The Coronavirus Haggadah

After publishing The Emoji Haggadah and The Festivus Haggadah, I didn't think I could come up with yet another haggadah. I was wrong. I present to you:

The Coronavirus Haggadah, AKA Passover 2020, by Martin Bodek

KADESH

When the father comes home from praying in the middle of the street with the properly distanced four cubits per person, he immediately runs to the sink, and washes his hands with kosher for Passover soap and water for 20 seconds, while humming his favorite guitar solo. Then, he recites the benediction over water with a grape-y taste. Proper grape juice being unavailable since the closed Passover programs made it almost as scarce as toilet paper.

URCHATZ

The head of the household scrubs his hands again, for 20 seconds, as does every other member of the household - but one at a time, to create the proper social distancing. Usually, no blessing is said here, but this year the proper blessing is Birkat Hagomel.

KARPAS

The tradition is to dip a vegetable into salt water- typically parsley, celery, potato, onion, or lettuce. Since none of that could be secured at the store due to preppers and hoarders, anything green will do. It doesn't have to be food: some grass clippings or a Hulk toy will suffice. Also, due to low availability of table salt, we recommend using the surplus Ice-Melt in the garage (and having the poison hotline number ready). Winter has been cancelled for the rest of civilization anyway due to global warming, so you won't need it. If you're lucky, drinking the road salt will kill the coronavirus, a win-win.

URCHATZ II

Everybody gets up one at time - not even single-file will be allowed - and scrubs their hands again for another 20 seconds. While doing so, it's a segulah to sing the alphabet in a language you don't speak, so that you spend longer washing your hands.

YACHATZ

The head of the household takes the already-broken (due to legally questionable price-gouging on whole ones) middle matzah and breaks it further. He then estimates which the larger half of shattered pieces is and places it in the afikoman (Greek word meaning "ransom") bag, and hides it in a painfully obvious spot. This lack of cunning is to prevent children from wandering outside to look for it. Can't have that; it's The Purge out there.

URCHATZ III

This time the person with the most-chapped hands goes first, out of respect.

MAGID

We tell over and bring down the story of our exodus, and we begin with the prayer of Ha Lachma Anya. The text is spoken as usual, but with one edit: the part about inviting the hungry to come and eat. Yeah, no one's invited this year. Maybe next year, after the apocalypse.

As for the Mah Nishtana, these are the four questions that can be asked: 

1. Does anyone really need to ask why this night is different from all other nights?
2. Do you not see what's been happening all around you? 
3. Do you live under a rock?
4. Have you been under quarantine for so long, you completely forgot why you’ve been under quarantine in the first place?

However, the head of the household is encouraged to solicit questions, starting with the youngest at the table, and to put no cap on it whatsoever. Don't worry, nobody's going anywhere for a long time, and there's no second night of Passover to prepare for. It was ruled that due to all the various quarantines and shelters-in-place, everywhere is considered a walled city, which means nobody is in Chutz L'aretz or “outside of the land.”

We then recite Avadim Hayinu, as a way to begin to expound on the miracles God hath (fancy Old-English word meaning "has") wrought for us. People who expound on this are considered praiseworthy. Expound away. Some have the new tradition of snacking on (non-kitniyot) Snickers at this point, because you're not going anywhere for a while. Ah har har har. Also, you’re pretty hungry at this point.

Then we recite some short, sweet homiletics about five ancient rabbis who loved to palaver so much, they didn't realize that time had passed until reminded of the time at dawn. Boy, don't you wonder what they would have talked about under our circumstances? At their advanced age, they probably wouldn't be allowed to get together in the first place, due to their 15% death rate. Except for the sneaky one who was actually 18. Clever trick.

The new full text for the section of The Four Sons is as follows:

What does the wise child ask? "What are the advisable things we should be doing during this crisis?" You will respond by instructing the child in the intelligent and responsible measures of social distancing, handwashing, learning the science, understanding the curve-flattening concept, and looking out for your fellow human being.

What does the wicked child ask? "What is with all you people?" It is therefore proper to respond forcefully: "What's the matter with us? What's the matter with you? Get a clue!" Then we imagine giving a V8 slap in the head, but we don't do it for real. Corporal Punishment is Old School. Also, Social Distancing.

