddy goods at inflated prices, such was my encounter with jewish wryish. Explains why the jewish comedian Charlie Chaplan ate his shoe, it had more substance.
Here I am, the Frying Dutchman wondering America and baking in the midday heat.