On Purim, we are meant to dance as we plead and to sing as we ask
They say a writer has to know his audience. I am fairly confident, writing for adults in the Orthodox world, that there are some things I can take for granted about the majority of the readership.
For instance, it’s a safe bet that if you are a frum male, you derive extraordinary satisfaction and pleasure in beating whatever time Waze predicted it would take you to get to your destination, and you will tell everyone at the vort you just drove in for how you achieved this Olympian feat.
If you are a frum male, you get a strange sense of fulfillment in boarding the airplane when they announce boarding for Zone 3, even though your ticket is Zone 4. It makes no difference — your seat isn’t changing, and your carry-on won’t fit in the overhead bin, regardless — but for some odd reason, it gives you a geshmak.
I think I can comfortably assert that you do not know the words to the low part of “Shaarei Shamayim Psach.” (Someone at your Purim seudah will sing it, and then everyone will falter and you will keep going, gaining instant respect when you keep singing: tzekon lachasham keshov, Kah shochen meulim. You’re welcome.)
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