Literary disurbances: the last call

It was terrible, Honey, I was driving on the road, so quietly, and then a car overtakes me, FIUU!, and then another, FIUU!, and then other, FIUU!, when the mobile just rings, RING, RING, RING!, I slow a little to answer and, at the other side GUAU, GUAU, GUAU, MIAU, MIAU, a pet shop, wrong number, so I hung up with a tachycardia not to be told, BUM, BUM, BUM!, non-stop, and I am with the nerves on edge, when, suddenly, COF, COF, COF, an incredible cough, followed by I don’t know how many ACHIS, ACHIS, ACHIS!, that made me close the eyes for a moment and then CHAS, TRAS, PAF, ZAS!, when I open them, I am with the car stamped against a traffic sign, dammit, why they put them in the middle, I try to start the engine but it doesn’t do neither RUN, nor RAN!, so RING, RING, I call the tow car, which comes along with an ambulance, NIII-NOOOO, NIII-NOOOO, does it hurts you here AY!, does it hurt you there AY!, swallow this, GULP, GULP, sign here, CHAS, CHAS, you may leave, I take a taxi, it gets into a traffic jam, MEC!, MEC!, everybody honks, and my head about to explode, PUM, I get out of the taxi with such bad luck that I slip, CATAPUN, I have a deplorable look, and I will miss our date. Honey? CLONC!, she hung up.

Diagnostic: onomatopoeia, the sign created o imitate a natural sound.

Involution

Not a rumour in the dark.

His hands were behind his back, the wrists bound with a cord.A man stood by a whitewashed wall in southern Alabama.

He faced the firing squad and closed his eyes in order to fix his last thoughts upon his mother.

Striking through the thought of his dear mother was a sound which he could neither ignore nor understand: a sharp, distinct metallic percussion like the stroke of a blacksmith’s hammer upon the anvil. They hurt his ear like the thrust of a knife, he feared he would shriek. What he heard was the ticking of his watch.

The soldiers were at “parade rest”, the butts of their rifles on the ground, the barrels inclining slightly backward against the right shoulder, the hands crossed about the stock.

He saw his mother holding his hand and taking him back to his home town. They passed through the dirty streets and saw a dead dog on the berm.

Further away they heard the hue-and-cry of some teenagers fighting for a joint of marihuana.

She laid him on the bed. Daniel stretched out and closed his eyes again.

A lieutenant stood at the right of the line, the point of his sword upon the ground, his left hand resting upon his right.

A doctor completed the scene.

Death is a dignitary who when he comes announced is to be received with formal manifestation of respect, even by those most familiar with him.

The man who was about to be shot was apparently about thirty-five years of age. He had a kindly expression which one would hardly have expected in someone whose life was at stake.

His features were good –a straight nose, firm mouth, broad forehead from which his long, dark hair was combed straight back, falling behind his ears to the collar of his well fitting frock coat.

Evidently this was no vulgar assassin.

The soldiers pointed directly to the body.

The night was darker than usual and he wanted to find a star, but the narrow window of the cell barely allowed him to see a tiny piece of sky.

He raised his head. His mother adjusted the pillow.

All of a sudden, he started bleeding from the chest.

The shirt with the inscription of his inmate number got tainted with blood.

The mother noticed that her son had urinated on himself; she raised him and took him to the bedroom. There, she changed the lower part of his pyjamas.

The soldiers dissolved the firing squad.

The lieutenant ordered the doctor to certify the death.

The mother kissed him on his cheek and closed his eyes to sleep at last.

The doctor observed with astonishment the bundle lying on the floor, by the wall.

The criminal’s body had been reduced to a four year old.

What kind of Toastmasters is this?

The Irish are legendary by the amount of alcohol they can ingest. They hang out in the Pub until late, while their wives or partners wait for them at home. These often call the pubs to find out.

In a Dublin pub I saw the following notice:

… TELEPHONE ANSWERING CHARGES …

•        NOT HERE                     .50 €

•        JUST LEFT                     .75 €

•        ON HIS WAY                1.00 €

•        WHO?                          2.00 €

Mobile phones? No this was 1960, the year I went to Ireland, when I was seventeen.

I went to an Irish family home and a girl of that family would come to my home in Malaga. It was cheap, it was convenient and it was practical.

How to call that arrangement?

When I wrote to the Irish family, by hand, no Internet either, I searched the dictionary and I found a word that seemed perfect, because it sounded like international and course:

INTERCOURSE!

So I happily wrote to the Irish family saying that I wanted intercourse with one of their daughters.

With the English language you may commit terrible mistakes.

Things are easier today. You can find the exact meaning of the words if you Google them.

