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The telephone rang at dawn. “Hello, Señor Ralph? This is Alfredo, the caretaker at your country house.”

“Hi, Alfredo. What can I do for you? Is there a problem?”

“Uh, I am just calling to tell you, Señor Ralph, that your parrot died.”

“My parrot? Dead? The one that won the international competition?”

“Yes, Señor, that’s the one.”

“Damn! That’s a pity. I spent a small fortune on that bird. What did he die from?”

“From eating rotten meat, Señor Ralph.”

“Rotten meat? Who the hell fed him rotten meat?”

“Nobody, Señor. He ate the meat of the dead horse.”

“Dead horse? What dead horse?”

“The thoroughbred, Señor Ralph.”

“My prize thoroughbred is dead?”


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