What does the simple child ask? "What is this?" With a mighty hand will the Eternal Being, or science, or maybe both, bring us out of this mess.

But as for the one who has no capacity to ask, you must begin the narration in accord with the statement, "And you shall relate to your child on that day," that this is what happens to a society when it doesn't put proper safeguards in place, refuses to acknowledge the truth at the outset, Fake Newses everything until it's suddenly too late, and has people who think they're not subject to sensible rules.

We then speed along the next few paragraphs, so we can make some progress - gosh, we're starving! - and pause at Vehi She’amda, which is now paraphrased thus:

And it is that promise which has been our ancestors' support and ours, for not just one disease has stood against us, but in every generation some have arisen to exterminate us, yet the Most Holy and blessed, using science as his primary tool, saved us.

You see what I did there. Subtle.

A few more paragraphs to zip through, but taking a beat to stare at this whopper: "Your breast is formed, and your hair is grown, whereas you had been naked and bare." Chortle to yourself like Beavis and Butthead, then move on. People aren't paying attention at this point anyway. They're too busy deciphering The Emoji Haggadah. 

Next stop is Vinitzak el HaShem, which we pause to say out loud all together, and needs no paraphrasing whatsoever:

And we cried out to The Eternal, the God of our fathers, and The Eternal heard our voice, saw our affliction, our sorrow, and our oppression. And our empty cupboards. Our tushies, however, are nice and clean.

We motor through a large chunk of the text and arrive at The Plagues. The ten usual ones are unchanged, but we're going to add the 11th plague to the list this year. That is Coronavirus, of course.

This effectively means that Rabbi Yehuda's initials formulation now reads D”etzach A”dash B”achavc. This new phrase still remains curiously indecipherable gibberish.

In honor of the spirited discussion between Rav Yose, Rabbi Akiva, and Rav Eliezer, we now take a moment to round-table discuss the nature of the coronavirus. Will this beast just end up being another version of the flu? Will it mutate to become more benign or more malignant? We know there are four coronaviruses already that are passed around seasonally. Will this just become the fifth? Or is this so lethal, it's in a class by itself? Will immune people still pass it on somehow? Will a vaccine protect for life, or be seasonal? Engage fully, and enjoy the intellectual rigor. Keep it going, the conversation will never be: dayenu. Ah har har har. The rest is not so funny:

If Chinese officials realized they were taking care of a very ill patient, but had not taken seventeen days to realize this was a new strain of coronavirus, it would have been enough to contain the plague.

If it took them seventeen days, but had not asked the medical director to cover things up, it would have been enough to contain the plague.

If they asked the medical director to cover things up, but had not called it “pneumonia of unclear cause” after they already knew what it really was, it would have been enough to contain the plague.

If they called it “pneumonia of unclear cause," but had not ordered labs to stop testing samples and to destroy existing samples, it would have been enough to contain the plague.

If they ordered labs to stop testing samples and to destroy existing samples, but had not withheld their knowledge of the coronavirus' complete genetic information for a week, it would have been enough to contain the plague.

If they withheld their knowledge of the coronavirus' complete genetic information, but had not had the Wuhan Health Commission insist there are no new cases, it would have been enough to contain the plague.

If they had told the Wuhan Health Commission to insist there are no new cases, but had not informed the WHO that there was no clear evidence of human-to-human transmission of the novel coronavirus even though there was plenty of it, it would have been enough to contain the plague.

If they had informed the WHO that there was no clear evidence of human-to-human transmission of the novel coronavirus even though there was plenty of it, but had not let a patient with a known coronavirus infection travel to the U.S. (a day after the WHO made their announcement), it would have been enough to contain the plague.

If they let a patient with a known coronavirus infection travel to the U.S. (a day after the WHO made their announcement), but had not then allowed a Wuhan festival to happen with tens of thousands of revelers, it would have been enough to contain the plague.

If they allowed a Wuhan festival to happen with tens of thousands of revelers, but had not allowed five million people to leave a locked-down Wuhan completely unscreened for illness, it would have been enough to contain the plague.

Had they allowed five million people to leave a locked-down Wuhan completely unscreened for illness, but had not allowed hundreds of millions of people to travel around their country on their Lunar New Year holiday, it would not have been enough to contain the plague.

We get to the section where we usually mention and point to the Pesach, Matzah, and Maror.

