Goldberg,  who sold Rabbi Plotkin his car but is not part of the synagogue community, comes into the rabbi’s office. 

“Mr. Goldberg,” says the rabbi, “you look terrible.”

“That’s why I’m here, rabbi,” Goldberg says. “I didn’t know where to turn. I think my wife is trying to poison me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the rabbi says. “That only happens in movies and novels. Clearly you just have stress.”

“For years she wouldn’t let me eat cake,” Goldberg says. “Now every night she serves me a piece of cake and instead of gaining weight, I’m losing weight, I don’t feel well…”

“Look, Goldberg, I don’t know your wife, but she finally decides to do you a kindness and you think she’s trying to kill you?”

“I knew you wouldn’t believe me,” Goldberg says in despair.

“I see you are suffering spiritually,” the rabbi says. “And perhaps I can help in some way. Let me go talk to your wife, get a sense of her feelings, and report back to you.”

Goldberg thanks the rabbi profusely and leaves. He returns the next day.

“Did you talk to my wife?” Goldberg asks.

“I did,” the rabbi says.

“Well, what do you think?”

“Goldberg,” the rabbi says, “take the poison.”