Obligatory "ignore this space" : https://sacoronavirus.co.za

There is one who knows just what our life has been about who needs the information in plain text: there is one and only one reason a man would join the rat race.

The story of Rachel and Leah gives a real fucking Jew the most fucking jewish thing to do to a man who has fallen in love, and, not that we would doubt Rachel's word of course, it gives the suitor a guarantee. He, the suitor, is likely to find himself being tested by women individually and collectively, but it would take a real fucking dumb Jew note to know that the father of his heart's desire has spies everywhere.

These women, him not having a heart of stone, would cry to him about unfaithful men (after tempting him of course), about hungry mouths to feed (because bargains hadn't been made), and about all the countless children that other nations are producing in our dear land (which conversation would come to an end when the woman whips a nipple into a child's mouth).

Men know that women are particularly gifted to be able to do more than one thing at a time, but breastfeeding a child is something that this particular Jew held as a sacred duty of a mother, so he couldn't tolerate the sight of a wet nurse at it.

What year is this?

We observe a similar story with a few thousand years difference. In this scenario the suitor has no man to bargain with, as that behaviour would have gotten up Rachel's nostrils (and not in a good way). We note, though it is common knowledge, that Polygamy is God's way and Monogamy the way of jealous husbands. Leah had signs of uncommon beauty herself, but she was very ungainly with her limbs. Which was strange because their mother had let the older girl raise the younger.

Their father, being modern and believing in women making up their own minds, had given them precious little guidance except to tell them that the land is eff-ewe-sea-kay-fucked; and then asked them when they are going to make something of their lives.

The suitor, whose father had said something similar, had argued with all and sundry and no-one could convince him to change his mind once he had decided that he wasn't budging from the land of his birth. He had quite decided that there was no country suitable for the raising of children, so he simply showed his middle finger at anyone who told him to make something more of his life than that which had made itself.

This South African bachelor, who would be happy if he was called a gay one unless he was told about someone else's sweaty balls in his bed (which he'd be happy to tolerate if they were in his spare bed with a lover who knew how to do things without making a mess) had friends in his cottage, cheating on their future wives, before he himself had been given the honour of having a woman wet his bed for him (at least they did it on the floor and let him sleep in his own bed).

Those lovers of his friends, who complained that the man on top of them the previous time they visited didn't do anything but have a feel, treated him like a wall ornament; sisters of those lovers rubbed his legs and jumped into another man's lap.

As part of initiation into his independent life one of his sisters took him to visit a friend of hers who had just become a mother. Whether she was still living at home, whether she had a boyfriend (and if so, whether he was still living at home), and whether she left the baby with her mother on a party night so that she could carry on the behaviour that brought the child into the world, are irrelevant details by themselves (no-one is calling anyone something which would have taken money for services rendered) but, on a webform for instance (which we'll write for free if someone contracts to test it), would allow a relational database query to narrow down just which sister we are talking about, and which friend.

We note, as a quirk of history, this place did not have any brothels, besides those that were beyond question there simply to scare men into getting married quickly.

If the suitor, who they said was sinful because he did not state that he believed in God, suggested that the behaviour just referred to which did not involve the exchange of money was no less questionable than that which did, self-proclaimed Christian women would bring up the topic of their ailments. They refused to look at the database, because they were looking at their bible (but clearly not in it), and gathered together to shout at him that the instances he referred to were isolated ones.

His database containing countless names of daughters and only one mother who sighed and said that her conscience was clear in the eyes of God, this faithless man began to lose his heart to his more practical nature. The database was not in truth countless for he could draw statistics almost immediately.

Rachel, however, was also a sinner because she too did not state that she believed in God.

And thus begins the story of the prodigal son.

He hadn't lost faith in love, but he somewhat lost direction when he discovered what past-time the game of pool is founded in (someone had suggested that this would do just as well as fourteen years labour). Love, he said, is not a wire coathanger. You can make anything out of the raw material and if you call it love you don't need to convince the whole world. Few people would think of a coathanger once they've unwound one. But he didn't think much of the word love as it seemed to be much with the word art; what he had been told, all too many times, was that it was only the true thing if it could be made out of nothing at all.

Or you end up looking at a bit of wire you unbent, and start imagining working it this way and that until it's in a shape which suits someone else's purposes. But then you might just as well start thinking about money, because true favours are hard to come by.

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