_(excerpted from original article)_
That night, I lay in bed and thought about little Isaac’s nozzle. I couldn’t get past how ridiculous it looked. Like a tiny cowl-neck sweater. Then I started thinking about—and I know how terrible this sounds—but I started thinking about the word smegma. I couldn’t get it out of my head. Smegma…smegma…smegma. That’s what little Isaac was looking at, a lifetime supply of the stuff. And not only that, but there was no way his little Jewish friends were ever going to accept him as a Jew once they saw the nozzle. What Carmen had done, in effect, she’d pulled off a palace coup.
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