There is no shankbone. There isn't even chicken in stores anymore. Are kosher slaughterers still employed?

The matzah is all broken, as we discussed.

Maror is canceled this year. Our lives are embittered enough, even though we're doing our best to make the most of it.

We then lift our cups, praise God briefly, then lower our cups, and praise God more fully, because that's what we do, no matter what. We'll get through this.

URCHATZ IV

[Chorus]

RACHTZAH

Everyone washes their hands, for 40 seconds this time. They must be filthy after this long delay. That last washing two minutes ago didn't count.

URCHATZ V

Just in case anyone skimped on soap. Back to the sink everyone goes. 60 seconds as a penalty.

MOTZI MATZAH

Food! Or some resemblance of it. Tuck in. Matzah is supposed to be symbolic of the manna the Israelites received from heaven while wandering around without Waze in the desert. It is said to have tasted like honey, and it says in Tractate Berachot that honey is a 60th of the taste of heaven. So that's what matzah tastes like.

Right, all we know for sure is that the constipation will help us save on toilet paper this year.

Don't forget to take off your facemask before eating.

URCHATZ VI

120 seconds, for all you cheaters. Off to the sink. And Purell when you return, for good measure. Purell was kosher for Passover even before this year.

MAROR

As we have discussed, this is completely redundant. However, we still have the charoset, which we usually dip our maror into. The charoset this year symbolizes the pain and affliction of (non-essential) brick-and-mortar stores. Since we're the ones embittered, everyone fills a bowl up with the stuff, flops their face into the mix, and blows. We need some levity for the situation. Prizes for most creative splatter.

URCHATZ VII

Everybody back to the sink to wash your faces too. No humming snippets of a song this time. You must sing whole songs, at least four minutes long. This is a problem, because the average song is three and a half minutes long, unless it's a song by The Ramones, which are all approximately seventeen seconds long. Songs like Bohemian Rhapsody or Stairway to Heaven will have to do.

KORECH

We mash together our mashed matzah, random green objects, the charoset, and our embittered spirits and we recite that this is what Hillel did back in the good ol' days, with delicious ingredients, but this Poor Man’s Korech is what we're doing now. Oy, Mah Haya Lanu can be recited this time as well.

URCHATZ VIII

Everyone's face is still a massive mess, plus everyone has charoset mustaches. Okay, everyone in the shower, and reconvene in twenty minutes.

SHULCHAN ORECH

Food? What food? The matriarch hasn't cooked her own Pesach food in sixteen years, and forgot how. Also, most Pesach programs didn't refund anyone, so there was no money for food. Enjoy the korech crumbs and move on. For dessert: korech atoms.

URCHATZ IX

Last shower wasn't long enough. Everyone back in, and reconvene in forty minutes.

TZAFOON

Bribery execution time. This year children will be creative, knowing they can't get physical things for a while, because global supply lines are cut. Prepare for heartbreak as they ask for hugs, playdates, permission to go back to school, and grandparents.

URCHATZ X

Everyone whips out the Lysol can under their chairs, and empties the entire contents on the person to their immediate left - since you have to lean that way anyway.

BARECH

We say Grace After Meals, and we praise the Lord, because He'll get us through this, as He always has: with a mighty hand and an outstretched forearm. In the past, when faced with similar crises, He sent us Jenner, and Jesty, and Pearson, and Pasteur, and Roux, and Toussaint, and Galtier, and Gemaleia, and Haffkine, and Pfeiffer, and Kolle, and Wright, and Ramon, and Glenny, and Hilleman, and Koch, and Salk, and Koprowski, and Sabin. And they created vaccines for cholera, and rabies, and tetanus, and typhoid fever, and bubonic plague, and tuberculosis, and diphtheria, and scarlet fever, and tetanus, and pertussis, and yellow fever, and typhus, and tick-borne encephalitis, and influenza, and polio, and Japanese encephalitis, and anthrax, and adenovirus-4 and 7, and measles, and mumps, and rubella, and chicken pox, and pneumonia, and meningitis, and hepatitis B, and Haemophilus influenzae type b, and Q fever, and hepatitis A, and Lyme disease, and rotavirus, and human papillomavirus, and hepatitis E, and enterovirus 71, and malaria, and dengue fever, and ebola, and he will send someone, or several someones with a vaccine for coronavirus. This will not end with an opaque hand grabbing hold of a bomb in Vegas (shout-out to Uncle Stevie!) but with a vaccine. We must do our spiritual and pragmatic utmost, and He will do His part at the appropriate time. He will send it; man will administer it. And if He wants to send it Himself, with no agent, no angel, no seraph, but by Himself? All the better. Whatever it will take. Amen.

