A Shpy musht always be resourceful. That means if one thing doesn’t work, you try shomething else. That reminds me of the time when Mrs. Shpy was getting ready to light Shabbos candles.

“Oh my!” she said. “We’re out of matches.”

“No problem,” I said. “I just bought a new box for Passover. Here it is.” She looked at the box and then began shutting every door and window she could find.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Following the instructions,” she replied. “The box says, ‘Close before lighting!’ ”

“I think the message meant close the cover of the box!” I suggested.

“You can never be too shafe!” she replied. Hashem must have heard her, because every match she tried fizzled out before she could use it!”

“A Shpy is always prepared!” I shaid, grabbing my attaché case. There, next to my laundry lisht (which lishts all the laundry in my briefcase) was a pack of shafety matches. I gave it to Mrs. Shpy. Baruch Hashem, these matches worked, and my wife lit her Shabbos candles just in time!

After Shabbos, I tried lighting the havdala candle using a match from the Passover box. It flared and fizzled out! A Shpy never gives up. 463 matches later, I reached the end of the box. Not one match had stayed lit. “Hmmm,’ I said, “This seems shushpicious!” I shaid.

“Maybe it was a batch of bad matches,” Mrs. Shpy wondered.

“Can you shay that 10 times?” I ashked.

“Shpy!” Mrs. Shpy shcolded.

“Shorry,” I apologized. “Maybe it’s a plot from the YH!” I examined the box. It shaid, “Matchless Match Company. Lighting up the world with darkness!”

“I knew it!“ I shaid. “The YH wants to make sure we can’t burn our chometz.”

“Or light our Yom Tov candles,” Mrs. Shpy added.

“Or Shabbos!” I exclaimed! Then I jumped to the phone and called my faithful friend, Feivel of Fliggle-finger. “Hello, Feivel,” I shaid, “the YH is making matches that don’t shtay lit. Meet me at the Shpycopter; we’re going to the match-making capital of the world!”

“The match-making capital?” Feivel said. “I don’t think I’m really ready to get married, Shpy.”

“No, no, Feivel! We’re going to Shplintersville, Maine, where they make matches to light candles with!”

After I got off the phone with Feivel, I called Yossi at the Passover shtore and told him to shtop shelling no-light matches. Then I called Kalman the Kosher Cowboy and asked him to meet me at the Shpycopter ASAPP (that twice as fast as ASAP). “And bring the shtrongest, most elashtic rope that you can get!” I added.

“Shore thing!” Kalman said.

"You've losht, YH! Kalman the Kosher Cowboy has just shtrung a shuper-shtrong-elashtic-mesh across the Shplintersville River."

At the Shpycopter, I explained to them the plan. “Feivel, you should ashk the YH a lot of questions sho that Kalman will have enough time to get ready. Kalman will shneak down to the bottom of the Shplintersville Falls and tie one end of his rope to a big tree. When I give the shignal, he should throw his rope across the water and lasso the biggest boulder on the other side.”

“What are you going to do, Shpy?” Feivel asked.

“I’m going to pray my plan works!” I anshwered.

For the next two hours, I flew the Shpycopter northward and eashtward. We passed forests and fields, hills and valleys, till finally we shighted a pleasant little town nestled in the foothills. Outshide was a big shign that shaid, “Welcome to Splintersville, Match Capital of the world. “

“Look!” Feivel exclaimed. “Over there, Shpy, a river.”

“That must be the Shplintersville River,” I shaid.

“And look, Shpy, further upshtream! A huge waterfall! Listen to the roar of the water!”

“Yes, Feivel. Those must be the famous Shplintersville Falls. Probably there are logging camps nearby.”

“The YH’s too!?” Feivel guessed.

We pointed the Shpycopter upstream. Sure enough, after a couple of miles, we shaw a clearing in the woods. A large logging operation was going on. Lumberjacks had cut down a shtand of huge tall trees, which they were hauling to the river, and floating them downstream to the mill where they would be turned into millions and millions of worthless matches!

I found a clearing and landed the Shpycopter. Kalman jumped out and vanished into the forest, while Feivel and I began shneaking toward the logging camp. We had just reached the edge of the camp when shuddenly a huge net dropped from a tree, capturing both Feivel and myshelf in one shwell foop, I mean, one fell shwoop!”

“Shpy and Feivel!” a voice laughed. “I was hoping you’d show up.”

A chill ran down my shpine. I knew that voice all too well.

“Welcome, welcome. I have a special privilege for you. I want to honor you by helping me ruin Passover this year for so many millions of families! Ha-Ha-Ha-Ha!”

“What?” Feivel shouted. “We’ll never help you do that!”

“Oh but you will,” the YH went on. “I’m giving you the honor of sending all the logs down river to be made into matches. That way, when no one can burn their chametz or light their candles on Passover, you’ll be responsible! HA-HA-HA-HA!” he cackled.

“What if we refuse?” Feivel said.

“Then you’ll never see your home again!” the YH threatened.

“Oh no!” Feivel cried out. “Shpy, save us! Help! Help!” he screamed.

“Scream all you want,” the YH shouted. “There’s no one for miles around to hear you!”

Feivel began trembling from head to foot. “Shpy, what are we going to do?” he cried.

“Shay the 12 Peshukim, Feivel,” I shaid. “That always helps!” Then I reached into my attaché case and took out a shuper-shpecial-ultra-shonic-Shpy-whistle, and gave a high pitched blasht!

“HA-HA-HA!” the YH crowed. “Do you think anyone can hear your whistle? Now send the logs away or else!”

“Well, YH, if you inshisht, I guess I don’t have a choice,” I shaid, and pulled the lever that opened the gate and sent the first logs shplashing downshtream.

“Ha! I’ve won!” the YH shouted.

“No, YH” I replied. “You’ve lost! Because in just 10 sheconds you’re going to be history!”

“Just 10? 10 what? 10 months? 10 days? 10 minutes?”

“9…” I counted down, “…8…7…”

“What are you talking about?” the YH said nervously.

“I’ll tell you, YH,” I shaid. “Kalman the Kosher Cowboy has just shtrung a shuper-shtrong-elashtic mesh across the Shplintersville River, right by the Falls. Once the firsht 75 foot tall log hits, the force of the river should shtretch the mesh like a giant shling shot. You can expect the trees to shart shnapping back here any second …5!…4!

Suddenly, we heard a whistling shound, like a shcud misshile coming down… Louder and LOUDER!


“Run for it!” I yelled to Feivel! We barely got out of range when a huge CRASH threw us to the ground!!

“Wow! That was close!” Feivel said.

Feivel and I shnuck back to see what was left of the camp. All we found was a series of craters 100 feet deep, piled high with timber. The YH was nowhere to be found.

Like I always shay, matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match…

from the