As I do not know the results of what happened yesterday (before everyone won; now everyone loses or wins as Piriro de Epiro), I will tell you what caught my attention the previous week, in addition to the movie Bong Joon-ho Korean parasites and the Icelandic Olafsdottir's latest novel, Hotel Silence. When the other day the Vox people desecrated my mailbox by smelling me a programmatic corpse that reeked, next to the catalog of offers of Leroy Merlin and a letter from a man who bought or sold me (now I do not remember) the house, it caught my attention that during the precocious campaign nobody, except for occasional and brief exceptions, chistara and that Abascal, Monasterio and Ortega Smith could hang with total dialectical impunity each and every one of the adjacent lies and desires that they claim to defend: their true phobia, catalanophobia, xenophobia, homophobia, in short, his philosopher.
The only certainty is that except for its metaphysical string on the sacred sacrament of the Unity of the Fatherland and the essential eternity of it – "Spain always" – the arguments of how much they defend or are an error or a lie or a contradiction. They attack, for example, the Catalans, Basques and Valencians because they indoctrinate in schools and persecute children who say "balls" instead of "collons", and at the same time propose that patriotism be studied, a return to the Formation of the Franco National Spirit. They want to end the State of autonomy by the expense they generate, when it is clear that it has generated wealth. They want centralism when decentralization has been more efficient. They associate migration and crime and the figures are invented. They defend freedom against the "progressive dictatorship" because it imposes a unique vision of history (fuck!), Faces men and women (pussy!) And only seeks to divide the Spaniards (hash!). And if this, and more than I shut up, was not terrifying enough, now it turns out that Rivera, "the president of the families," has insisted on making us happy. How awful!