Mr. B and I were visiting my grandpa, last weekend. After he was done telling us that one Rabinovich joke where Rabinovich is dying and his cheap family in Russia sends his family in America a telegram. ”Rabinovich is dead.” ”Oy,” comes the telegram reply, he turned to us and asked if we wanted any shmendrickeli. Shmendrickeli is not a real word, but one my grandpa made up to refer semi-scornfully to stuff he doesn’t like. Shmendrikevich is the human ...








