A subject asked in the pharmacy: “Do you have black condoms?” “No, sir,” the pharmacist informed him. We have them only in white, traditional. If it is not indiscretion, why do you want black condoms? The individual replied: “It is that a neighbor of mine has just passed away, and I want the neighbor to see that I share his mourning”… The little bird made the nest with a hole in the bottom. The bow tie, puzzled, asked him why. The little bird explained: “At the moment I don’t want us to have a family”… The husband commented to his wife: “When I shave I feel like I’m taking 20 years off of me.” She sourly suggested: “Shave at night”… The girl’s severe father questioned, solemnly, the young man who was asking for his daughter’s hand: “Are you sure, young man, that you can make someone happy?” my daughter?”. The suitor proudly replied: “Uh, sir! He even screams!”… I love the Lord’s creatures. I am, without deserving it, one of them. I love the singing whale as much as I love the hummingbird, whose lightness makes the world weigh less. I love the dog, which is the perfect good when man does not teach it to do evil. If I were Saint Francis of Assisi I would also love the cat. I love with special love the fighting bull, one of the most beautiful animals that exist on earth, beautiful to the extreme of majesty. For this reason, because I love him, I don’t want the bullfighting festival to disappear, because with it the bull would disappear forever. In saying this, I know it well, I am at odds with many of my readers, who find cruelty in bullfighting, and not beauty. This blood festival is certainly almost always that of the bull, but often also that of the bullfighter, as shown by the profuse list of the right-handers immortalized by the bull that killed them. Bullfighting is the only art that is created in the presence of death. Hence its millennial mystery; hence its many prodigies. No human manifestation, with the exception of love and religion, has given rise to as much art –in music, in poetry, in painting and sculpture– as the art of bullfighting. I am saddened then by everything that threatens it, because it is also a threat to the survival of that magnificent animal, the bull. I deeply admire those who dedicate their lives to preserving it. One of them is a man whom I appreciate and respect for many reasons: Mr. Sergio Hernandez Gonzalez, soul and heart of one of the cattle ranches with the clearest lineage and most illustrious tradition in Mexico: Rancho Seco, which has just celebrated its 100th anniversary. In the company of dear friends, my wife and I have enjoyed the warm hospitality of Don Sergio and his kind wife, Doña Vicky, and in the manor house of that farmhouse, located in Tlaxcalan lands, we have felt the depth of the party, the generous delivery of the breeders of wild cattle, the greatness of the history of the bullfighting in our country, with glorious figures whose names, if it were possible for me to inscribe them all here, would give prestige to this text. No one will be able to take away from me the love that I feel for the bullfighting festival and for the bull itself, in the same way that no one will be able to take away my religion, my language and my being a Mexican. I hope that by saying this the enemies of the party will not consider me their enemy. I beg your pardon for thinking that the death of the bull in the ring is more dignified and nobler than in the slaughterhouse. In the first way of dying there is art, beauty, magic and color. There is also drama and tragedy. In the second there is nothing but sordidness. Here I end. Whats said, is Daid. And come the attacks of animalists. I will receive them at porta gayola… END.
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