If I say the name of the protagonist of this story, my four readers will not believe me: his name was Batane Birloche. Not even he himself knew the origin of his nickname, apparently coming from a certain Pyrenean village. There is no point in getting into toponymic or genealogical digressions; what matters is to relate what happened to Birloche the day he got married.
His girlfriend, a pretty girl, wanted to give him a pleasant surprise on the nuptial occasion, for which purpose he went to a tattoo shop in advance -“studio”, said the sign-, and asked the person in charge to tattoo a B on each butt. , her boyfriend’s initials, in order to show the hunk that they belonged to him.
On the night of the wedding, the groom entered the bathroom. She took the opportunity to surprise her romeo: she completely undressed and lay in a prone position, that is to say face down, on the bed, leaving her rounded rear part in full view with the large letter B on each of her hemispheres. The bridegroom came out, saw those letters on the buttocks of his brand new wife and asked her, angry: “Who is Bob?” That was not food: it was a banquet. The table was elegant and opulent at the same time.
My friend and I, invited to the house of those parents of an order that I will not say because it would be disorder, we looked at each other, amazed by that display that did not seem unusual, but something of every day, customary. A chef came to inform us of the menu of the day, and a waiter asked us: “Does the gentleman prefer red or white wine?”. The Father Superior thanked God for the food we were going to eat.
He did it briefly, quickly, and as if by routine. She should have extended more in gratitude, so numerous, varied and succulent were the food that we were offered. First red fruits and salad; then bouillon and soup; then meat or fish, to choose; then assorted desserts; coffee to taste: espresso, americano or cappuccino, and finally a digestif. “My 86, you know” -said the superior to the waiter, between the forced laughter of his brothers in religion.
He meant to serve him a double 43 liqueur. Several parents lit their own cigarettes. “After a good taco, a good tobacco,” declared one between new giggles. In the middle of the cordial after-dinner conversation that the gorged diners had, my friend leaned towards me and whispered in my ear: “Whoa! If so they fulfill the vow of poverty How will they fulfill the chastity?
I remembered the munificent entertainment of that congregation fifi when I heard that President López will entertain himself with a massive rally -one more- in the Zócalo, in order to celebrate the fifth anniversary of his resounding victory in the presidential election. Expensive are such meetings, since the transports originate great expenses for transportation, food, room and gratuity of the transported. Surely the cost of the self-tribute will be multimillionaire.
And I wonder like my friend: is this the republican and Franciscan austerity preached by the caudillo of the 4T? The answer is in the wind, in the bad wind that currently blows over our country, jungle in useless and expensive words and occurrences, desert in works of true benefit to the community.
Afrodisio Pitongo, a man prone to the concupiscence of meat, managed to get a pretty girl, Dulciflor, to agree to go with him to the Kamawa Motel. In room 210 the usual trance took place. In full passionate delight she asked him: “Do you love me, Aphrodisius?” He replied impatiently: “What Devils has to see the love with what we are doing? END.
We recommend you read:
- Bodegueros are doing what they want with the corn supply
- Judge Angelica
- Furia Morena to the assault of the Court
#Politics #worse