The crucifix /on the gold chain /swung low /where her neckline /plunged between /the curve of rounded breasts /and once again /as long before /Christ hung / between two thieves – John Hoad
It’s been a mixed-up week.
It always is when I reread the complete adventures of Sherlock Holmes and sense sinister sagas in every scenario.
In mid-April, for instance, a male at the Nation sent me a strange request. He had compiled a “bucket list” of things to do before he dies, one of which was to milk a goat. Could I facilitate him?
And would I please not mention this in my column?
So said, so done. He arrived last week, positioned himself excitedly behind a nubile, black, female goat, fastened tentative fingers around her shapely breasts and milked her with tender massaging movementations.
We columnists often find ourselves in a dilemma. Should we betray confidential information in favour of the common good?
Sherlock conjured up the possibilities.
How would I feel to read screaming headlines one morning: “Beautiful Female Nation Sub-Ed Milked . . . . During a power outage, a young female sub-editor found herself seized from behind in the lunch room, de-bodiced and milked.
“Her assailant was obviously practised in this art . . . . Police are questioning Sanka Price, Ridley Greene, Rickys Jordan and Singh, the males in office at the time”?
And that poem above by my brother John decided me. What could be a more perfect comparison: Christ hanging between two thieves; a crucifix hanging between two breasts?
They steal your heart, your better judgement, your sense of propriety. And might not a man thus robbed be powerless to resist the temptation, knowing that milkable breasts abounded in an outage-darkened lunch room? Especially one who has practised on a female goat?
Which brings us to the recent discussion on pre-marital doobie-doobie. Rev. Charles Morris and his adherents have dealt a body blow to human happiness and satisfaction. They should be ashamed.
Verily the Good Book tells us: “Stolen waters are sweet, food eaten in secret is tasty!”
The moot theological point on whether it is sinful is of little importance to the general weal. As long as man feels that doobie-doobie before marriage is wrong, its enjoyment will be considerably enhanced.
Take that away and the magic is lost. Forbidden fruit is more juicy.
And before my mentor, the Wild Coot, pushes multiple wives as a solution to “many frustrating problems”, I urge him to read Mark Twain’s account of an interview with the Mormon Brigham Young, who had many wives:
“I could not sleep. It appeared to me that the whole 72 women snored at once . . . .” Be warned!
Last Friday brought me a not-unexpected, but very sad, email: “In memoriam, Rev. John Hoad, PhD. It’s amazing to think of such a powerful brain finally silenced, but so it was around 11:47 a.m. this morning . . . .
“His body was taken as a donation to the medical school for students to learn anatomy. They will certainly find an interesting series of events etched in his bones.”
John was number two, me number eight. We both won Schols and studied agriculture in Trinidad.
“Hoad is nothing like his brother,” the old chemistry professor who taught both of us remarked when he saw my marks.
He sure got that right! John was a born intellectual. Me, a born pork-lover.
He never practised agriculture. After graduation, he opted for the Methodist ministry, spent some years in most rural Guyana, some in Jamaica and ended up living in the USA and supporting Black Power.
His Translating Jesus For Today is a bit too liberal for my liking. But his wonderful collection of poems The Fire Dance Of Carnations shows him to be a true Hoad and a pork-lover to the bone.
Those anatomy students had best beware!
Richard Hoad is a farmer and social commentator. Email porkhoad@gmail.com