The story I am going to tell today has no end. Does anyone have it? Everyone thought that World War II had already ended, and 20 years after its end they found a Japanese man on the warpath in the Philippine jungle. And in hand too, since he was carrying a bayonet that he would have gladly stuck in the belly of the first gringo that crossed his path.
Almost no story ends, it’s true. That’s why it’s scary to start one. Review the stories of your life and you will see that many have not finished yet. They continue, even if in the form of remorse. And the same is true of the world, which is just a big human being. Their stories never have an end. We do not realize it, but we are still experiencing the consequences of the founding of Rome, or the effects of the French Revolution. This is the never ending story. It’s even scary. That’s why people love sports so much: the games do end. Saraperos, 7; Sultans of Monterrey, 3… Chivas, 2; America 1…Dallas Cowboys, 21; Miami Dolphins, 7… And that’s it. Let’s go. Spot. You know what to expect. Not with life. Not with death. They never end. You will excuse, therefore, that this story lacks an end. You, reader; you, reader, will have to put it on. Whoever you put on him, he will be fine for me.
The story is about a subject who had these three characteristics: he was drunk, he was lazy and he was a friend of quarrels and quarrels. Any one of those three notes would have been enough to make him an undesirable; together the three of them did it again pain in the ass, as they say in North America: a pain wherever I told you. Drunks, you know, are hard to bear. To put up with a drunk you have to be drunk too. So the responsibilities are divided. As for being lazy, the individual in my story was lazy: in his entire life the wretch had never completed an eight-hour shift. The quarrels he looked for, and if he couldn’t find them he invented them. He had an insufferable temper, no one could be with him for even half an hour.
Imagine your wife, who had to put up with him for half her life. When the man died she put on a black dress on the outside, and on the inside a yellow one with red, blue, green, orange and pink dots. A certain lady used to say that the freedom of women begins when the children leave and the old man dies. I agree with him. The true female liberation is widowhood.
They were watching over the guy when one of his sons peeked into the box. What he saw – what would he see? – left him cold with shock. He turned, terrified, and said with a trembling voice to his mother.
– Mom: Dad is alive.
The other children rushed to the coffin, and one hastily prepared to open the lid. -Moment! The lady shouted from her chair, raising her hand with the palm in front of her in an imperative gesture. If he’s alive, whoever gets him out of there will have to take care of him. I already complied. They no longer count on me.
Here the story ends. Rather, the story does not end here. Was the man dead? He lived he still he? Did they take him out of the coffin? EITHER…
You, reader or reader, give the story its end. The one you put on it will be fine for me, as long as it ends there.
IT MAY INTEREST YOU: Say and know; compendium of proverbs, sayings and sayings