They strut brimful in their functional trousers, the lordsandmasters, and the son is already making his own contribution too. This child, whom Mother cannot reproach with growing too rapidly, after all, she fed him with her own frugal self. This child, a member of the fresh generation, has been brought up by his mother, wound up, and now he can't be stopped, he just keeps going! But now for the lordsandmasters, of whom the Direktor is the highest. His prick can be born in seconds at any time from a warm bath, be pulled out and do its work, and then be reeled in again, contented, by Fate, wherein dwells the strength to play tennis, ride a motorbike and bustle about other such business. When you walk it jiggles, gentlemen. Men try for a great deal amid the weak branches, but I am alone. The child is thinking about a period in the history of the earth which unfortunately he is unable (too late!) to experience retrospectively. A while ago, Father fetched out an encyclopaedia and bent pedagogically over his carefully calculated number of child. Anything more from a child would perhaps deflect Mother's interests too much from Father. Father wants to tie his wife to the bed himself, venomous as disease: God is mean, but he's not the one I mean at the moment.
Like a bell the Direktor rings over his seated group. Outside the trees stand dark, waiting. The family is reconciled, heavily and discourteously the scrotums hang in their very favourite disguises, in paper-lined cupboards, in the balloons of underpants and tracksuits. You just need to reach in and see, everything can be fetched right out again. The sex we belong to, each to his own – as elastically as the rubber band that keeps the poorer bunches of people (they do not count individually) all together, it snaps out of the sack when the lonely man addresses himself to his property as to his shadow, which is the sole one of all living things that fits his measure precisely. The bundle of life, right, sags from the body and we feel fine. Those who want a lot will have to go and buy themselves something. Even the boy: already he's glowing like a real man who bows others and bows to others. He goes from the one to the other, pointing to his own person, which cannot be improved, and carries on along his own envious track, whizzing past us at high speed. The mere impression of it is a very deep one. Yes, this boy may be small, but he's specifically designed as a man, I believe.
Now he's still just a wretch, a brat, so small, but he beats on our eardrums and sends us flying to the poor neighbours, who would complain if they dared. Lovingly Mother bows her mouth to his hair. Father is already becoming inexhaustible, he can hardly contain himself. It's what he keeps concealed from his employees at other times, now he can't help squeezing his instinctive urges tight. He shoves up to his wife from behind. The woman bends contemptuously forward so that life stirs in her depths. With laughter, since his mother's tickling him, the boy shits himself, dumping his dung in Mother's face. Never mind, we go on frolicking about as if we'd just repeated, damply. The woman really has to watch out, but it's too late already and she's half exposed at the rear while at the front she's still sucking up to the child, telling him nicely to be a good boy and tidy away his toys. More this man does not dare, yet still he wins. Like a low-flying aircraft he strokes his wife's behind. Like birds flapping against the light. Today Father can sense his health roaring within him, winning free extra goes. Secretly, under the camouflage of his house jacket, he places his swollen warhead against the slit in his wife's arse, where he thoroughly examines what is at his disposal. He only needs to plough this one furrow, thus the farmer helps the good earth. None of us has to bear the burden of life alone. But why does no one help him buy a car, so that there's something to carry the load companionably with him? Let us look with our eyes open at each other's sex, so that we shall be calm and slender, just as we try so hard to be with medicines and diets. Zealously competing with the others who have come to lay their own spoor. Even at the open door, the Direktor is still pondering which entrance to take, to run himself in, what an honour, to be offered up in a sheaf! Oh God, how beautiful to be a heavy load in a cart stuck luxuriously in the mud for a good wallow. Some vandal has torn down the traffic signs!
The family go on kissing and farting. The time of blissful waiting is over and happy words are in the air. The voice of the king of the house oozes out, it becomes a battle, which he wins. He gets carried away by himself, heaven came close to forgetting the workers and employees who have been well and truly screwed by the boss on high and his holy church and have to stand in their byres, well-proportioned, well-appointed, angrily jangling their bells and chafing at their ropes. What? They don't even refrain from kicking their one sole space?
The woman knows where her husband's shoe pinches, the one he will kick her fence down with in a moment. Sometimes he can hardly wait till evening and tells her to come to his directorial office at the factory, where this bird of prey can contain himself no longer and angrily desires to move into his own homeliness. He reaches into the clouds of his sex and it grows, like fire. The little winner is already being pulled out of the little room above the trouser legs where he has been lurking till he is shown the voucher for a trip of a lifetime, to the golden rain in her apron. Happiness for the owner, from far away his dogs can already smell him and are at each other. Every day's a holiday. Will sleep at least find us today? We have earned it, waiting in silence on the mountaintops under our warming layers so that we do not stamp loose any planks of snow. Just think of the many folds in men's shirts alone, from which men can tip out their sacred streams!
And Gerti's stylish clothing is breached today for the umpteenth time as well. The lordsandmasters and their bellows, with the help of which they can make a loud noise; in summer the breeze is mild but in winter we have to take our own breath. The child almost fails to notice that he has come among us and is being kicked. Won't it be time for dinner soon? Will the Direktor have to let his wife out of his clutches for a while yet again? Does he want her completely sober? Mutely the animal and its rope look at each other. The Direktor can do even more: mix his wife's body, in all its shapelessness, on the kitchen table, just as it suits his dough, which will rise when covered. Thus the family makes its own food and the earth its creatures, thus the guests bid their farewells on the thresholds although they have been well fed. Gentlemen! You are strangers to me as well, it's true, but you throw yourselves about so that the nets squeak. Plates of sliced wurst crash down on the tables, the family sit, the weighty wedges of bread with clearly distinct grains, coarse and costly on plates rimmed with grains of gold, they have all foregathered here before so that Father's will be done. First he will spread thickly on his wife, and then, still smiling from the day – after all, he has earned his bread and now he is giving the bread to his family – then, right, the heavy drumsticks will beat down on the woman's hollow-sounding pelvis. I believe myself, but I don't believe in myself! Anyway, let's observe the holy days, and let us have the works choir sharpen our instruments! The child must live, that is how things have turned out. Abruptly and without warning, just as the sun sometimes strikes with lightning speed. High on the peaks it is already lighting up for tomorrow, but we the salaried, we who matter, we who are on the pay lists of the paper tigers, we have already had our crackling fire today, we held our bodies close to it till they almost dissolved into light and nothingness. My only advice is: make sure there's something to drink, then your worries are over!