Short Like My Uncle Murray, alav ha-shalom

There are short stories. And short-short stories. And flash fiction.

And then, that most particular of all forms, the six-word short story. Believed to have been invented by Ernest Hemingway when he penned this ditty:
For sale: baby shoes, never worn.

Although some sources give it as For sale: baby carriage, never used.

Amazing, you can put a whole story into just six words.

And still people misremember two of them.

In the age of SMSing and Twittering and generally not bothering to read any print, there's been a renewed flurry of (short-term) attention for six-word stories. But it never really resonated with me, until the Hipster Yidsters over at Reboot published a bunch of Six Word Jewish Memoirs.

The potential of this genre has me starry-eyed. Six point-starry eyed, to be precise.

Here's the first batch I've come up with. They're not all memoir, inasmuch as they're not true-to-my-life, but they're true to Jew life more generally.

(Caveat goyim: there's a lot of Jew-specific humor here, so some of you may want to wander out for a mayo on Wonderbread sandwich rather than reading on)

Parents forbade intermarriage. Living with Sheygetz.

I got it all on sale.

What goes with everything? Sour cream!

Brit milah: unkindest cut of all.

My father, circa 1977: midlife Jewfro.

If my mother called once, dayenu!

Double unveiling: Bubbe's tombstone, sister's nose.

Six words? That's SO not Jewish.

I cordially invite you to add your own. You know you want to . . .