This bizarre slogan in a motorway service station somewhere out there reminded me of the following ancient and iniquitous exercise in stereotyping:
A gentleman is promenading his poodle late one night on Enrique Granados (it may have been on the Plaza de la Sagrada Familia: I wasn’t there at the time) when he is stopped by a copper.
–Excuse sir, can you tell me where you got that dog, with its typical Lucille Ball trim?
–Why, he’s mine!
–I’m sorry sir, but I have reason to believe that it’s stolen.
And he picks up the dog, sticks his finger up its arse, and sniffs the evidence.
–I’m sorry sir, but there’s no doubt: that’s a Sarrià dog. Now, what’s your name and address?
–Surely you don’t need to ask me that!
Similar posts
- Family album
The best photos I’ve ever - What does Zapatero do when his internet connection is down?
From El Imparcial, 18/01/1912: Rome, 17th (9.20 pm) This morning a telephone subscriber asked the Central to put him through to the offices - What do you call an Eskimo with bananas in his ears?
The customary riposte is near the end of this post, but Enrique Jardiel Poncela gives a roundabout and, for those of - Diary dates
Cornellà gig, Penedès - Enric’s story
“I was 20 when I went to the
I like the sound of delicious pork cheese products. Sow’s milk is sadly underrated these days.
But this isn’t fucked translation!
I try to leave fucked copywriting to Zafón