If I were a woman, I would not go out on the streets today with a banner but with a flamethrower. Or I would ram my truck into the happening of unemployed activists that cut me off, an event registered in Barcelona that symbolizes the end of the legislature-most-feminist-in-history. Because if I were a woman, I would be tired of being not just Tito Berni’s carnal merchandise, but Pedro Sánchez’s electoral merchandise. Fed up with the trolley beau who proclaims parity for others, while emptying the female condition of registration meaning and shielding the trustworthy alphas at the tip of their executive power. Fed up with the swaying-hipped cowboy who handed over the Ministry to his vice-president’s wife for the mere fact of being one and because he considered such matter a expendable pot. Fed up with the robot with a prehensile jaw that endorses the colossal law of its Minister of Equality against the warnings of locals and strangers and then leaves her alone eating the brown of an inextinguishable social discredit, days after having also left the minister alone in her seat of Justice, which he ordered to clog the largest leak for rapists in Europe. Fed up with the cowardly man who only leaves the palace surrounded by a self-supporting set of publicists and a worried squad of bouncers: the man who always abandons women while continuing to swear to protect them. As if they needed his protection and not to be left alone for once.
But anyway, I’m a man: no one is perfect.
The first minister who occupied the blue bench was Irene Montero, rigorously purple. Someone gave the order that no minister should sit next to her and throughout the morning there were two empty chairs on each side of the plagued woman: courtesy of the senior partner. But that she prefers to govern with fascists – the PSOE is already there, according to Podemos – rather than resign from the position of CEO of state feminism was proven by her applause at each intervention by Sánchez. Certainly lukewarm, gestural applause, with hardly any contact between the palms, but submissive in any case.
The PP did not expect Sánchez to thank him for the rescue of his counter-reform: for Pedro’s civil war psyche, a hug from the right is the worst humiliation. The president was swinging his arms from the seat trying to grab the man from Vox de Castilla y León or the leg of a Camps suit, but he only found the hand of the European PP, author of the parity directive that our doctor in economic diplomacy is trying to present as your own idea. When Gamarra reminded him that the only priority of the Government-most-feminist-of-the-etc. is the political survival of a man, he incurred a nautical metaphor, something about a ship and a skipper, forgetting that these metaphors are carried by the Titanic. Or Captain Schettino, in his case. He only breathed a little in front of Abascal, who intervened with the expected rudeness but was bleeding from Tamames’ autolytic wound: that’s where Sánchez stuck his finger and struck a sensitive chord inside Vox.
Every time Adanero or Sayas – the UPN deputies who went over to the PP when Esparza agreed with Sánchez – ask, the president sings turncoat. They are duels in which the caste code shines in all its splendor: for the fetén Sicilian, hierarchical loyalty is much more important than personal principles. Little of what the PSOE offers today resembles what Sánchez himself defended and promised, but yes: it is still called PSOE. For Irene, Pedro is a defector who has gone over to the side of La Manada. And that is not why she will resign from her nor will he cease her, because every wild boar comes to the Cortes to suckle from her nipple, although all from the same teat. The one that has always sucked the best is nationalism: that is why Joseba -the one from the PNV, not the one from Carglass- allowed himself to distance himself very cutely from the hateful instrumentalization of women… despite the fact that his party voted yes is the same that on Tuesday he went to vote, he was not this, he was not this. steel jet.
Then there is Nadia Calviño, who calls for a comparable opposition, with how easy it would be to worry about a comparable government. She said that her companies are doing very well with her – and woe to those who dare to do badly – and that her government is very “empathetic.” Tito Berni prefers to say “affective”. But none is as empathetic as Doña Yolanda, the queen of care. Her voice is fluted until it is only heard by the dolphins in the Plaza de República Argentina. She then crosses her hands over her belly in an ursuline gesture and asks for peace for all women like Miss Universe sorority. But behind closed doors she has a sordid row with Montero and Belarra that would not pass the Pepe Navarro filter.
When an ERC deputy took the floor to demand that Marlaska investigate Rabocup, I got up and left. Enough 8-M for this year.
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