 |
|
|
A dry morsel |
Back in the good old days, in a not-too-remote land, a farmer and his wife toiled hard to yield bread from the land. 'In the sweat of your brows', as it says in the scripture. They begotten only one son and he was such a lazy bugger - never keen, never willing, always moaning, and fond of nothing else but munch and slumber.
His mother's pleas fell on deaf ears. And though his father broke a good number of sticks on his thick back, introduced him to the taste of the leather belt, propelled him with buckets of icy water, but all to no avail. As a matter of fact, things became even worse.
As the years passed by, the slothful bugger was barely able to move. Sporting a monstrous appetite he consumed everything that came his way - and at night he would break into the larder, stealing fresh eggs, the home made bacon stored for winter, the fruit conserves. He was a goddamn menace, a pest.
The cup of patience and compassion has its limits too, by now the farmer was fairly advanced in years and one day as he woke up in the morning he knew in his heart that the time to do what has to be done has arrived. His son was a barrel that had no bottom, an evil curse and a shameful disgrace, so the farmer decided to put an end to it all.
The farmer dragged his son to the yard - with the help of a large stick, he encouraged the him to climb into the old wooden wagon. Then he summoned the mule to the yoke and, still determined, spurred it towards the bridge above the big deep river.
When they reached the bridge, the farmer left his son snoring on the hay in the back of the wagon while he went down the slope in search of a big stone. Puffing and gasping he made his way up to the bridge to fasten the stone to his son's knees.
The farmer then guided the mule backwards so that the wagon stood right above the edge of the bridge. He was ready to push his son off and rid himself and the world of his grace once and for all, when a neighboring farmer appeared on the scene, riding his mule and wagon as they still do in that part of the world.
The neighbor could not believe his eyes, at the top of his lungs he screamed at the farmer to halt. And hence the life of the fat son was saved, at least for the moment. The neighbor stopped his wagon long side and asked the old farmer what the hell he was doing. Well, the farmer explained and the neighbor got the gist of it. This goody-two-shoes fellow that he was hadn't missed a Sunday service in thirty years. Over brimming with mercy and forbearance he said to the farmer: 'don't kill this poor bastard, this miserable good-for-nothing son of a wretched bitch, let me take him home to my farm. I have a cellar full of breadcrumbs, there's plenty there - it's better that he eats the morsels before the rats get to them, and I don't give a goddamn fart if he lies and rots there day in and day out. Undo the rope, old man, and let this bugger live and bless the Lord who'd sent me to the scene'. What could the farmer do? He shrugged his shoulders and undid the ropes. Just then the son opened one eye and lifted his head a little and he asked the neighbor: 'Tell me, are you sure these morsels of yours are nice and crunchy?' |
|
|
| Some people rather die then invest even the slightest effort. This story is extreme but the tendency to chose idleness and corrupting comfort is prevalent. | |
| |