When I arrived to the family, the father,  Paddy, wanted to know about me, and asked if I had any “convictions”, to which I answered that, yes, I was a good Roman catholic.

But, actually, Paddy wanted to know if been in jail before.

Then, we began to speak about our respective countries.

We discussed that in Spain we have coined a term “mañana” which means that: the work may be done tomorrow, maybe the next day, maybe the next after that.

I asked Paddy if there was an equivalent Irish term and he told me: "No. In Ireland we don't have a word to describe that degree of urgency."

Altogether, I spent a month in Ireland. What did I learn?

Well, I learned 3 things.

1.Ireland is a very catholic country, where there is a catholic priest or nun for every 264 citizens.

2.I learned that the Irish drink a dark warm beer called Guinness “stout” in a long glass which they say it looks like a priest: a black body and a white collar.

I don’t know if there is something called a nun; a white body and a black veil on top. Perhaps some form of Irish coffee?

3. I learned the meaning of the word “toast” because that the Irish are, yes, catholic, but they spend far more time drinking beer and giving toasts in the pub than singing hymns in the church.

What takes me to the central point of my Speech: how we call Toastmasters to a place where there are no toasts and there is no beer.

To remedy that unlucky situation, I would now propose a toast to you.

With this “priest” of beer I say (pretending to hoist a glass of beer in my hand and looking a little drunk):

"May you never forget what is worth remembering, nor ever remember what is best forgotten."

Poor memory

I'm here to talk about a subject that for years was a real problem for me, but today, thanks to the latest technology, I have completely overcome.

I mean ... I have it written in the hand ..., bad memory.

I have it written here because it is the only way for me to remember. Before I had it written in a notebook...

I do not know what I did with it.

Now I write down everything on my body.

People think I have a tattoo on my arm, but once I wrote a shopping list there with a Rotring pen and it stayed there.

I am the only guy who has written on the biceps "chicken breast",

They wanted to charge me three thousand Euros to take it off, so I painted a heart around it and now I say that it was a girlfriend I had.

The blame for my poor memory lies on my mother who forced me to remember a lot of things and the result is that nothing more fits into my brain.

My mother would tell me:

- 'Son, go down and fetch the bread and, as you do, buy olives, tuna, milk and lettuce.

And, when leaving home house, you kept repeating:

-        "Bread, olives, tuna, milk and lettuce,

-        Bread, olives, tuna, milk and lettuce '...

And then you passed by a neighbour, and she said:

- "Hello, dear, how's your mother?

And you were repeating:

- "Bread, dear ... tuna ... Well, thank you.

- Bread .. olives

Shit.

But your mother never forgot. On seeing you arrive, she said

-        The lettuce is missing.

I think mothers have at least 5 Gigabytes of memory

My teachers wanted me to remember long lists of names like the tributaries of the Tagus: Jarama, Guadarrama, Guadiela.

Hallo dear, how is your mother? bread, lettuce, Jarama, Guadarrama, Guadiela

So, I am now a disaster for names.

I only learned my wife’s name after two years of marriage.

In the meantime, I kept on calling her "honey."

If I reserved at a restaurant, they would say:

- "Yes, I have a table for Pablo Gómez-Mora and honey."

If I was with her, and I met an old friend from college, it was hard to make the introductions:

-        "Honey, college roommate,

-        college roommate, honey."

Eventually she realized, of course. And she got angry:

-        "You do not know my name."

I said:

-        sure I know"

-        And what is it? '.

-        Eh ...".

Then I looked at my hand and climbed up the biceps to finally exclaim:

-        Chicken breast!"

And the dates, it’s better not to talk about, of course.

In general, men have a problem with dates.

If you ask a man when it is his wedding anniversary he would say:

- "These things are taken care of by my wife."

It's not our fault, we're not genetically prepared.

One day my wife told me:

-        "Do you know what day is tomorrow?".

And I said:

-        "What day is it today?”

-        "Tuesday."

-        "Well then tomorrow is Wednesday."

And she said,

-        "Yes, but what Wednesday?".

-        "Hey ..., is it Ash Wednesday?».

-        "It's my birthday."

-        "Honey, congratulations!

-        And how many..?

How angry she got! But she changes her age every year, so it is impossible to remember.

By the time I learned the birth date, she was 33, and the she goes, and turns 34.

I am now taking ginseng, which they say is good for ... memory.

It was recommended by my dermatologist, because if I keep writing things in my body, I will destroy my skin…

The problem is that I never remember if I took it.

The other day I had an overdose. I was quietly at home and, suddenly, I said to my wife:

-        Hey, chicken breast, now I remember!

- What?, she said

I replied:

-        Bread, olives, tuna, milk ... and lettuce! ».

And what is that?

The tributaries of the Tagus!