Do Flamingos Eat Lobsters?
One afternoon my boss invited me over to his house for dinner. “Bring the wife,” he said. I wasn’t friends with the boss and he never invited me before. “I have something important to talk to you about,” he said. I told Christina. “Why do we have to?” she asked. “He’s my boss,” I said.
The house was much nicer than ours. The property was vast, full of flowers and flamingos. We got out of the car and walked toward the door. The flamingos were bathing in a fountain on the front lawn. I reached my hand toward the door bell when one of the pink monsters landed on my outstretched arm. He bobbed his head back and forth, staring into my eyes. The wife ran back to the car.
“It’s ok,” my boss said, opening the door. The flamingos ran a few paces in order to pick up enough speed to fly. They landed on the car. The wife screamed. Flamingos were everywhere; they blacked out the sun with their pink feathers. The boss led me inside and his wife came out to comfort Christina.
After a few minutes the ladies joined us in the living room. Six flamingos were sitting at the dinner table, drinking water from crystal bowls. I adjusted my glasses on my nose to make sure I was seeing correctly. “The birds have been trained well,” I said. “Yes,” the boss said. Others had entered through the open front door, standing on one leg with their knees bent backwards.
“This is what I wanted to talk to you about,” the boss said. “These are Caribbean flamingos. They want to work for us.” I didn’t know what he meant. How could flamingos sell lawn ornaments in their image? “I have taught them how to build the products,” he said. “I need you to fire six hundred employees next week,” he said. “I’ll make you regional vice president. Your salary will increase threefold.”
“Swarkkkkkk,” said the flamingo sitting at the head of the table. He was looking into my eyes. I was hypnotized. The boss put on some reggae music. The other flamingos began to dance. How could I say no? “Are you serious?” I asked. “As a heart attack,” he said. “Ok then,” I said. “Wonderful,” he said. “Now please sit down and eat. We have fresh lobsters and filet mignon.” The flamingos were eating shrimp. The ones at the table were enjoying lobsters. After dinner they carried us outside to the car in their beaks, across the front yard. Those flamingos are smarter than they look.