I woke up early this morning and wrote a story in that little box they have on Google Translate. Then I sat back and listened to how it sounded in both English and German. Ah, Sundays!
After years of trying to eke out a living as a writer in the United States, I went to Germany to become an existentialist-bullfighting-expatriate author like Hemingway. They turned me away when I got there. Said they already have too many expatriates roaming the streets. They’re called Syrians. As for bullfighting, they suggested I contact Spain. Not sure if they need more bullfighters, but they could sure as hell use some writers!
When I told Spain what Germany said, they considered this an act of war and became outraged. Said Cervantes can kick Johann Wolfgang von Goethe’s keester any day of the week! I told Germany what Spain said. Germany said they’re tired of fighting; grew sick of it 70 years ago!
“Tell Spain to learn how to take a joke!” said Germany.
“I would, but I’ve run out of money traveling back and forth between Germany and Spain all day. Could you spot me five hundred dollars?”
“Sure, why not! This is kind of fun!”
So I went to Spain, but when I got there I forgot what I was supposed to say.
I called Germany.
“Hey Germany, it’s me, the existentialist-expatriate writer from the United States who’s trying to get into bullfighting in Spain, or is it writing? Anyway, what was I supposed to tell Spain?”
“You didn’t need such a long introduction, we know who you are. Tell Spain to learn how to take a joke.”
I said, “That’s right. Thanks, Germany!”
I hung up and told Spain to learn how to take a joke, but before I could tell them not to kill the messenger they took out a rifle and shot me.
Now I’m back in the states nursing a hole in my chest. Doctor says I will recover, but going back to Spain could be dangerous to my health.