OK, here we go:

Top 5 questions people ask me when they see I’m in the Oorah $5 auction book this year:

5. Why are you in it?

4. Weren’t you in one of their books before?

3. Did you have to send in the picture, or what?

2. What’s with the shirt?

1. You know that’s only four fingers, right?

Why me? I don’t know why me. Apparently, they think I’m well known enough that people are going to see me and say, “Schmutter’s in the book! Let’s buy raffle tickets!”

And yes, I have been in the book before. In fact, last time I also wrote an article about it, and then a couple of weeks later, I got a box on my doorstep that was way too big to be as light as it was. I opened it out of curiosity, and a massive, 4-foot plush Fiveish doll popped out. This thing was bigger than any space I had in my house. And there was no way I was going to get it back in the box.

It was goofy looking and huge, and my kids were fighting over it. And my wife wanted to give it away, and my kids kept volunteering to be the takers, so in the end I had to pretend I wanted it. I also thought I should keep it in good condition, in case Oorah would call me the next year and say, “We need you to pose with it! What do you mean “it shrunk”? Why is it pink?”

So I put it on top of the hutch over my desk as kind of a trophy, along with some other article trophies, such as my set of milchig-fleishig-pareve flyswatters. He’s actually a little too tall to fit between the hutch and the ceiling, so I had to fold his legs behind him, and once in a while he catapults himself down and tackles me while I’m writing.

WHUMP.

So I’m not sure why I’m writing this article—Is it because I want a second one of these things sent to my house? How do I even take maaser on this? Where on earth am I going to find two animated quarters?

But yes, two years ago, I posed for the $18,000 cash prize. And my wife took the picture. But this time, they wanted everyone to come in.

I can probably guess why. I do know that last time, when they asked me to take the picture at home, I asked, “Well, can you send me the prize?” and they actually sent me $18,000 in fake money, which I have since been giving out to bochurim on Purim.

But my guess is that everyone in the book asked for props, and they found themselves sending out a fake minivan, a fake sheitel, etc., and they did not want to go through that again. So this year, they said, “How about you guys come to us?”

I think the main reason they had us come in was that they wanted us to strike a very specific pose for the theme of their campaign, which is “Gimme Five!” And we each had to pose with one hand up in the air as if we’re waiting to give someone five while also holding a small representation of the prize in the other hand.

But since they were having us do very specific poses, I had to at least wear something humorous. As a comedian, people judge you by how funny you are doing everyday things, such as posing in tzedakah catalogues.

I decided to wear a T-shirt that I’d bought myself a couple of years ago. I’d bought it for Purim, with the intention of it being a funny T-shirt I can wear on special occasions too, and it turns out that the only time you can really wear a shirt like this is Purim. Where else is it appropriate for me to walk around pretending I’m drunk?

Maybe to bed?

But the biggest question people ask is “Why are there only four fingers?!”

Seriously, they couldn’t locate a five-fingered glove in a pandemic?

I do understand that a lot of fictional characters have four fingers; I write comics. It’s hard to draw hands. But there is a five-fingered Fiveish out there. It exists. For one, the Fiveish that lives above my head has five fingers.

So I asked Oorah, which has nothing better to do than answer questions like these. Basically, they told me that the original Fiveish design has five fingers. But a few years ago, when they ordered the costume, which had to be custom-made in China, it came back with only four, and no one thought it was a big enough deal to have them redo it. They were just happy that it didn’t come back as Chinese currency.

And technically, Oorah points out, four is five-ish.

“So I can give five-ish dollars?” you’re asking.

Technically you can. And they’ll give you a one-ish ticket.

So I asked them if there are any official company answers I can give, and they gave me these:

–“It’s zecher l’churban.”

–“We had to knock off a finger so it shouldn’t be avodah zara. (It’s not like he has a nose.)”

– “So the children will ask.”

– “Blame China.” (Corona, and now this.)

But honestly, the “knocking off fingers” answer doesn’t make sense. You don’t want it to be avodah zarah? Money is already avodah zarah.

So basically, there’s no reason. But that’s OK. I think the whole point of Fiveish is that he’s a little bit socially off, with his pronunciation of “kiruv rechakim” and his random dancing in the street. Though I don’t want to get on Fiveish’s case here, as he already has a pretty tough life. He can’t walk through a bad neighborhood, he can’t play piano, and he’s always getting stuck in vending machines.

Or maybe he knows exactly what he’s doing. Maybe their marketing department is run by an actual five-dollar bill, calling the shots. And basically, he wants you to keep sending five-dollar-bills so he can find another—WHUMP.

Mordechai Schmutter is a freelance writer and a humor columnist for Hamodia and other magazines. He has also published seven books and does stand-up comedy. You can contact him at [email protected].