Musashi Sez:
Ther I wuz, in the middul of the Paris Agrculchurul Sho, an whut do mai pertee yello eyez see but Picotero Paco, the flamenco-singin Bursels sprowt farmr from southrn Spain. “Picotero” meen chattrbox. It is a gud naym fer him. He was sittin ther at his taybul decoraytid wift big palm treez, talking to a big scaree dog wift orinj eyebrowz.
He sed, “Probablemente se esté preguntando cuál es mi secreto. Yo voy a decir. Yo le canto al coles de Bruselas. Canciones de amor. El amor estimula el crecimiento.” (Probably you are wondering what is my secret. I’ll tell you. I sing to them. Songs of love. Love stimulates growth.”
The doggee sed (wift an aksent), “Tienes que amar a los brotes mucho, entonces.” (You must love sprouts very much then.)
“Ah, si! Si!”
And I lookd up at the taybul an I realizd that whut I had thogt wuz a palm tree wuz akshullee a enormous bursel sprowt.
I cud not halp maiself. I busted out sayin, “Holy toona!” (I dozn’t lik mackerl.)
The orinj eyebrowz turnd mai wae. “Yu shpeek ze Anglish, hmm?” His breft smelld lik a combinayshun of raw meet an bursel sprowts. An basil.
I sat down an curld my ploomy blak tail around mai front feets. “Why, yes, I do.”
“Vunderbar. I vas told to egspekt an American katze in a smoking jacket.”
I wuz confuzzld. “But I don’t smok.”
“Yu vud say, perhaps, ze tuxedo. Yu ar, perhaps, aqvaynted vith a bizniz-vomen katze by ze naym Felicity, hmm?”
“Why, yes. Mamzelle Felicity of the Doggee Toy Empyr. Yes, I am.”
“Vunderbar. Yu vill com vith me, plees? It vill be to your advontage, hmm?”
At that momint, about ten diffrint fyootchurz went whizzin thru mai brayn, incloodin the one wher I ended up this doggee’z dinnr. Also the one wher I gets the Nobel Pryz fer mai recipee fer catnip custrd. An the one wher I doez a bunjee jump off of this big ol’ dam, hundrds of feets down towerd the wattr, pull out mai Walther PPK pistl wift mai front paw an shoot—
Picotero wuz thrilld. “Pero es mi buen amigo Octavio! Usted no puede ir ahora! Debemos tomar una copa! He desarrrrollado una notable marrrtini con vodka muy seco y licorrr de coles de Brusellllas!” (But is my good friend Octavio! You can't go now! We must have a drink! I have developed a remarkable martini with very dry vodka and liqueur of Brussels sprouts!)
He wuz rollin his l’s an his r’s so much, I had to wundr jus how recent the developin process had ben. I tried to decyd whether to go wift the scaree doggee or stay wift Señor Chattrbox heer. I figgrd I’d load mai coin flip. If the ansr wuz flamenco, I’d stay wift Paco. If it wuzn’t, I’d go wift the doggee.
“Picotero! Mi amigo!” I sed. “¿Qué tipo de canción de amor te canta a su cultivo? Flamenco?” (Whut kind of lov songs yu sing to yer crops aneewae?)
“¿El flamenco? ¡No! ¡Canto club! ¡Consiguió una manera dulce de hablar!” (Flamenco? No! I sing disco! ‘You got a sweet way of talking—’)
Darn. I wuz goin to hav to go wift the doggee.
On the othr paw, at leest I wuzn’t goin to hav to lissen to Paco sing that annoyin Leo Sayers song mai mom liks so mutch…
See? Eevn hart-rendin danjer hav a brigt sid.
