Wedding night. For the first time, the enamored groom contemplated his beautiful bride, who was waiting for him without any cover except for a few drops of Chanel No. 5. “My love!” exclaimed the young man enraptured. Your eyes! Your cheeks! Your neck! Your shoulders!” Your. “.” Well -he interrupted him, impatient, his sweetheart-. Did you come to have sex or to take inventory?” Don Gerontino was discreetly courting Miss Himenia, a mature celibate.
At a Christmas gathering he approached her from behind, covered her eyes with his hands and said: “Guess who I am, my friend. If you’re wrong, you’ll have to let me kiss you on the cheek.” Immediately Miss Himenia responded: “Don Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla!” “(Don Miguel Hidalgo and his distinguished wife,” the announcer announced at an official ceremony). This friend of mine is firm in his beliefs. He believed in Santo Clos until he was 32 years old.
When she found out from the neighborhood children that Santa was her father, she was so disappointed that she threw the hoop and ball that they had given her last Christmas out of the window. Far from mocking my friend’s credulity, I praise his innocence. Simplicity is so lost in the world that if someone preserves it, they deserve praise, not jokes. In addition, men tend to believe in things more unlikely than the jocund old man with the white beard who brings toys to children in a sleigh pulled by reindeer in December.
We believe in the lies what some tell us demagogues: we believe their promises of transformation and we give them our vote with the same foolish illusion with which a foolish girl gives her maidenhood to a seducer. They have us plunged to the neck in insecurity, illegality, arbitrariness, and we let their lackeys pass in front of our noses carrying their load of legal aberrations to offer them as tribute to their leader.
Compared to this credulity, my friend’s is almost an example of Cartesian doubt. Millions of Mexicans still believe in the 4T and in his charioteer. And will anyone surprise us that my friend believed in Santo Clos until he was 32 years old?… That morning Pepito was more mischievous than usual. His young and pretty teacher told him, already tired: “Oh, Pepito! How I would like to be your mom for a few days!” “Hey teacher! -replied Pepito-. My dad would love that!” We are in a convent from the Middle Ages. They played matins and Sister Bette rose sleepily and dressed in the dark. In the corridor that led to the chapel, Sister Dina, the mother superior, told her: “You need to change your habits, sister.” “Why, Reverend Mother?” Sister Bette was alarmed. “Are mine inconvenient?” “Yes,” replied Sister Dina. “You bring those of Fray Asturio.” In the asylum, two madmen often quarreled, because both claimed to be Napoleon Bonaparte.
The director of the establishment admonished them: if they did not agree, he would confine them both in separate punishment rooms. A little while later the two returned with the official and happily announced that they had reached an agreement. One of them explained: “This week I will be Napoleon and he will be Josefina, and the following week I will be Josefina and he will be Napoleon.” Simtonetto and Petrino were fishermen. Both spoke little, almost nothing, at work.
They were laconic to the extreme. It happened that Simonetto cast his net and pulled out a most beautiful mermaid with a beautiful face, upright bust and long brown hair. He immediately returned it to the sea. Without changing his expression, Petrino asked: “Why?” Simonetto responded in the same concise way: “Where?” FINISH.
LOOKOUT
By Armando SOURCES AGUIRRE.
I take this fritter in my hand and it seems to me that I have taken a butterfly.
This fritter has the lightness of air. I’m afraid if I look at it it will disappear. It is transparent, like the soul of a girl. I try not to think about him, for the mere thought could throw him off his feet.
I put the fritter on a plate, and now the plate weighs less than before. And it is that the fritter is only sun, only spike, only sweetness of sugar, only furtive itching of cinnamon. If you carefully lift it under it you will see a quiet procession of memories. Maternal kitchen. The laughter in the dining room of the father and uncles. In the patio the revelry of children who are surprised for the first time in their lives by the novelty of snow.
All is gone. But in the presence of the donut everything comes back. I put it in my mouth, and I don’t know if to eat it or to thank him for the memories.
The donut trembles in my hand. The butterfly trembles. The air trembles. And the memories of that remote yesterday taste like sugar and cinnamon.
See you tomorrow!…
MANGANITAS
By AFA.
“. Argentina won.”.
no one escapes
-this is already mentioned-
that the victory was due to
the Pope’s prayers
#Politics #worse