Holographic Harlots

Partisans are so hampered by the blinders they’ve voluntarily allowed their “leaders” to strap to their heads that they often come up with truly bizarre interpretations of anything involving members of the enemy tribe.  At the moment, the reigning emperor’s troubled son is one of those:My response to this on Twitter was, “‘Buying a person’? This looks to me like he’s trying to hire a sex worker.”  As it turned out I was wrong; the pictured exchange was apparently with a cousin who was trying to set up an amateur or semi-pro date for him.  But there were apparently a large number of fetishists and nitwits who looked at this and fantasized about “sex trafficking”.  And as is usual for True Believers, the idea that someone with actual experience in the topic at hand might know more than someone without such experience was like some kind of abstruse and esoteric branch of mathematics; a number of these butt-scratchers hastened to tell me that sex work really is the literal buying of a human being.  Now, I’ve taken a flamethrower to this absurd canard more times than I can count, and even speculated on the sexuality of anyone who could believe anything so deeply stupid.  But a new metaphor leapt to mind, so I mocked the imbeciles thus:

So you truly believe that everyone who pays a sex worker has that sex worker to keep, presumably in a hatbox in the closet?  How do you think that works when the average sees about a client per day?  Are they split up into increasingly-smaller fragments that yet retain the appearance of the original, like holograms?  Do you really believe that I am a godlike being, existing in 6 or 7 thousand places all over the planet simultaneously?  It’s a fascinating fantasy; you ought to write it up as a Doctor Who story.  I’m also trying to figure out where “hobbyist” clients, who might see a couple of dozen different workers a year, hide all the women they “buy”.  It must get to be a real strain on storage space; presumably they rent storage facilities in which to store all these holographic harlots.  Or maybe they just flush them down the loo like unwanted goldfish?  Seems like it might be an awful strain on the plumbing.

Twitter is an inherently volatile medium, though, so I thought it best to preserve in a place I can find it again the next time I want to mock the ludicrous beliefs of some prohibitionist chucklefuck.