Birds wake him up, and he is sure their chirping sounds vaguely like the Horst-Wessel Lied. So, he takes out a shotgun and tries to shoot these winged anti-semites, but his hands aren’t used to handling something so big and not sawed off. He misses and hits a neighbor, who complains vehemently, screaming, “You blind putz!!”
Hen yells back, “If Hamas shot you, you wouldn’t be complaining! You’d be smiling from here to Hebron! You would take a picture of it and post it online, you vile anti-semite!”
The neighbor yells, “I’m Jewish myself, you chicken nugget!!”
Hen shakes his head, and that napkin thing on his head falls off. He picks it up and notices it says, Made in China. He mutters, “Those squinty-eyed anti-semites.”
It’s time for breakfast. His Indian personal servant, Vikram Vishnu Vuk U Chicken Tikka Masala (VVV for his friends), places a plate of hummus in his lap, with olives from Nablus and a cup of hot meremiyah tea. The plate slips, and the hot tea spills all over Hen’s pajamas—printed with Stars of David.
“You did that on purpose, you—” Hen starts, but VVV finishes for him, “Yes, yes, anti-semite, I know.”
Hen threatens, “I’ll replace you with a Thai agricultural worker. They’re smaller, more subservient, and even cheaper to maintain.”
VVV shrugs. “You’d miss my chicken tikka masala too much.”
“That’s true. It’s anti-semitic to cook that well,” Hen admits.
VVV yawns. “There’s an ambulance outside the neighbor’s door.”
“Rockets, you think?” Hen asks.
“No, birds,” VVV replies.
“Ah, family of yours,” VVV teases.
“Anti-semite! And now let me work.”
VVV smirks. “I don’t know if tweeting about all things anti-semitic can be considered work.”
“You wanna see what the government pays me for this shit?”
“Never mind,” says VVV. “I’m going to check on the neighbor. Maybe he’s badly injured.”
“You would love that, wouldn’t you? You just love seeing injured Jews, anti-semite!”
Hen does his usual tour of the world’s anti-semitic media—which, in his mind, is all media everywhere—and lets his followers know what, in particular, strikes him as anti-semitic.
Then, nature’s anti-semitic forces send a drone to potentially eliminate him. It’s a mosquito. It lands on Hen’s balls—not his golf balls, which he keeps in hopes of one day playing golf with Trump or Harris, but his actual balls.
Hen rolls up a paper copy of the most anti-semitic newspaper on the planet, Haaretz, ready to strike. But the mosquito decides there can’t be much blood in pea-sized crumbs and flies off. Hen, unable to let things go, chases it for two hours until it lands on a portrait of a famous rabbi feeding ducks in a park.
In his rage, Hen grabs his shotgun and blows the picture in half. The mosquito escapes. Hen mutters, “Verdammt, that was kind of anti-semitic of me.”
He curses his aunt, who gave him the painting. “What kind of self-hating Jewess would give a painting like that to a proud son of the Chazars—I mean, verdammt, the original dudes, Semites, yes, Semites—who is daily fighting in his war room to show the world how its anti-semitism is causing the genocide?”
His downstairs neighbor yells, “The imaginary one or the one in Gaza?”
“Stop eavesdropping, Mrs. Esther Viel-Zu-Ehrlich Rubongstein!”
Under his breath, Hen mumbles, “Those verdammte Holocaust survivors are the absolute worst.”
“I heard that!” comes from downstairs.
“How can you hear so well at 98 years of age?”
“99. It was my birthday last week, and you got me nothing, you cheap geezer!”
“Geezer? Who talks like that? Surely you are an—”
“Try calling me an anti-semite, Hen boy. Is that your nom de plume? Hen? Plume? Feathers!”
“HAHA, Frau Cohen, very, very funny.”
“Our people have a most wonderfully cheeky sense of humor, chicken boy.”
“If she didn’t have that tattoo on her arm, I’d ink her with the word—”
“Anti-semite?”
“Mrs. Cohen, you bugged my room! Nobody at 98 hears that well!”
“99. And I have a hearing aid made by a German pharmaceutical company. It’s so good I could hear Bibi jump for joy and sing ‘The Saints Are Marching Home’ on October 8th.”
“Don’t you want to spare the battery?”
“I’m not a frigging skinflint like you, Hen. Jews aren’t as cheap as you think, you anti-semite!”
“I’m the least anti-semitic person in the world! I call out anti-semitism everywhere.”
“Yes, even where it isn’t. Well, mainly where it isn’t.”
Luckily, it’s time for lunch before Hen takes the shotgun off the wall again.
Hen eats his delicious chicken tikka masala and scrolls through Twitter. Every time he’s insulted online, he asks VVV how to respond. He figures VVV must be good at handling insults, given his past as a brown hotel worker in Cyprus, likely dealing with Israeli tourists.
After lunch, Hen naps while VVV takes over his Twitter account. The result? A 10% increase in views—and therefore shekels—because VVV doesn’t label everything anti-semitic.
When Hen wakes up and notices the boost, he doesn’t thank VVV. Instead, he calls him an anti-semite for trying to appeal to fellow anti-semites.
From downstairs, Frau Cohen yells, “I knew that wasn’t you tweeting!”
Hen charges toward the door with his shotgun, but VVV tackles him. Hen rolls out onto the street, where a car nearly hits him. His shotgun accidentally fires, hitting a seven-year-old Arab-Israeli boy in the arm. The weapon has VVV’s fingerprints all over it, so Hen has him arrested.
On Twitter, Hen claims a Hamas militant staged a terror attack and was so indiscriminate he didn’t even hit a Jew.
At dinner, Hen realizes VVV is in prison and can’t cook for him. He calls the police, asking if VVV can still prepare dinner and have it delivered. When they refuse, Hen yells, “Anti-semites!” and throws his smartphone out the window—hitting another neighbor.
The neighbor kindly returns the phone but points out the small crack on the screen.
Hen notices the crack and glares.
The neighbor calmly says, “Hen, seriously, I’m not an anti-semite. I invaded Lebanon twice.”
“How in the Promised Land did you know what I was going to say?”
“Intuition.”
“We Jews do have tons of intuition. That’s what makes all those haters so envious. Frigging anti-semites.”
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The Confessor 