From The Joys of Yiddish, by Leo Rosten
A Texan, driving down the great flat desert near Beersheba, in Israel, spied a tiny but _balbatish_ house in the distance, and he drove up and stopped and knocked on the door. An old Jew came to the door. “Good morning.” “My throat is so dry it's on fire,” said the Texan. “I wonder if you would be good enough to give me a glass of water.” “Certainly; come in, make yourself at home.” The Texan entered and drank the water and thanked his host, then said, “Do you own this little house?” “Yes.” “What do you do way out here?” “I raise chickens.” “How large is your property?” “Well,” said the Jew. “In front, it's a good sixty feet---and in back, it must be a hundred, a hundred and ten, feet at _least_.” The Texan smiled. “Back home, on my ranch, I get up and get in my car around 9am and I start to drive, and I drive and drive and drive---and I don't reach the end of my property until six o'clock that night!” “_Tchk!_” sighed the Jew. “I once owned a car like that.” -- _The Joys of Yiddish_, pp. 28--29