In any of the yeshivish diras located in Yerushalayim, the Motzei Purim scene is identical. On an incredibly dirty tablecloth of some form (likely the kind that is designed to be easily washable and therefore remain perpetually clean- only the makers never counted on bochurim diras, and the tablecloth is now hopelessly and forever stained) is scattered about tens and tens of wine bottles. Contained within the bottles are varying levels of alcoholic beverages, many of which were not the original inhabitants of their current hosts. And yet, all of these bottles and associated wines share a common characteristic. 
They were all purchased in the exact same fashion, with the exact same question.

The purchaser, in each case, asked the proprietor or wine store attendant for only one thing.

“Give me a dry wine that goes down easy”.

Personally, I’ve been misidentified this way more times than I can remember, by people from all walks of life. Just as examples; a secular lady from Tel Aviv, a chosid from Ashdod, a Tzioni from up north, all united in this singular form of achdus.

I used to think that perhaps the Mir simply had a better PR machine than the nonexistent one(s) of their Soleveitchik led brethren. But then I discovered the origins of the Chelm legends. And it all made sense.

Everyone is familiar with the fables of Chelm. In heimish circles, Chelm is classically associated with the fool. Stories abound of the wild and wacky things Chelmites have performed in their untiring pursuit of the very pinnacle of imbecility. While the origins of the extreme denseness is apparently a source of much good natured debate among Jewstorians, my personal favorite goes as follows:

The people of Chelm were in fact a brilliant lot. Lovers of the book, and sincere rodfei chochmah, the batei midrashim there didn’t have light switches; the lights were simply kept on all the time. And yet, being a shtetl in Europe, there did exist a proportion of the populace whose intelligence levels were lower than the municipal average. Causing no end of grief to their more enlightened townsmen, eventually a movement formed with one purpose: to evict those townsmen in Chelm that had difficulty keeping up with the Rav’s weekly hashkafa shiur, with the Rosh Yeshiva’s blatt shiur, and conversation in general.

This movement, known as ACHZURIM (Association of Chelmites Having Zeal and Umbrage Relating to Idiocy in Men), finally gained a majority in the local legislative body. Presently, the great day came, and all Chelmites with an IQ of less than 120 were summarily evicted from the shtodt. They were, of course, given double recompense for their homes and possessions they did not wish to take with them. All of the townsmen, fools and wise men alike, mourned the day, but at the same time all accepted it as being the wisest course of action; the former in deference to the latter, and the latter being the wise men knew it as the wisest course. Most of the fools, utilizing the sage advice of their erstwhile brethren, converted the cash into diamonds and other forms of high value, mobile currency. Since, however, these yidden were more or less unskilled, they became doomed to roam the hinterlands of Europe. An endless trek through the yiddishe shtetlach of old, they sold various odds and ends, making a living even as they lived a life patterned after their forefathers in Sinai of old.

This, of course, gave rise to Chelm’s eponymous association with fools. Being that whenever people would meet one of these peddler Chelmites, and would ask where these fools were from, the peddlers would proudly provide the name of their hometown. Before long, Chelm had acquire the unfortunate reputation of being a city of total fools.

And that, my friends, is why I think people so often identify bochurim as belonging to the Mir.

In America, most bochurim have access, in one form or another, to automobiles. Take a joyride around Avenue L and Coney Island at 9AM on beiz Nissan if you don’t believe me. It is almost a bushah to roll into Shomer Shabbos without an engine powered contrivance. And yet, during the zman, we are curiously without means of conveyance. Yes, Avis Jerusalem does do a brisk business with various yeshivos, unnamed here, but for the most part, we’re pretty good about not renting cars and staying away from Eldan, Six-T, Hertz, and Israel’s many other vehicle rental establishments. So why the self imposed ban on automobile access? What drives the desire to refrain from getting behind the wheel in Israel?

The easy answer, is of course, that it is a shter to learning. True enough, most guys will offer this up as the ikkar reason for not renting cars in Eretz Yisroel. Others might say they shter zich from other bochurim (read: peer pressure). Wonderful reasons, these, and accurate enough. But in the interests of exploring one of the most time honored professions in Israel, allow me to soliloquize for a bit here.

