Greetings. My name is Moysha, Mohel, Moyal, Manacham, Goldstein, Silverberg, Platinumowitz,

war reporter for the Jewish Telegraph Agency.

I come to you from a smoldering pile of rubble.

Here at what used to be, UCLA, my dear mother-in-law's alma matter.

The scenes I saw the previous night on this campus were once did our youth flourish and frolic

were nothing short of apocalyptic.

I saw brutal 19-year-olds

thrusting their heads into the innocent nightclubs

or nightsticks, however you call it,

of our youthful officers in the LAPD.

The previous night, these students who appear to have only learned two things,

Jewish hatred and pronouns, seems to have viciously flung themselves

at a group of our virile Persian Jewish, youthful, 40-year-old men.

Now, I am somebody who is known to be fastidiously neat,

often at the expense of personal relationships.

I am also, I admit, handsy.

But the blood that these students spilled on our precious flagstones and floor of this campus,

to which my grandfather, Warner Brother himself, donated $200 billion, is extraordinary.

Now, thankfully, these students are locked up. And now as I stand here against the smoldery ruins like so much incense out of

abrasia, I am left to wonder, why did you do this? Why do you not care for us? Haven't we

given you ways? Perhaps if you get me Too, you can move to Tel Aviv?

I don't understand the hatred that these young students have for us.

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