A time worn man shuffled by, “Doleo pro peccatis meis.”
My faulting Latin suggested he was sorry for his sins. He stopped, still mumbling to himself. I approached.
He looked up sadly, “Mea culpa. Doleo pro peccatis meis.”
“What sins are your fault?”
In English, he explained he’d invented a joke and had been cursed to an eternity of hearing it repeated.
“What joke could be so bad?”
He would only say it in Latin, “Quare pullus transire via?”
I translated, “Why did the chicken cross the road?”
A shriek of pain echoed across the park as he ran away.