Men’s Club News June 2013

(Editor’s Note: The following document, initially intended for the June issue of the Shofar, mysteriously disappeared, only to be discovered, mere hours ago, in the International Arrivals terminal of the Moscow Airport)

And this is how we first found out:
Full and feted, satiated in mind and body after another stimulating Men’s Club Luncheon, he whistles his way home, only to find the wife waiting at the door:

“Tell me again what you had for lunch at Jason’s?” an angry Rose, arms akimbo, a scolding, shaming visage upon her face, playing the Grand Inquisitor.

“A little burger with side salad,” George meekly responds.

“Little burger my aunt Betty’s bunions!” Rose yells. “You ate all of the Buffalo Wings Burger with extra cheese, bacon, and chunky-style barbeque sauce! Plus a combo fries and onion rings. And you licked the plate clean, didn’t you?”

George is too nonplused to reply. He hangs his head, diverts his eyes.

“You should choke on the bones!” Rose goes on. (Not even aware that the Buffalo Wings Burger is a boneless filet of fried chicken atop a half pound of chopped chuck. {You’ll find it under ‘Specials’ on Jason’s NTHC- Only- Menu})

And this confirmed it:

“And what did you have for lunch today, dear? ”Margaret gently asks.

“Oh, salad bar, like always,” Ernie answers.

“And,” Margaret went on, her voice now a shrill accusation, “did you bother putting anything green on that bowlful of Creamed Green Goddess Dressing?!”

Busted!!! Each man who’d broken bread that day confirmed it. The wives not only knew what we’d eaten, but what was discussed around the table, and who said what. Most dastardly, they knew every comment we’d registered about the women in our lives. Particularly the ones who weren’t our wives!

Hacked!!! A self-appointed, ad hoc committee of heated Hebrews immediately descended upon our clubhouse demanding to see Jason.

“Who?” the barkeep asked.

“Jason, the owner. You know, like in Jason’s!”

“Oh,” the maître-de chuckled. “You are misinformed. There’s no Jason at Jason’s. Never was. It’s a pseudonym, ya know. An alias. Like Hooter’s. No one goes over there asking for Hooter, ya know.”

So who or what had betrayed us? Who knew our every move, recorded our every word?

“NSA,” Harry said.

“CIA,” Jon opined.

“Massad, obviously. Smells like an inside job, “ Bart barked.

“Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear, “Joe murmured.

Just then George’s cell phone rang. It was Barry, calling from Florida.

“There must be something wrong with this connection,” George told him. “It just doesn’t sound like you, Barry.”

“Of course not,” Barry told him. “I’ve had my voice double encrypted. And don’t call me Barry on the phone. I’ve been calling myself ‘Louise’ to throw them off the track.”

Louise went on to tell us how all his emails had come back marked ‘Return to Sender. Love Elvis’, and how this otherworldly humming sound was permeating his house.

“They’ve got me, boys,” Louise went on. “I expect the black helicopters on the front lawn at any moment.”

There it was. They were closing in. But what acronymous, clandestine government agency could be interested in the stale jokes and menu choices of a bunch of alter cockers?

“Must be the same people who are secretly recording every single spoken and written word, every unvoiced thought of every single person on earth,” Harry suggested.

Suddenly, you could see the light bulb go off in Ernie’s head.

“Ach Mein Gott!” he exclaimed. “It’s worse than that. There’s only one organization so nefarious and devious as to concoct a plot like this.

Run for your lives, men, it’s the Sisterhood!!!”

And last seen, your NTHC Men’s Club, heads hanging low like on a perp walk, one by one as if on a chain gang, hands held high in the air, were seen slowly exiting from the pseudonymous Jason’s.