We then imbibe our third cup of grape-y juice. We sure could use it right about now, no matter the dilution.

We now reach the part where we usually welcome Elijah at the door, but he was ordered to quarantine with the rest of Israel's citizens. Elijah asked Santa Claus to pitch in, but Mr. Kringle is under lockdown in Canada himself. Instead, we open the front door and shout at the outside world:

We pour out our wrath against those who would not self-isolate despite overwhelming evidence of the dangers, and against those who wouldn't heed logical warnings, or look out for their fellow human beings, for they caused a consuming of the people of Jacob, and ruined his home. We pour out our annoyance against you and our fierce anger overtakes us. We will pursue you in rage and destroy you from under the heavens of the Eternal. Actually, we can't leave the house. Coronavirus will take care of that.

URCHATZ XI

My Grace After Meals soapbox speech doesn't mean that we shouldn't continue washing our hands. This further stresses my point. You feel me?

HALLEL

We Praise God some more, because that's what we do. And well, since everything else that we used to do, we can't do anymore - like, oh, I dunno, pray with a quorum, we stick with the things we can still do. Focus hard on the "Ana HaShem" part.

We recite Ki L'olam Chasdo verbatim. It isn't necessary to print that here. Grab another Haggadah and look it up. Man, I hope you haven't been using this here Haggadah as an actual substitute!

Now drink that fourth cup down, why don'tcha? Have another while you're at it. That doesn't have to stop.

URCHATZ XII

Lysol, Purell, and soap, all together. Who cares if that's illogical? It feels like we're doing something.

NIRTZAH

This year, the lyrics are changed to the following:

The commemoration service of the Passover has now been accomplished according to nothing of its common order, or any of the usual laws and rules of the feast. As we have been considered worthy to prepare this new version, now grant also that we may be worthy to complete it the real way. You, Most Holy Who dwells on high, raise up your innumerable people. Hasten to conduct us with joyful singing to the plants of Your redeemed vineyard in Zion.

(This year in virtual Jerusalem, but) Next Year in Jerusalem!

You can skip Vayehi Bachatzi Halailah. Nobody knows a good song for it anyway, and everybody just mumbles through it.

You can recite Ki Lo Na'eh verbatim.

As for Adir Hu, you can recite everything exactly as is, but every time it says "bayto" or “baytcha," replace that with "vaccine." It's also exactly two syllables, and it flows very nicely.

And now: Who Knows Zero?

Who knows zero?

I know zero. Zero is how many squares there are left to spare.

Who knows one? 

I know one. One is the number of houses you're stuck in with your family. Zero is how many squares there are left to spare.

Who knows two? I know two. Two are the number of gloves allocated to each person. One is the number of houses you're stuck in with your family. Zero is how many squares there are left to spare.

Who knows three? I know three. Three are the baggies left in the freezer whose contents you can't name. Two are the number of gloves allocated to each person. One is the number of houses you're stuck in with your family. Zero is how many squares there are left to spare.

Who knows four? I know four. Four are the leftover mashed candy bars which will have to be carbon dated before eating. Three are the baggies left in the freezer whose contents you can't name. Two are the number of gloves allocated to each person. One is the number of houses you're stuck in with your family. Zero is how many squares there are left to spare.

Who knows five? I know five. Five are the last cuts of meat that might be woolly mammoth steak. Four are the leftover mashed candy bars which will have to be carbon dated before eating. Three are the baggies left in the freezer whose contents you can't name. Two are the number of gloves allocated to each person. One is the number of houses you're stuck in with your family. Zero is how many squares there are left to spare.

Who knows six? I know six. Six is the minimum distance of feet you should maintain from your fellow human being. Five are the last cuts of meat that might be woolly mammoth steak. Four are the leftover mashed candy bars which will have to be carbon dated before eating. Three are the baggies left in the freezer whose contents you can't name. Two are the number of gloves allocated to each person. One is the number of houses you're stuck in with your family. Zero is how many squares there are left to spare.

