Mr. Moon, on behalf of the United People's Republic of Israel, the answer to this alleged jew on jew violence is simple.
Imagine. Yoshua. You are invited to a party. A party with simply the finest Borshe. You get on your private jet. You fly to the party. All the way on the other side of the planet, and find that the Borshe dealer is not a kind and respectable gentile, but instead a bald mutt fresh out of Romanian prison. he does not have a fresh Borshe, made of the finest tender european veal, ripe with fat and asking if you've found your puppy yet, לא, it is a filthy, shivering, desperate third world Borshe who knows exactly what is about to happen. Worst of all, his Borshe is given to everyone.
And so Yosohua. You abandon the party. And you walk outside and you pick up the phone. Shalome, you say. Former President Donald Trump, I can offer you some fresh slightly used Borshe, and to your horror he says great and mighty one, forgive me, I need not your Borshe, I have my own Borshe. You can tempt me no longer.
Was it the Goldburgs Chokmoshua? Those slimy Krazicsteins? Maybe even the Nuzbombs? לא, Yesoshua. You see, the golem has gone rogue. It's consuming violent rape Borshe featuring aged up pokemon protagonists made in the unity engine, purchased using visa gift cards on patreon. And that cannot stand.
Now you understand Chesosua. The deep talmudic law of supply and demand. The universal principle of spite. To the weak goyim we provide the slop. The curries and the paella. Random stewed mixed color vegetables and stepsibling lean beef. They run freely, grow fat and chaotic. But too the strong, the borshe. And they can only get by kneeling beside our table.
We must control the Borshe Gevuroshua. Our enemies scream for Borshe. So called white saviors. Proud, hispanic men, who through foul sorceries escape the trap of women so many fall prey too. All fall to their knees at the mere prospect of a ragged, 16 year old, Christmas cake slice of a Borshe.