I believe the true cheshbon behind our disdain for dashing off in dirty Daihatsu’s is quite simple. We prefer the entertainment of the monit drivers. 
Ask around; anyone who is anyone who has been anywhere in Israel has a nahag monit story. In fact, the Misrad Hapnim recently announced that as part of the citizenship test for making aliyah they are now requiring a 500 word essay on the most fascinating monit story that you have. Or that you wished you had- either way. Al kol ponim, taxi drivers here are in a league of their own. With an endless Ivrit cornucopia equal parts obscenity, political monologue, and hashkafa, there is a good chance that the monit driver is today’s version of Bialik’s kibbutznik. Then too, the apparent worldliness of these level-headed leaders of lost leit is astonishing. Why, in the last year or so, I’m quite sure I haven’t met a single taxi driver who hasn’t been to LA or NYC, and owned or managed at least one pizza shop there for a few months too.

The vast majority of this race within a race have been wheelmen so long that they little know how to do anything else anymore. Maybe some can still make falafel. But as opposed to their New York based Pakistani  counterparts, these guys are expert conversationalists. They can argue anything eight ways from Sunday, and give you an ibbar chodesh odef to boot. Stemming, of course, from the Yiddishe knack for hock and k’nock, most any nahag monit could schmuess you into silence on even the longest of rides. I should know- I’ve tried. Well, there it is folks.

That, friends and foes, is why I prefer flying in taxis.

• Nautica (without the boat label) shirt. Freshly starched, Davidka only. Mezlan belt. No sweater. Ecco shoes, lightly scuffed by professional shoe shiner.

In Dira:

• Black cardigan, all buttons closed. Scarf, bohemian tied down middle of shirt. Cig in one hand (ML only), coffee/Pepsi Max in other.

On the Street:

• Scarf, gray/black cashmere, casually tossed behind shoulder. Davening jacket, one button closed. Hat. No coat.

On Chanukah Trip to Tzefas for Shabbos:

• Pack regular suit pants, suit jacket, Shabbos hat. Forget everything in dira (alternative: car is full because extra guy stuffed himself in at last minute), end up with just an almost white shirt and pants.

Back Home Bein Hazmanim:

• New wardrobe. People wear clothing in America. Meshugoyim.

Turns out BMG (Beis Medrash Govoha) had their very own Chanukah nes this year.

They gave one Shabbos off, and it turned into eight days.

The fact is, we are the most misunderstood species on the planet. Being as our Creator did not bless us with particularly appealing looks, it has been our lot to be maligned, abused- both mentally and physically, and yes, even crushed for no other crime than our mere existence.
Why, just the other day I attended the levayah of my dear Uncle Sheketz, who was crushed by our worst enemy, a particularly violent fellow named Hashkeim L’Hargo. That was in the dira across the street. Sheketz was such a nice guy…sniffle. But back to the Hasbarah. We live peaceful, mostly sedentary lives. The laser-like movements with which you see us speed around are our default mode- we aren’t running, per se. Oh! Look at that! Hang on one sec there…

I quickly skitter across the kitchen floor. Safe! Made it underneath the kitchen sink. Boy, those bochurim sure do leave a ton of food on the ground. Why can’t they ever clean up after themselves? Better for me and my kind, I guess.

I peek out between the sink pipe and Sano bottle they store here. Sano is an industrial strength floor cleaner (sponga liquid); it’s a pretty good guess that it won’t be used at least until Friday afternoon, an hour before Shabbos, if ever. I still have another couple days until then, so d’vaylah it makes for fine cover. Surveying the room, I’m entranced by the forgotten mush of crushed hamburger/french fries that some guy dropped on the floor and didn’t clean up. Abandoned in the corner, the grilled onions are calling my name.

I make a mad dash for it. Currently 3:28AM, the dira should be quiet. Unfortunately for us Juk’im, it is Sof Zman. In ordinary dira/families, this doesn’t mean anything. For me, it means that there are homo sapiens, or worse (bochurim), ready to crush me at any given moment. It’s a tough life.

Rush, run, fast, faster. Here we are. Camouflaged by the brown burger, I can munch contentedly away while I hold forth. Back to you…

Being a Juk is tough. Take my life, for instance. I live in a bochurim’s dira. While there are several moredige maalos meyuched to bochurim diras in living here, for the most part I deal with same great Nisayon every other Juk contends with: Not getting crushed. Think that’s funny? Let’s see you run around all day, scavenging for food, terrified of the Florsheim encased foot that may rain down death upon you from Shomayim at any moment.