Who knows seven? I know seven. Seven are the boxes of baking soda you discovered behind all your food, each with a signature odor. Six is the minimum distance of feet you should maintain from your fellow human being. Five are the last cuts of meat that might be woolly mammoth steak. Four are the leftover mashed candy bars which will have to be carbon dated before eating. Three are the baggies left in the freezer whose contents you can't name. Two are the number of gloves allocated to each person. One is the number of houses you're stuck in with your family. Zero is how many squares there are left to spare.

Who knows eight? I know eight. Eight is the new amount of cups of wine you can have at the seder this year. Seven are the boxes of baking soda you discovered behind all your food, each with a signature odor. Six is the minimum distance of feet you should maintain from your fellow human being. Five are the last cuts of meat that might be woolly mammoth steak. Four are the leftover mashed candy bars which will have to be carbon dated before eating. Three are the baggies left in the freezer whose contents you can't name. Two are the number of gloves allocated to each person. One is the number of houses you're stuck in with your family. Zero is how many squares there are left to spare.

Who knows nine? I know nine. Nine is the number of months from now when we'll find out if we'll have a Baby Boom or Baby Bust. Eight is the new amount of cups of wine you can have at the seder this year. Seven are the boxes of baking soda you discovered behind all your food, each with a signature odor. Six is the minimum distance of feet you should maintain from your fellow human being. Five are the last cuts of meat that might be woolly mammoth steak. Four are the leftover mashed candy bars which will have to be carbon dated before eating. Three are the baggies left in the freezer whose contents you can't name. Two are the number of gloves allocated to each person. One is the number of houses you're stuck in with your family. Zero is how many squares there are left to spare.

Who knows ten? I know ten. Ten is the minimum number of seconds you have to count down from any time your schooling-from-home children nag you during your working-from-home day. Nine is the number of months from now when we'll find out if we'll have a Baby Boom or Baby Bust. Eight is the new amount of cups of wine you can have at the seder this year. Seven are the boxes of baking soda you discovered behind all your food, each with a signature odor. Six is the minimum distance of feet you should maintain from your fellow human being. Five are the last cuts of meat that might be woolly mammoth steak. Four are the leftover mashed candy bars which will have to be carbon dated before eating. Three are the baggies left in the freezer whose contents you can't name. Two are the number of gloves allocated to each person. One is the number of houses you're stuck in with your family. Zero is how many squares there are left to spare.

Who knows eleven? I know eleven. Eleven are the stars, which you know because stargazing is one of several new habits, now that you're stuck at home. Did you know there are 88 constellations? Cool. Ten is the minimum number you have to count down from any time your schooling-from-home children nag you during your working-from-home day. Nine is the number of months from now when we'll find out if we'll have a Baby Boom or Baby Bust. Eight is the new amount of cups of wine you can have at the seder this year. Seven are the boxes of baking soda you discovered behind all your food, each with a signature odor. Six is the minimum distance of feet you should maintain from your fellow human being. Five are the last cuts of meat that might be woolly mammoth steak. Four are the leftover mashed candy bars which will have to be carbon dated before eating. Three are the baggies left in the freezer whose contents you can't name. Two are the number of gloves allocated to each person. One is the number of houses you're stuck in with your family. Zero is how many squares there are left to spare.

Who knows twelve? I know twelve. Twelve are the new grey hairs on your head. Eleven are the stars, which you know because stargazing is one of several new habits, now that you're stuck at home. Did you know there are 88 constellations? Cool. Ten is the minimum number you have to count down from any time your schooling-from-home children nag you during your working-from-home day. Nine is the number of months from now when we'll find out if we'll have a Baby Boom or Baby Bust. Eight is the new amount of cups of wine you can have at the seder this year. Seven are the boxes of baking soda you discovered behind all your food, each with a signature odor. Six is the minimum distance of feet you should maintain from your fellow human being. Five are the last cuts of meat that might be woolly mammoth steak. Four are the leftover mashed candy bars which will have to be carbon dated before eating. Three are the baggies left in the freezer whose contents you can't name. Two are the number of gloves allocated to each person. One is the number of houses you're stuck in with your family. Zero is how many squares there are left to spare.

