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Plump, plumper, plumpest.
Three fat friends with time on their hands, oil on their beards, and a friend in need.
Eliphaz.
Bildad.
Zophar.
Rich, richer, richest.
Eliphaz, man of a thousand camels.
Bildad, with seven hundred donkeys.
Zophar, owns three thousand sheep.
-Poor Job.
-Yes, poor Job.
-Poor, poor man.
-We should go and visit him.
-Yes, take him some grapes.
-Cheer him up.
-Hello, dear friend.
-We’ve come to help.
-You do look dreadful.
-All of your children? Poor man.
-And all your herds? Dear me.
-And those boils – don’t scratch!
-We’ll just sit here with you, dear fellow.
-Show our solidarity.
-Won’t say a word.
Smug, smugger, smuggest.
A triangle of platitudes.
Umpires in a fantasy of celestial tit-for-tat.
-Word to the wise, Job.
-Turn back to God.
-You’ll find him merciful.
-His hand of punishment is on you, old man.
-Search yourself and find your sin.
-It must be your own fault.
-Don’t try to pull the wool over our eyes.
-You can’t fool God.
-It’s pretty good of us to be seen with you, all things considered.
-Don’t be obstinate, there’s a good chap.
-It’s a universal law. The wicked are punished, the righteous prosper.
-Do you think you are being disciplined for piety?!
-That’s it! We’ve done our best.
-We’re running out of patience...
-We’re fed up of your self-righteous attitude.
“Eliphaz.
Bildad.
Zophar.
Enough!”
Flat, flatter, flattest.
Three fat men felled like logs.
Three fine beards unheeded in the dust.
“Enough of your fools’ gold. Your words are naive, and your juvenile logic has misrepresented me. Now, ask Job to intercede for you, and I will forgive you.”
Humble, humbler, humblest.
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