For some time, he lived in the suburbs of Madrid and went to a local marketplace. Standing in a line for meat, in front of me, a woman, apparently an immigrant of the CIS, fell into the insidious trap of the Spanish language. Pulling his finger on the chicken, he says to the seller, “Polla, please.” The seller, a typical Spanish Pedro, stretches in a smiling smile, clarifying with his buyer:

How much do you?

And a kilogram.

The Spanish people are fun, always happy to joke.

What do you want, with or without hair?

– Ricardo, do you have a kilo polla? He cried out to a neighbor’s fish seller.

Today, my wife is busy.

Under a wild whistle, a woman is given a chicken, and she leaves without realizing that the pollo is a chicken and the polla is a fox.