of ass I currando and I have no time to write a tirade of mine so I've stolen this to Arturo Perez Reverte, it is one of those things you read and think "why have you given him champion." For that, I leave here you will not miss pa. More tomorrow.
Signed: The old spider, imbued with the spirit Putamierdero (my style, of course).
The fact is that the ant was dale hit you, hard worker he was, carrying grains of wheat and all he could to the hill, sweating because it was August and the heat was that he was going to crochet. The dame came and went from one place to another, with the methodical and disciplined seriousness with ants comme il faut, piling supplies for the winter. So busy was until I spent a lot of ant that was delicious and say things. Adios, hopscotch, complimenting the guy touching her with their antennae. Who could open the six legs at once. And she charged with a grain of wheat or sprig of parsley, was not aware of and followed by his, upa, hoop, up, hoop, obsessed with stock up the pantry, then winter comes and goes what happens . Every day, the ant went in front of a cicada, which had a nose that I trod, aunt, all the while lying to the paunch under a rosemary bush, to the guitar while singing songs from Alejandro Sanz and things well. Who is going to heal this broken heart, said the scoundrel, Chota of poor ant when it passed nearby. Sometimes, when he had smoked a joint and went further on, the cicada came even a rebuke to the ant. Adios, currant, Stakhanovite, told the bitch. Do not stop. Other times they messed up with laughter and threw pebbles at the ant, more than anything for shit, and said check in the shade, sweating, to work more than Juanjo Puigcorbé. How stupid can you to walk up and down carrying wheat, which is falling. Tontadelpijo.
The ant, of course, it became a terrifying evil intentions. Sometimes they stopped and shook his fist at the cicada. Go to suck someone, he said. And he answered the Grasshopper, because hey, I like because you do not have time. Sometimes passed by grinding his teeth, or what have ants in your mouth. And come winter, muttering bent under the weight of the load. And come winter, hijaputa, and you'll figure out what it's worth a comb. You sing, sing. In August than in December Carpanta sings. But the cicada is messed up with laughter. Total
that winter came and it was to be dropped as a snow balls. And the ant was rubbing his hands in his warm nest, near the stove and watched the pantry. And I thought: now comes the chocholoco asking barracks, starving and cold. But me going list. We will be giving. That palm on my door like there is God. And then, being an ant in a bathrobe and slippers, watching the TV set Tombola, sounds the doorbell. And the ant gets up slowly, reveling in luck. There's that bitch, she thinks. Stiff with cold and hunger. To see if you are like singing now. The case is that it opens the door which will not be surprised when you are on the threshold of the cicada dressed in a mink coat that you shit, and a Rolls Royce waiting in the street.
- I come to say goodbye, "announces the cicada. Because while you worked, I bind to a shackle that is rotten Pepe pasta. But rotten, aunt.
- Come on - does the ant, stunned.
- I swear. And Manolo (because the cricket is called Manolo and is a heaven) I have removed and put me a floor hallucinate, neighbor. And now I'm going to London to record an album.
- No kidding.
- how it happened. And then Manolo brings me to a Mediterranean cruise, you know, Italy, Turkey, Greece ... I'll write postcards from time to time. Ciao.
And the cicada is raised mink collar and long on the Rolls Royce. And the ant paste is sweet at the door. And then close slowly, thoughtfully and goes back to the stove and the TV, sit, and look at the pantry, and then look again at the door. And he remembers the summer ant, which eventually bundled with other ant friend of hers, such a Matilde. Mecachis, he thinks. I forgot to tell the cicada, and going to Greece, ask if you still live there a certain Aesop. An older man, he writes. And if found, to give my regards. He and the mother who bore him.
© Arturo Perez Reverte, (who I wish that was mine).
UPDATE: Just posted this entry ask me if I'm the ant and the grasshopper. Unfortunately I think I am more ant grasshopper, worst of all is that I have always known that the work does not dignify me shit. Any cricket to get me out of poverty? Yes? No? Almost no, that still I have a little stomach.
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