"Hello, Señor Bob? This is Ernesto, the caretaker at your country house."
"Ah yes, Ernesto. What can I do for you? Is there a problem?"
"Um, I am just calling to advise you, Señor Bob, that your parrot, he is dead."
"My parrot? Dead? The one that won the International competition?"
"Si, Señor, that's the one."
"Damn! That's a pity! I spent a small fortune on that bird. What did he die from?"
"From eating the rotten meat, Señor Bob."
"Rotten meat? Who the hell fed him rotten meat?"
"Nobody, Señor. He eat the meat of the dead horse."
"Dead horse? What dead horse?"
"The thoroughbred, Señor Bob ..."
"My prize thoroughbred is dead?"
"Yes, Señor Bob, he died from all that work pulling the water cart."
"Are you insane? What water cart?"
"The one we used to put out the fire, Señor."
"Good Lord! What fire are you talking about man?"
"The one at your house Señor! A candle fell and the curtains caught on fire."
"What the hell? Are you saying that my country mansion is destroyed because of a candle?"
"Yes, Señor Bob."
"But there's electricity at the house! What was the candle for?"
"For the funeral, Señor Bob ..."
"WHAT BLOODY FUNERAL??"
"Your wife, Señor Bob. She show up very late one night and I thought she was a thief, so I hit her with your new Ping G15 204g titanium head golf club with the TFC 149D graphite shaft."
My three-year-old daughter stuck out her hand and said, “Look at the fly I killed, Mommy.” Since she was eating a juicy pickle at the time, I thrust her contaminated hands under the faucet and washed them with antibacterial soap.
After sitting her down to finish her pickle, I asked, with a touch of awe, “How did you kill that fly all by yourself?”
Between bites, she said, “I hit it with my pickle.”