On a vacation in Spain, a guy goes to a bullfight. He sees
the bull get killed. Afterwards he's looking for somewhere to eat and he comes
across a restaurant near the bullring. He goes in and takes a seat. He can't
understand anything on the menu, so he just orders the special of the day. The
waiter brings out a bowl of broth in which float two large balls.
"What are these?" asks the guy. The waiter explains
it's the balls of the bull that was killed in ring that day. The guy's adventurous,
so he takes a bite, decides it's delicious and finishes it off.
The next day he's sightseeing but he can't resist going
back to the restaurant and ordering "Bullfight Especial". The waiter
brings out a bowl, but this time the balls are much smaller. He eats them anyway,
finds them delicious but asks the waiter:
"Why were these balls so much smaller than they were
yesterday?"
"Well, the bull don't always lose."
SCENARIO 1
The waiter set the bowl down in front of me and stood back. Everything was
the same; two balls floating in broth, except for the size of the balls. While
the balls served yesterday were the size of large oranges, these balls were
no bigger than plums.
"Is this the same dish?" I asked.
"Uh-huh."
"Weren't the balls bigger yesterday?"
The waiter smirked: "I'll tell you why afterwards. Go ahead, dig in."
When I scooped one of the balls onto my spoon, I heard the waiter giggle. When
I turned, he was covering his mouth.
"Hold on," I said as another thought dawned on me. "Are these
human testicles?"
"Que?" came the innocent reply.
"These are the balls of the matador, aren't they?" I persisted.
"No. señor; how could you think such a
thing?" His face was suddenly calm.
As I brought one of the balls toward my mouth I shot a look at the waiter.
He stared straight ahead, impassive.
I popped the ball into my mouth. As I bit down the waiter doubled over in
laughter.
"Señor, you have just eaten--"
"--the balls of the matador," I said in unison with him, as I spat
it out in my hand. "That's why I asked."
"Señor, it's so funny."
"No, actually it's not that funny."
"Come; I see you smile. Just a little."
"What would have been funny is if I ate a testicle without asking. But
when I guessed rightly, that it was human, you simply lied."
"No, you asked if they were the balls of the matador. And
that's a colloquialism for the balls of fabric that hang off the trim of matador's
hat."
"His hat." I was dubious.
"Yeah, his hat."
SCENARIO 2
The waiter set the bowl down in front of me. I noticed his hand shook.
I thought perhaps he was infirm, but then as he stepped back I noticed he was
trying to stifle laughter.
When he saw me staring at him, he quickly recovered. But on his face remained
a twitching smile.
The only other customer, an old man, sat at a nearby table and watched me
with interest.
I looked down at the bowl in front of me.
"These wouldn't be the balls of the matador, would they?" I asked.
I looked up at the waiter. The smile had left his face.
He quickly turned to the old man at the other table. "You told him, didn't
you?" He accused him.
The old man quickly denied this. The two men started arguing.
When my waiter lunged at the patron, knocking him off his chair, I broke in:
"Hey! HEY! Take it easy! He didn't tell me anything."
But my waiter just ignored me and continued to scuffle.
I picked up a spoon and scooped out one of the balls and tossed it in my mouth.
I suppose the sound of me biting into it was loud enough to get the two men's
attention. They stopped fighting and looked up at me.
"See? I just ate one. There, that make you happy?"
But the waiter would not be consoled. "It's not the same without the element
of surprise."
"But he didn't tell me," I insisted.
"He's right, I told him nothing," agreed the old man.
"Oh, sure," the waiter said glumly.
Another thought struck me:
"What happened to your accent?" He didn't have an
accent anymore.
SCENARIO 3
"Yesterday they seemed bigger."
The waiter just shrugged.
I pursued this. "These are still testicles, right?"
"Si, but..." A look of intrigue flickered across his
face.
"But what?"
"Would you care to guess?"
This sounded fun.
"All right, they are smaller so... maybe a
little bull, a calf."
"Guess again."
"A goat."
"Nope."
"A ewe?"
"Ewe's a girl."
Good point. "Hmm... It's gotta be a mammal, right? Cause only male mammals
have testicles, right?"
"I... I don't know." This wasn't a point of reasoning that had
occurred to him. "But let me give you a hint. These testicles come off
of something from the bullring."
"The bullring..." I mused. "Something in and around the
bullring or the stadium area?"
"If you like."
A thought disturbed me. "I've seen those dogs running around the street
outside the bullring. It's not one of them, is it?"
The waiter was incensed. " No, no, no-- "
"Good, cause they look kinda mangy."
"Alright, I'll tell you--"
"No, no; don't tell me. I like this. What about... a cat?"
He laughed. "Be pretty big cat, no?"
SCENARIO 4
"And when was this matador killed?"
"Today, at the bullfight."
"Really."
"Sure, it was a tragedy. He tripped and the bull went right for him,
carried him around on his horns, smashed him against the far wall. All the women
were crying. The bull, he started to eat him--"
"The bull ate him?"
"He started to, yeah."
"What part did he get? Cause it wasn't the balls."
"No, no, it wasn't the--"
"I know that, 'cause I just ate the balls."
"I believe it was his hand."
"You know what? I was at the bullfight today and the matador didn't die."
"Well, it think it was one of the warm-up acts."
"I was there from the beginning to the final bull, and there was just
dead bulls. No matador died today. I know sometimes the bull wins, but today
it was all matadors. There were seven fights, and it was Matadors 7, Bulls 0."
In his ignorance of score-keeping, the waiter thought he had a chance here:
"Ah-ah! See, seven matad--"
"No, 7- 0, Matadors means the bulls didn't kill anyone."
The waiter fell silent.
