"The other day when you were talking to me, I suddenly felt you were no longer talking to me but to your dad," says a friend.
"What do you mean? What was I talking about?"
"Your voice changed and you got all vengeful. You were talking about how you would not carry treif food for a friend who needed help. And you said something like who cares about what the goyim think."
D. emails: Listen good, Sunny Jim. If you EVER speak to me like that, I’ll knock you down quicker than fair-dinkum Jack Sprat, I will. Then, I’ll place my foot on your throat and crush your bloody esophagus under my heel. After that, I’ll sit back, enjoy an ANZAC biscuit and watch you suffocate. And stop sending me those bloody tagged photos, you fair-dinkum ponce. One more shows up in my inbox, and I swear to all I hold holy that I’ll hunt you down and bash you so badly that even your brother Paul won’t recognize you at your funeral. Now THAT lad is a son I can be proud of. Floaters every time.