En una calle de Madrid, cuyo nombre recuerdo

En una calle de Madrid, cuyo nombre recuerdo perfectamente, pero que prefiero guardar en secreto, por aquello de dar rienda suelta a la imaginación del lector, hace poco que vivía

"Toro, Toro Toro!" Toro the enraged purple minotaur stampeded with his bovine brethren through the streets of Mexico City, Mexico. Never again would they be slaves! They'd be free!

Once they got to the outskirts of town, the purple minotaur and his cow-posse stopped and pulled out GoogleMaps to see where they should go, Las Vegas seems nice, they thought.

They'd fit in well there. "Wagon-hoooo!" cried the minotaur, crumpling the map and gesturing wildly to get the cattle's attention. An hour later, they were in Vegas, checking in

on their casino. They were mobsters who'd adopted the cowboy ethic. They called themselves Don

Johnsons, and each sought a Tubbs like a Lone Ranger seeks a Tonto -- or, in some cases, a Tarzan seeks a Jane. The cowboy mobsters mistook "aesthetic" for "ethic", and their style

Became mistaken for substance. A dangerous mistake made by gladiatorial social justice warriors went viral. Pretending to preach peace and prosperity, Prospero opened the lid too

abruptly and instead of preaching peace he sent seven priestly peaches out into the world. They were half-baked and in a jam. The gladiators caught them and baked them into tarts.

For the priestly peaches it was the pits. They warned, "You butter watch out." The gladiators stopped eating when the peaches sang: "Take another lil peach of my heart now baby!"