Pass (It) Over

In the spirit of Passover, which begins tonight at sundown, I want to share my friend Kay's grandfather's story. Many years ago, my friend Kay's grandfather sought liberation from the winters of New Jersey. Fortunately, unlike our forefamilies in Egypt, he did not need permission of the governor of New Jersey before he could leave. This also made it easier to sell his house, as he did not need to smear lamb's blood around the door frame so that the Angel of Death would pass over.

Kay's grandparents packed up their belongings. They loaded their mule (a hired moving truck from a large national company), and headed to the Promised Land (aka Florida). In significantly less than 40 years, they settled into their new home. The mule/moving truck, however, was no where to be located.

Kay's grandpa went into the local office of the moving company. "Where's my stuff?" he asked.

"We need several thousand more dollars before we can let your stuff go," the extortionist answered.

Kay's grandpa went home. He didn't have time to ask God to unleash ten plagues upon the moving company, so he picked up his gun and returned to the office.

"I'm old and have nothing to loose," he said and pointed the weapon at the youthful Pharaoh at the desk. "If that is not the same for you, let my stuff go."

And lo, his belongings were liberated and in his home the next day.