Some garlic soup servants are said to have said at the Roa bull runs in Burgos, early in the morning of the Patron Saint Festival from August 13th to 26th. Some old men from Roa itself, from Haza, Fuentecén, Moradillo, Campillo, and other surrounding villages who had property in the Roa area, were telling some of their nephews and their friends that they belonged to some gang, and that they had committed some outrages and made noise at night to frighten people and their girls for their love affairs: This is the country of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. And it always will be. It’s normal for people in politics and power to commit outrages, thefts, prevarications, rapes, and scams, following the example of their King Emeritus, who lives in Abu Dhabi, in the United Arab Emirates, weaving the fabric (the money) and plotting the wool from the torn underpants of his lovers, to whom he went as a ghost so as not to be noticed by the people.
Furthermore, what he says is a fable: “Where a donkey pees, everyone pees. We all pee in each other’s piss.” Leaving this small chatter behind, they noticed two young people who seemed to be in love, the girl with a small jug of wine on her head and the boy with a bull’s tail in his hand, the latter complaining thus: August days, days of misfortune, it’s not even the afternoon of the bullfight, and already it’s a cruel and dark death.
The girl replied: Stop complaining about the bulls. Let the savages have fun in their races. Make this cock you’re carrying a fantasy, because it’s beautiful when it’s erect. May God grant me good luck!
I was always intrigued by the scrap merchant Miguel de Cervantes, who used to wander the streets around the San Isidro Cemetery in Madrid, where I lived. It’s said he was the son of a canon. He would show off his bundle of wealth outside, and then, with a certain posture, shout: The scrap merchant. I’ll buy scrap metal or trade it for kitchen utensils. I remember my mother, who had previously gone to the Casa de Campo to look for scrap metal, saying to him: Sir, I have nine children, and for this scrap metal, I want you to give me a set of plates: soup plates, dinner plates, dessert plates, and their utensils: spoon, fork, knife, and teaspoon.
It seems the scrap metal dealer liked my mother, because she granted it.
They say that this Miguel de Cervantes was virtuous, pious, and a whore, a native of Alcalá de Henares, baptized, like the author of Don Quixote, in the parish of Santa María la Mayor. He displayed his virtue by leaving some money in the collection boxes of the churches he visited, and impregnating some pious woman who courted him, pointing to his crotch, saying: There are only two glories, here and there.
Responding he as he came inside her: This dust goes to the soul of my father.
One day, I overheard my father talking to him: Not that, Miguel de Cervantes, you have many sins, my father told him.
He replied: Señor Daniel, you already know that, as the son of a canon, I have dignity in the church, cathedral or collegiate. Deep down, I am a republican and an atheist, but since the fascist General commands it, I pass as virtuous and pious.
Thanks to my hands, the pious women enjoy themselves and see God, as they themselves say and tell: Miguel de Cervantes calls my carnal knocker: my faith, daughter, no longer calls.
And the best and funniest thing about the junkman is that, when he finishes fucking me, and I’m faking my orgasm, he says to me: Blow it up, it’s already cooked. That is, don’t turn on the fire and throw it away so the stew doesn’t cook any more and stick.
DoubleSpeak 