I chose to move to Israel and become an official, passport carrying member of the Chosen People. I remember the humor that expression caused. High hilarity for the most part.
“Chosen for what?” everyone would say. “Being hunted down and murdered? Being driven from one country to the next carrying the remnants of your life in a sack on your back?”
Being “chosen” isn’t always quite as much fun as being “nobody in particular.”
I was chosen. I didn’t like it. To this day, I’m not sure what “chosen” is supposed to have meant. Maybe it’s the same as having a target painted on your back?
You know — so the haters can aim properly.