When people talk about “innovation,” they like to credit scientists, engineers, Silicon Valley twinks with hoodies and fragile egos.
Bullshit.

Every technological leap this species has ever made started with one question:

The holidays do something to me.
My libido spikes, my cholesterol skyrockets, and every dish suddenly looks like it wants to climb into my lap and ask if I’ve been a naughty boy.
December turns me into a hungry, horny beast with gravy in one hand and my dick in the other.

People always talk about the miracle of Hanukkah like it’s some sacred thing — the oil lasted eight days, the Maccabees fought heroically, yadda yadda.
But come on.
I’m Jewish. I know the truth.

It always starts the same way: December hits, and suddenly every song on the radio sounds like it’s trying to get in my pants.