Chazari. I heard it repeatedly when I begged for sugar or sweets. My dad, a doctor, a broken Yiddish record, was unyielding. "Charazi! Roxanne!"
In other words, no. It's junk. It's rotten. No way.
Can we go to McDonalds?
Chazari!
Dad! Guess what I got on Halloween? Full sized Hershey Bars!
Chazari!
Dad... please? Can we get Twinkies?
Chazari!
Not that he was extreme or scary, but his opinion was known deep in my bones; every time I crossed that line, I knew I was committing chazaricide.
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