Karoline Leavitt Discovers Her Vulva and Other Talmudic Revelations
from the Book of Ridiculous Revelations
Karoline Leavitt hadn’t planned to grow a conscience. It just sort of happened—like a rash, or one of those verses in Deuteronomy you accidentally read out loud before a fundraiser in Boca.
She’d been studying with Rivka.
Not the Rivka of Torah fame, but Rivka Klein-Goldblatt from the Upper West Side, who’d invited Karoline to her women’s empowerment Shabbat and accidentally left out the part where everyone would be staring into hand mirrors and reciting psalms to their own vulvas.
Karoline had never said the word “vulva” out loud. Now she was singing it, in minor key, to the tune of “Hava Nagila.”
She flushed whenever Rivka said words like “yoni,” “mitzvah,” or “inner light,” and full-on fainted during the trust exercise where they had to lock eyes and “honor the holy contour of each other’s form.”
Somewhere between the Mishnah on modesty and the midrash on masturbation, Karoline saw God. She was wearing a silk tallit and a Donna Karan pantsuit.
Meanwhile, just south of the sacred circle, Steven Miller clawed his way out of a shallow political grave.
He was dressed, as usual, for vengeance and pageantry: a fuschia cha-cha skirt, mango Mexican shawl, and kitten-heeled espadrilles gifted by the ghost of Betsy DeVos. His face was ghost-white, except for the rouge applied with a trowel and the frosted lip gloss that read, “I eat empathy for breakfast.”
He stormed into the ceremonial tent, interrupting Karoline’s ode to her cervix, and snarled:
“Why hasn’t Rosalita’s third cousin—the doctor—been renditioned yet? I gave very specific orders. Waterboarding, mango rehydration therapy, then straight to private ICE with no enunciation lessons!”
But Karoline wasn’t listening.
She was mid-monologue, holding a silver mirror to her groin and softly whispering:
“She is folded knowledge… she is history’s rosebud... she is not a policy talking point...”
Then, as if Moses himself descended with a Stop Sign, she blinked up at Miller and said:
“Wait... so you think it’s right to put people who look like Rosalita in what… what appears to be concentration camps... just because of their color?”
Steven’s eyes twitched like a malfunctioning chatbot. He adjusted his dance shoes, checked for blood under his cuticles, and tried not to cry.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice trembling beneath a backup track of Kid Rock and Jewish guilt.
But Karoline had already moved on. She was reading Rashi’s commentary on Song of Songs aloud, substituting in Mike Johnson’s name whenever the lover said “gazelle.”
In the corner, an aide from the Trump transition team whispered:
“Do we have anyone left who hasn’t read something dangerous like Genesis?”
Another answered, “Even Eric’s watching Fiddler on the Roof ironically and asking questions.”
As Miller stormed off in a swirl of satin and contempt, muttering about “Hamas, hummus, same thing,” Karoline stood on a folding chair and announced:
“Rivka says if I ever feel shame about my body again, I have to write it a letter, seal it in a yarmulke, and bury it in Boca.”
And then, solemnly, as if delivering a campaign promise to her ancestors:
“I am done deporting people who make better cholent than me.”
A single beam of light streamed through the mesh of the tent. Somewhere in heaven, Golda Meir rolled her eyes—but only slightly.