politics and worse

politics and worse

This friend of mine is half a bastard. His wife corrects me: she says he’s a bastard and a half. An imposing man, with radical opinions that do not admit arguments, we have a nickname for him, the Siperono, a strange nickname that obeys the fact that he opposes everything we say: “Yes, but no.” I try not to frequent it, because although the virtues of others don’t rub off on me, the flaws are easily infected, and I’m afraid of becoming a systematic contradictor, when now I only contradict myself. My friend is old-fashioned. He assures that nobody is plated to the modern, because at present it is rare that one has firm convictions. He uses an archaic expression with a macho connotation to say that every Mexican folds at least once a day. The Siperono is conservative, and I would even say reactionary. He believes that many of the ills that this country suffers are due to women’s liberation. He says: “When the woman left her house to go earn money outside her home, the children were left adrift. There was no longer anyone to watch over them, who would take care that they only had good friends, who would help them do their homework, who instilled in them the values ​​and traditions -social, religious, family- on which a healthy coexistence is based.With that also came problems in marriages (“Since my wife works as an asshole, she doesn’t let me down”), with the consequent increase in the divorce rate. The friends of the Siperono tell him that his views are sexist, patriarchal and misogynistic, and he replies: “Yes, but no”. Either way there is no escape: all that this uncompromising conservative opposes ultramontane is the product of modernity, and no one can stop modernity. It is too modern. Some will judge that my friend is right and says what no one dares to say. Others will think that he is an anti-feminist, fascist and traditionalist, which in the fierce terminology of North American feminism it is called a male chauvinist pig. I say to each other with a spirit of harmony and a conciliatory spirit: “Yes, but no.”

Don Chinguetas has no remedy. Its Achilles heel is the sex that used to be called weak and now no longer. (Now the weaker sex is that of the gentlemen of mature age). This gentleman that I say cannot see a lady of medium sight without throwing the dogs at her, as the popular phrase says. He met one who allowed himself to be reached by the aforementioned dogs, because he realized that Don Chinguetas, in addition to the gift, also had the din. The horny gentleman took the said lady to her house, and rejoicing with her was in the conjugal bedroom when Dona Macalota, which is the name of Don Chinguetas’s wife, suddenly arrived. None of my four readers will be surprised that the lady has burst into loud invective directed both at her unfaithful husband and at her occasional companion. Don Chinguetas said to her exalted consort: “Report yourself, please, woman. We are in the presence of a stranger.” (That “report yourself” comes from an expression already in disuse, “report yourself”, which means to contain an impulse or feeling, usually anger, in order not to lack good manners or civility).

Doña Panoplia de Altopedo, a lady of good society, went to spend a few days at the country estate of her friend Gules. The hostess, in order to give local color to her visit, had her coachman drive Dona Panoply to the train station in an open horse-drawn carriage. On the way back, the uneducated animal released a formidable spit that embarrassed the updotted visitor. She said Dona Panoply: “What a pity!”. And she declared to the coachman: “Look! I thought it was the horse!” FINISH.

Sometimes Don Juan dreams.
In the dream, some of the women he thought he loved and who perhaps loved him, at least at the moment of love, appear to him.
The dream he then dreams is not lascivious. It is a dream that could be called dreamy, soft, sweet and even tender. She gives him her hand and he takes it and kisses it lightly, like she kisses a child’s forehead. Then the woman smiles and disappears.
At that point in the dream, Don Juan always wakes up. A sense of peace possesses him, and he is no longer plagued by the remorse that twists his soul. He tries to go back to sleep to dream the same thing again, but the dream flees, and with it the dreams flee.
I would be lying if I said that in that doze Don Juan regrets his past life. He will never regret it, I think, not even at the last moment. Loves are to remember them, not to regret them.
Don Juan waits for sleep to return. He will ask the beloved at the moment of kissing her hand: “Do you remember?”.
See you tomorrow!…

“. Chaos in the internal elections of Morena.”.
The sarracina that I quote
was surely due
because he was not present
the forced little finger

Source: Debate

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