Born to an Irish-Catholic peasant father and a Van Dyke-Cockney mother, I was a poor, simple child who lived a poor, simple childhood playing with coal at Christmas and laying my eggs in the sand. My blissful ignorance was shattered when it was revealed the maternal bloodline were all turncoat Jews who converted to secular neo-Christianity as a means of avoiding persecution during those dark days of the Holocaust. Unfortunately for them, four thousand years of beautiful tradition can't be swept under the carpet so easily; I am the Hasidic throwback who runs from the shellfish, dancing a klezmerim hotstep on their revisionist doctrine.
I wear my foreskin like a cowardly sea-captain wears the buoyancy aid as he abandons the sinking ship, carrying its ungainly burden between my legs as a symbol of Jewish guilt stretching back through the fog of history, a constant reminder of my unenlightened years spent eating bacon and casually uttering the true name of The Lord.