You do get used to it. Like Air Force enlistees that can distinguish bombers by their engine sounds, I’ve learned to differentiate the  bochurim’s strides until I know who is coming before they’ve even entered the dira. Like now, l’moshel. I can hear Greasy Guy unlocking the door and coming in. He’s muttering under his breath about the lack of proper air conditioning, coupled with the scarcity of minyanim tonight in ZeMo. He isn’t in a good mood. I can discern that, too, from the pace and velocity his beaten up Rockports are hitting the ground. His footfalls give him. I’ll have to make sure to stay away from him. Usually, he doesn’t mind an occasional glimpse of me; in fact, I sometimes wonder if he doesn’t harbor some sort of secret affinity for me. No doubt his mother didn’t let him take home stray dogs or something. But no one likes us when they’re in a bad mood.

Other guys, like The Total Tomim, different. He’s actually my favorite resident of this abode we share. You see, he never notices me. Should he ever end up squashing one of my brethren, it will have been totally by accident. The downside of Total Tomim is that he never leaves over any scraps; all he eats is bread and water (although he does occasionally dip it into chummous or something).

Ahhh. That burger was scrumptious. I think I’ll wrap up with a bit of melted ice cream (pareve, of course) that has found its way beneath the fridge. Which brings us back to utter squalor of my home. It’s one of the perks of being in a bochurim’s dira.

In fact, amongst us Juk’im, bochurim diras are the most highly sought after real estate on the market, second only to Malchei Yisroel falafel shops. When the tivuch agent, Kol HaRomeis Al Ha’Aretz, informed me of the opening, I grabbed it, sight unseen.

There we are. Wow. I’d forgotten how good chocolate pareve ice cream was. Last time I had it was under the old olam in the dira, some two Zmanim ago. That’s another thing about us. While our appetite are immense, and our specific propensity for junk food is enormous, we don’t typically have the y’cholus to satisfy our food cravings on demand.

Uh oh.

I hear Showerless Shloime coming. Shloime hates showering- he holds it’s Bittul Torah, and does so only l’kavod Shabbos. As it happens, he’s also a mad masmid. But Showerless Shloime has also become somewhat of a nemesis of mine. Either because of some form of prisoner’s compassion gone wrong (we’re both m’shubad to the same meshugas- chazershtalling), or perhaps out of basic kinah, the man hates me. I confess I don’t understand the hatred, but that’s galus, right?

Anyway, here he comes. I better sign off for now, before he busts me. Or crushes me…ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Regards,

-Sheretz

(This post partly inspired by this tweet from fellow YG Halapedia).

Check out Shtetl Vision for the answer.

Yankel went over to a particular fellow on the first night of sefira, just before the counting of the Omer.

Affecting a tone of dismay, he begged the yid to be motzi him with the bracha. The fellow answered Yankel as most would.

“Yankel, meshugenne, it’s the first night. There’s no way in the world that you could need someone to be motzi you”!

“OK,” he replied.

“In that case, it’s my pleasure to be motzi you.”

K.O.

Frummie - Same as above. I’ve never heard a frummie say frummie.
(What should be used: Yeshivish, Frum, Greased, Chanyuk).

Pashut Pshat – Another frequent loshon often misused by wannabe yeshivaleit. Even in the course of learning, this one rarely crops up. Stay away from it.
(What should be used: Pashtus)

Rav - (with a long “A”) – This is only used in reference to one person, and almost always only derogatorily. It is not used to refer to a Rebbe, Rov, or respected yungerman.
(What should be used: Rebbe, Rov)

Maidel – While the topic is generally avoided b’chlall, if push comes to shove, other euphemisms are employed. Not maidel. I blame the Blogovelt for this one.
(What should be used: Osoh Davar, It, Them, etc. SG’s, of course, are entitled to far more caustic adjectives. V’hamayvin Yavin).

Follow these hard and fast rules, and you’ll find yourself on the road to stardom faster than you can say pashut pshat, shtarker guy.

Ad astra per aspera. Good luck.

Aviva
Ayelet HaShachar
Emunah Rochel
Uri
Boaz
Gad Chaim
Hadar
Hodaya
Michal
Ma’ayan
Nevei
Noam Yehuda
Na’ami
Amichai
Raius
Rayeh
Sarah
Shachar
Tehillah
Tohar
Talyah
Yarona
Yanun
Yascha
Ya’aleh

My favorite? Easy.

Ayelet HaShachar.

I wonder if the Bubby’s name was really Esther or something like that…