Death of the Parrot

At dawn the telephone rings,


“Hello, Señor Roy? This is Ernesto, the caretaker at your country house.”


“Ah yes, Ernesto. What can I do for you? Is there a problem?”

“Um, I am just calling to advise you, Señor Roy, that your parrot, he is dead”.

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

“Si, 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 the rotten meat, Señor Roy.”

“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 Roy.”

“My prize thoroughbred is dead?”

“Yes, Señor Roy, he died from all that work pulling the water cart.”

“Are you insane? What water cart?”

“The one we used to put out the fire, Señor.”

“Good Lord! What fire are you talking about, man?”

“The one at your house, Señor! A candle fell and the curtains caught on fire.”

“What the hell? Are you saying that my mansion is destroyed because of a candle?!”

“Yes, Señor Roy.”

“But there’s electricity at the house! What was the candle for?”

“For the funeral, Señor Roy.”

“WHAT BLOODY FUNERAL??!!”

“Your wife’s, Señor Roy. She showed up very late one night and I thought she was a thief, so I hit her with your new Ping G20  204g titanium head golf club with the TFC 149D graphite shaft.”

SILENCE………..

LONG SILENCE………

VERY LONG SILENCE…………

“Ernesto, if you broke that driver, you’re in deep shit.”

A contribution from the golfer Paul i Provence

 

 

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