Who knows thirteen? I know thirteen. Thirteen are the total hairs left on your head. Twelve are the new grey hairs on your head. Eleven are the stars, which you know because stargazing is one of several new habits, now that you're stuck at home. Did you know there are 88 constellations? Cool. Ten is the minimum number you have to count down from any time your schooling-from-home children nag you during your working-from-home day. Nine is the number of months from now when we'll find out if we'll have a Baby Boom or Baby Bust. Eight is the new amount of cups of wine you can have at the seder this year. Seven are the boxes of baking soda you discovered behind all your food, each with a signature odor. Six is the minimum distance of feet you should maintain from your fellow human being. Five are the last cuts of meat that might be woolly mammoth steak. Four are the leftover mashed candy bars which will have to be carbon dated before eating. Three are the baggies left in the freezer whose contents you can't name. Two are the number of gloves allocated to each person. One is the number of houses you're stuck in with your family. Zero is how many squares there are left to spare.

Chad Gadya

For the grand finale, I cannot improve on the version drawn up by the talented Benjamin Blumenthal, whose little creation was the impetus for the creation of this full re-imagining of the Haggadah. I give him full props, and full credit, and really, his version is so good, that everything preceded here before was really just a buildup to his punchline:

"In the Pesach spirit:

Chad gad yaw.

Chad gad yaw.

There once was a bat who caught a virus. Chad gad yaw. Chad gad yaw.

Along came a Pangolin who devoured the bat that caught the virus. Chad gad yaw. Chad gad yaw.

Along came a Chinese man, who ate the pangolin, who devoured the bat that caught the virus. Chad gad yaw. Chad gad yaw.

Along came an Italian, who shook hands with the Chinese, who ate the pangolin who devoured the bat that had the virus. Chad gad yaw. Chad gad yaw.

Along came a Frenchie who kissed the Italian, who shook hands with the Chinese, who ate the pangolin who devoured the bat that had the virus. Chad gad yaw. Chad gad yaw.

Along came a Brit that drank a pint with the Frenchie who kissed the Italian, who shook hands with the Chinese, who ate the pangolin that devoured the bat that had the virus. Chad gad yaw. Chad gad yaw.

Along came an American that hugged the Brit that had a pint with the Frenchie who kissed the Italian, who shook hands with the Chinese, who ate the pangolin that devoured the bat that had the virus. Chad gad yaw. Chad gad yaw.

Along came a long flight with 300 passengers and the American that hugged the Brit that had a pint with the Frenchie, who kissed the Italian, who shook hands with the Chinese, who ate the pangolin that devoured the bat that had the virus. Chad gad yaw. Chad gad yaw.

Along came a Global pandemic that freaked out the whole world including the 300 passengers and the American that hugged the Brit that had a pint with the Frenchie who kissed the Italian, who shook hands with the Chinese, who ate the pangolin that devoured the bat that had the virus. Chad gad yaw. Chad gad yaw.

Along came a Global Rush on toilet paper and mandated home offices with children homeschooling in a pandemic that freaked out the whole world including the 300 passengers and the American that hugged the Brit that had a pint with the Frenchie who kissed the Italian, who shook hands with the Chinese, who ate the pangolin that devoured the bat that had the virus. Chad gad yaw. Chad gad yaw.

Along came GOD - The Holy One, Blessed Be He, King of Heaven, Master of the Universe - Who reassured us that family closeness, shared meals, slowing down, being still, grateful and compassionate, and praying together, even if by video, is itself a blessing and exactly what the world needs right now, which calmed the Global Rush on toilet paper in mandated home offices with children homeschooling in a pandemic that freaked out the whole world including the 300 passengers and the American that hugged the Brit that had a pint with the Frenchie who kissed the Italian, who shook hands with the Chinese, who ate the pangolin that devoured the bat that had the virus. Chad gad yaw. Chad gad yaw!

Wishing you all a happy and healthy passover.

- Benjamin Blumenthal, 3/18/2020"

You may now drink cups 5 through 8.

URCHATZ XIII

One more shower before hitting the sack.

Please God, this will all, very soon, Passover.

Martin Bodek is the author of The Emoji Haggadah and The Festivus Haggadah, and as you can see, he takes his new title of "Ba'al HaHaggadot" very seriously.