Beware: The Jewish Conspiracy
written by jaron summers (c) 2025
In a world bubbling over with half-baked conspiracies—aliens at Area 51, Elvis in Argentina, pigeons as government drones—there’s one that actually adds up: the Jewish Conspiracy. I know. I’ve been a target for decades.
What’s their plan? World domination… via kindness. These people are diabolical with their hospitality. Ruthless with their generosity. Unrelenting in their support.
Let me explain.
It all began with Harry Martin, the local grocer in Coronation, Alberta, 70 years ago. Gave me free candy and told me I was smart enough for college. Who does that? I should’ve known then he was part of a larger plot.
He let people charge groceries even when he knew they couldn’t pay. If you had a sick cow or a broken heart, Harry had a line of credit and a shoulder. Suspicious.
Then came Henry Singer in Edmonton. I told him I was off to Hollywood with dreams and a suitcase full of hayseed. He gave me $500 worth of fine clothes for $50 and a list of contacts. He claimed he didn’t know Harry Martin. (Yeah, right. Jews never know other Jews… until they suddenly know everyone at a bar mitzvah.)
At UCLA, I ran out of money. I was ready to pack it in and head back to Canada, but a Jewish film producer named Edwin Knopf took me under his wing. Taught me screenwriting, fed me lunch, told me not to give up. Said he didn’t know Singer or Martin. Uh-huh. I could feel the network.
Then they really came after me.
Paul Pompian, a producer, bought my first screenplay. Couldn’t get it made, so he helped me sell it again. And again. He even got me an agent. What kind of nefarious behavior is this?
Norman Klenman (suspiciously generous Jew #17) helped me rewrite a script and refused to take a dime. Said, “Writers help writers.” He didn’t even cackle or rub his hands together. Just smiled and meant it.
Then came Morley Lertzman, a doctor who treated Kate and me like family, and Ira and Nancy Englander, who insisted we live with them for six months after the Northridge quake. No rent. Just warmth, food, and love.
Ira greeted us with, “Welcome home.” My wife teared up. I began to suspect they were leading the conspiracy.
I searched their house for secret schematics or world domination blueprints. Found nothing. Just more soup and fresh towels.
You think it ends there?
I’ve got Jon Povill, my writing partner of 50 years, improving everything I write. I hate him for it. He’s bigger than me so I’ve never brought up the conspiracy to his face.
I tried to get intel from his wife, Michele—who happens to be Arab—but she claims she knows nothing. Which just confirms how deep the plot goes.
And my non-Jewish friend Billy Woodfield? Married a Jew. She reports to the mothership while he sleeps.
Even my condo is infiltrated. Bob Kuyt gave us a free parking space and delivered his copy of the L.A. Times to our door. Every morning.
Like some sort of stealthy kindness ninja. Jack Novack, a downstairs neighbor, edited my manuscripts for years. Never asks for anything. Just quietly saved me from myself. You tell me that’s not suspicious.
All of these Jews, claiming not to know each other, “just being helpful,” giving advice, improving my life, and asking nothing in return. I’m telling you—it’s a conspiracy. A conspiracy of compassion.
They don’t blow their cover. They act like they’re just doing the right thing. But I know better.
They’re out to get me… with unconditional love, bagels, financial advice, editorial assistance, open doors, and seats at Shabbat dinners.
So yes, beware the Jewish Conspiracy.
They’re trying to make the world a better place. One act of menschlichkeit at a time.
