[Popi is in the kitchen with a long white apron, before cooking with pots and pans. Prepare a sumptuous dinner. Apples into the house, with a large white plastic bag in his hand, slamming the door. Popi, who whistled creamy, stirring the contents of a pot smoking, it feels]
[comes into the kitchen and, as he had long premeditated, and tried going up the stairs, looking for words most suitable and resonant of his contempt, began his dramatic rebellion] Enough!
[Popi turns around, surprised] ...?
[melodramatic tone] That's enough, Popi!
What's up, Pomi?
[everything goes according to plan, Pomi can sciorinare his speech like a script. And so ago.] I'm sick! You're using, I feel like Cinderella, all day long to turn like a top to help you, but you're making me do all your work, I
But Popi
[is the defining moment] No, no! [Pause for effect] I am not your horse, Knobs!
...
...
... My horse?
Yes
Pomi ... I do not understand what you mean
[slightly displaced, teetering slightly mentally-the script was torn in a thousand confetti: the debate is losing track he had over and over again mentally-path, Pomi is stable in its position offense, once head slightly] Yes well, I do trot left and right to execute orders, I have said gladly help you, but now I have to run at a gallop wherever you ask me, and more and more things, mountains [the increasingly agitated tone, accelerates the words in a stream confused]
Ah ... Horse ... I understand. [A crooked smile and bright lightning through the frowning face]
You're not my errand, Knobs, quiet. And even my horse: thou art my ass. Now take this bucket and goes to empty, please. Guests will arrive soon.
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