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Shragi and Shia and the Purim Fiasco

Yael Mermelstein

"No way," I said to Shia. "It's hard enough to be a beggar, we don't need to advertise it by dressing up as real beggars. I say we stick with my idea of singing and dancing." Shia yawned. "Well," he said. "I couldn't have thought of anything less exciting myself."

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

"Ha ha, hee hee!" Shia laughed.  I laughed just as hard looking at him.  He wore mismatched boots with holes in them.  His pants were torn and his brown shirt and jacket hung on him like loose teeth.  He had dirt smudged across his cheeks and a net sack full of dented tin cans slung over his shoulder.

And I was wearing the same thing. I cracked up as I looked at my crumpled shirtsleeves.

"We are definitely the beggiest beggars in the world," Shia said as we grabbed our Yeshiva's tzedaka box and raced each other out of the house.

"No such word as beggiest," I called after Shia as the wind whipped his tattered hood and it smacked him in his face.

"First stop, Harold Leech," Shia said.

 

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MM217
 
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