Recibí un email hoy de una ex-compañera de trabajo. Ella es estadounidense y habla un poco de español, pero me dice que como no comprendió por completo el registro sobre las rancheras que escribí ayer, se le ocurrió meter el texto por un traductor automático. A continuación, lo que salió:
The international school where work perhaps, as they know,has a British director. Then in England, for Christmas, theBritish mount humorous acts that call pantomime. PureEnglish humor. They stereotype without verguenza, theyoccur blows, they say groserías disguised, never lacks thecream pie. The public blatantly puts with the villains andaupa to heroes. This year, pantomime of the school has asit stars guest to who subscribes, singing the rancherasones not more. And it goes that rancheras! They are uglyand depressed songs that nothing else pleases to that itcomposed them and perhaps to their mother. At least one ofthe rancheras is of double sense because if does not havesense some. In another one the composer protests to him toa witch who absorbed the life to him of the son and who nowthe witch is going away to absorb hombligo to him to thehusband. How is everything? The last one has like titleHappiness, but very weepingly it celebrates the life "thatjust yesterday pasóoooo." Thank heavens that nothing elsethree people in the public are going to understand. Theothers, Chinese - and not because I am in China. Even so,tiger is tiger. It is called on to me to sing threerancheras, a song of John Lennon, and as finishing touchfor this one spectacle of the good taste, Merry Christmasde Jose Feliciano. He would not be so bad if it is notbecause it touches Burt to me Baccharat in the piano. Theyremember how I mistreat Old Horse? Aja. The pianista that Ihave is igualito. The other day my daughter of four yearssaid to me, "You´re booooring, baby." At that I havearrived: rancheras and infantile disdain.