A friend says that whores and coke are out of fashion. According to her, the times of the mandanga and the macho-mustacho, anti-soft pubes, stoking the napia in the route of the clam, are long gone. Clubs with subtle names like Las Musas, El Privé, Venus or, my favourite, La Faena; boast all of them distinctionare inevitably adrift and headed for shipwreck.
The mediating case, with its civil guard general, its former socialist deputy, its politician’s nephew and its businessman, shows that my friend is wrong. Or, at least, that it is a recent expiration. I must accept that It’s been a long time since I heard anyone style the brothel as a rite of passage to male maturity.
In my case, I confess that I have not had the pleasure of tasting such a transient tradition: from boy to man. My father, as a good artist, gave me a painting and invited me to a whiskey caro surrounded by his showbiz friends, like one more, like an adult. That was my ritual. And it sounds more touching to me than seeing him stuffing a hundred-dollar bill into the thong of one they call La Milagritos, moments before the shearwater grabs my hand and makes me a man. Man, really. Goat even!
Now, as much as the parakeet and paid sex go, little by little, passing to a better life, what will not be stopped is going to be corruption. Corruption is more difficult to remove than chewing gum stuck to the asphalt. I would say that it is congenital to the idea of power. Of power, with precepts of responsibility, of course. When one is a despot, corruption is not giving in to desires. Few things are more anti-system than being a humble potentate who spends his power to improve the lives of others, even at the expense of his own.
Along these lines, there are those who privatize corruption and those who collectivize it. Being the first more individualistic; Corsair, Anglo-Saxon, from an Elizabethan palace, and the second from a Castilian garden, with a beautiful orchard and a Lorenzo of Justice making his forehead pleasantly drip. Of course, we Spaniards are more of the latter.
Here we collectivize corruption and thus it is less serious for us. We involve relatives, friends and unknown opportunists with a scented flower up their ass to be in the right place at the right time. In this way, we are generous in our debasement. So much so that out of habit our moral compass breaks down and we no longer distinguish the blunder from the full-length. The error, of the crime.
In Spain, like the good charrangueros that we are, the business is signed with revelry. No expense spared and Welcome Mr. Marshall it is what a romantic comedy is to a porn movie; a Disney version. Then the ‘dirty laundry’ comes out and I put it in parentheses because In this country we have a terrible vice for seeing the straw in the other’s eye. Stories of prostitution and drugs appear to take to the air. Not of violence. Of that time that, as I say, we are Spanish and ours is the gibberish.
Cocaine and cronyism
That’s when the staff thinks that’s what the game is about. Of old bald heads, drugs and prostitution. But corruption is like fame. The most popular tends to stand out and the diverse base of the iceberg is misled. If Juan Bernardo, the politician, or Francisco Espinosa, the civil guard, paid homage like two yuppies after signing a merger, it is not good to see, of course, but the trees should not prevent us from seeing the forest. The seriousness of the plot is the bites, prevarication, bribery, influence peddling and criminal cronyism -perhaps the most common crime in Spain-. And all these issues can be born in a club in El Viso, in Madrid, or in the Institució de les Lletres Catalanes, in Barcelona, with a Laura who has finished demanding the use of her last name for the blunders committed : ‘Nen, that I…’
Maybe in Spain the whores and cocaine are becoming moth-eaten. But not the desire to be corrupted. If my friend goes and it turns out that she is right, perhaps in thirty years the new face of political amorality will be future cryptocurrencies inviting themselves to very expensive skills video game, all dressed in a basic T-shirt, dilations and glasses. Although it seems to me a ridiculous corruption, so abjectly childish, that I fear it would even be gently digested.
Politics is a sinusitis of ethics that clogs oxygenation and makes those who suffer from it believe that they are above good and evil
It all depends on the desire. If corruption has danced through brothels, imported cigars and snowy mountains, it will be because that is a projection of pleasure that, openly or secretly, the nefarious rancietes of the briefcase have integrated. Perhaps in those thirty years, more than silk or saliva suits, we will see dealings with collectible Funkos or very expensive LOL accounts. And, depending on the perfume of desire that blows on us, in that future we will take said corruption as a joke or we will integrate it into our aspirations. After all, the peel is the peel.
I’m sorry to be embers, but I insist once again. What we are not going to exterminate one hundred percent are the sewers and the parlor games. So much so, that I don’t think we have to put an end to corruption, but rather harmonize it. Avoid his nerve. make her look bad; demodé and out of the loop among those who practice it, more than prohibited. Who knows, maybe the morbid effect is part of the pleasure of dealing? I don’t know, it’s all to try alternatives. From so much tripping over the same stone, it seems that we have grown fond of pain. It will be what they call: ‘structural failures’…
Politics is a guilty addiction. People have a hard time accepting it, but that’s the way it is. Those who participate in it end up hooked on manipulation, power trafficking and theft. Almost the same as the rest of the addicts. And, once they’ve tasted agitation and delirium, when they’re in a state of exaltation, they’ll do anything to satisfy their stupid, heady appetite, and there’s no medicine for that. That is politics; an addictive thought that clouds everything. A sinusitis of ethics that, clogging oxygenation, makes those who suffer from it believe that they are above good and evil.
The old whoremongers, bald and hairy backed, They don’t have a monopoly on corruption. because they do not have a monopoly on politics, much less on power. To believe that they are its inventors and its only practitioners is a lapses that leaves free of guilt all those who, although less pompously, are also gamblers for their own benefit.
