Palm Sunday

“So, it is Palm Sunday and the world is falling apart. Anything to say, Morris?”

“Nope, it’s fuck all to do with me. I’m just a donkey.”

“OK, I’m Rubí donkey and I reckon this is getting out of control. You two, just stop talking. I will sort out the problem.”

“Jesus! I’ve got my blanket on the fence here and we are on the edge of World War III. Just give me an assurance our peasant will get the blankie on the donkette if things go pear-shaped and Putin drops the bermb.”

“The bermb? That sounds too Peter Sellers for me. Shit. I thought the whole thing was just an entertaining load of bollocks when I watched House of Cards on Netflix. Now we have a 10% rise in the price of straw, and Putin is responsible. Does that man know how totally mundane he is?


Well fuck it! This is Palm Sunday. Are we going to be depressed by the fact that the whole world has been totally fucked up due to a lone wolf tosser in the Kremlin who drove back from East Germany to Russia with a secondhand washing machine in the back of his crappy Trabant car and now claims to be the saviour of Russia?

Excuse me? Who gives a toss about Russia? Anyone starts running around on Palm Sunday, I start the running, OK? I’m Rubí and I am in charge.

OK stuff it. Let’s go galloping.