"So whose balls did I eat?"
The waiter stared at the floor. Finally: "All right, it
wasn't the balls of the matador," he conceded. "It was another guy's
balls."
"Not that it makes a lot of difference, but who?"
"My cousin Juanita."
"Juanita...isn't that's a girl's--"
"Now she is. But she's a pato. You know what is
'pansy'?"
"Your cousin had a sex change, if I get this straight..."
"Si, he became a she."
"So your cousin had his testicles removed. And you said
'Hey, let's not just let these sit around.' And you cooked up Juanita's-- forgive
me-- Juan's balls to serve to this dumb American tourist."
"His name was Jorge, actually. Before the--"
"But isn't Juan the masculine version of--"
"So you'd think, right? But--"
"Now the question is why? Why serve the balls
to anyone?"
"Well, you seemed very adventurous and you would appreciate unusual,
off-the-beaten-track experiences."
"Right."
"The Madrid Best Western is not for you, am I right?"
"OK." I had to agree, I consider myself more a traveler than a tourist.
"So we figured 'Hey, let's give this boy a real experience
that he can tell his friends and family about.'"
"Probably not family, but I see what you mean."
SCENARIO 5
So I started eating these new balls. Whereas the day before, the balls were
of a size that required me to cut them into smaller pieces with my knife and
fork, one of these testicles would easily fit in a spoon. The entire dish could
be finished in two bites.
The waiter hovered nearby. "Is something wrong, señor?"
"The balls were so much bigger yesterday."
"Ah," he smiled. "Well, you see sometimes the
bull don't--
"--always lose," I finished his sentence. "I know, but the
fact is these are smaller and the price is still the same."
"And?" The waiter seemed confused.
"I don't think I should have to pay the same for these smaller balls."
The waiter pursed his lips.
SCENARIO 6
I go into the restaurant, and there, wearing an apron and a bow tie, is the
bull. The BULL is the waiter this time.
"Where's the waiter?"
"I'm your waiter today," said the bull. "What can I get you?"
"I'll have... I was hoping you might have... the special."
"You mean the Bullfight Special?."
I felt funny ordering the balls of the bull from a waiter who
was himself a bull. The bull seemed to read my mind.
"Don't worry," he chuckled, "they're not my balls today."
No sooner was I seated when he appeared again with the bowl. He set it down
in front of me.
Immediately I noticed that the balls were much smaller. I pointed this out
to the bull.
"Yes, the balls you were served yesterday were probably bigger."
Then a thought seemed to occur to him. "Out of curiosity, did you eat those
balls?"
I couldn't help but notice how he was staring at me intently.
"Oh most definitely, and they were delicious."
The bull nodded slowly but continued to stare at me.
There was an awkward pause. The bull continued, "Well, I heartily recommend
these balls. Although they're smaller, they're a bit more delicate in flavor.
And besides, they're much harder to come by."
As I tucked my napkin into my collar, the bull (who, if I failed
to mention it, was standing on his hind legs like a human) raised one of his
legs up onto a chair. His apron lifted to reveal that this bull was most definitely
intact. I caught myself staring and tried to pretend I hadn't seen the bull's
testicles. The bull seemed to be taking a lot of satisfaction from my discomfort.
It was at that moment that I became aware of the sound of dribbling
liquid. I turned are around, and there in the corner of the restaurant lay a
man on a hospital gurney. I supposed I hadn't noticed him earlier because my
attention was so dominated by the bull dressed as a waiter. The gentleman was
clearly a matador, his hat and gold jacket told me as much, but much of his
uniform was bloody and torn-- cut away, apparently, by the medics attempting
to treat his wounds. He was very pale and had clearly lost a lot of blood. His
lower extremities were heavily bandaged, and coming out of his groin was a clear
plastic tube. It ran down into a bag filled with urine which hung off the side
of the gurney.
This was the source of the dribbling sound.
"Ah señor," the matador murmured faintly.
"Do not feel bad about eating my testicles. I am dying, you see, and I
no longer need them. On the contrary, it would be gratifying to watch my nuts
give pleasure to another human being one more time. I entreat you, eat. At least
he..." and nodded his head scornfully towards the bull. "At least
he won't get them."
The bull just smiled.
"You see," the matador continued, "this enchanted bull and
I have a wager. If a patron of this restaurant doesn't eat my balls, he wins,
and I will die in shame. But if the patron agrees to eat them, the spell will
be broken, and this bull will return all fours, lose the gift of speech, and
will return to the bullring."
The bull seemed to regard all this with amusement. "You
talk a lot for a dying man, El Jefe. This tourist is not going to eat
your balls, no matter how sorry he feels for you."
I felt great sympathy for the dying matador. Such dignity! At
the same time, I was overcome with anger towards the bull. What a smug bastard.
My rage overcame me. I quickly dipped my spoon into the broth, scooped one of
the testicles into my mouth.
The bull snorted in surprise. Then he suddenly regained his composure. "You
haven't swallowed or even chewed it. If you spit it out, it doesn't count."
I bit into the testicle. The matador groaned with pleasure. The bull's eyes
went wide. "You-- you-- what kind of monster will eat the testicles of
another of his own kind?"
When I swallowed the ball, and scooped up the second, the building shook with
the crash of the bull falling onto his forelegs. He snorted but could no longer
speak.
I looked back at the wounded matador. He was smiling. "Thank
you, señor. You see, although the bull don't always lose, I
tell you this--" he winked-- "The matador always wins in the end."
With that, he expired with a beatific smile on his face.
Moses Robinson is a freelance writer, comedian,
and screenwriter. He lives in Los Angeles, and in his free hours, helps to convince
the morally weak to stay away from that city.
