The river of politics is troubled. The anger is the lightning that does not stop and we are no longer left with adjectives, expletives, exaggerations, insults or simple trolls and composed trolls as long as the noise does not stop, which for now does not reach the tavern, the cane bar, I skewer tortilla and whether or not it was a penalty. And thank goodness; Imagine the fierce dispute that the outstanding spokespersons taken to heart by popular testosterone appear, that the same thing wins or loses you in a war that makes you look like that half-psychopathic king paraded in a carriage by a string of strong (with erre ) patriots yoked in the draft. It will be for patriotic eggs!
It happens that professional politicians only alter those directly hired, while the common go to their own, which they have for everything. We would even say that politicians –some more than others, it seems to me– we are discounting the bullshit in everything they say, because we have noticed for a long time that they do not speak to us as they think, but thinking carefully about how they speak to us in order to rise in the ranks. surveys. Everybody? Are they all the same and does everyone do the same then? Of course not, some do it less, only when they are forced by others, who only serve the interests that we all know, etcetera, etcetera.
In other words, in the middle of this river we navigate each other; and worse those who presume not to be or have neither one nor the other. They also lie, even without knowing it -that sometimes trolls are also released without knowing it-; They are the ones who repeat the last thing they have heard in the whole talk show, or on the station that teaches to insult with style and is more suited to their interest or their prejudice, or simply gets along better with the color of the bile of that day, that here sometimes we see ourselves giving opinions and arguing from the boiling scrotum due to the penultimate anger.
But later, outside of this customary rubble, there is another river that forms another current, parallel, asymptotic, almost superimposed at times, which overflows its own channel to invade the main channel. This other river does not bring news of the congress, nor of the parties or of politics, nor of the rise in prices or the Euribor and that you look at the mortgages through the roof, and finally, all the things of real life, that we tell. No. This other river that we are referring to brings equally turbulent waters, but no longer in drama, but in comedy or grotesque farce. And it’s like a kind of balm that serves as decompression, a kind of gaseous valium that secretes the cuché of magazines and other gatherings, those of the large intestine, or of the heart, as they say.
For this other great puppet, their own clowns are needed, and sometimes there are some who play on both channels, stereophonic beings that stray from their natural course to invade the other and contaminate it with jelly beans and colors. There lies a legion of characters that bill hundreds of thousands of euros earned from our entertaining attention, each one representing the comedy of his life already thought of as a business. The penultimate act has been played out on three tracks almost simultaneously. on the one hand don vargasMr. de la Pichula and his love story and stars with that bas-relief perfectly made up and full of glitter, Mrs. Preysler; on the other, the daughter (or daughter, as you wish) of the aforementioned lady, the most industrious mother innumerable in Spain, Cañí, CEO of Preysler hijas and Co. who sells her chronicle of heartbreak in chapters for as many thousand a delivery, while advising to his daughter, the ineffable tamara, who does not stop trying to say things in case he ever manages to make himself understood, given his peculiar way of mistreating our glorious spoken language. Without forgetting the high school, a handsome young man who knows how to ride a motorcycle, they say, and who will love her forever, always being equal to x multiplied by the number of breakups, reconciliations, interviews and reports.
In other words, these double couples of mother and daughter with their respective parents have occupied the hearts of all Spain, with their comings and goings from room to bathroom and from one bed to the other of their casoplones, in the midst of a luxury earned hard with the sweat of his brow (let’s put it that way). And the thing remains here for now; that we also have innumerable bourbons, bourbons off and more bourbons off off; sons, grandsons, granddaughters with their corresponding and expensive unemployment, with which they complete the river that never ceases in the glorious history of our Imperial Spain. And they still say! Little happens to us!