There is one thing that the ppdm, the new friends, or rather, the new, repulsive transformation ( rectius : decomposition) of the many old friends that we have had to relinquish because they are inept on the edge of our path that does not exist and that does not brought nowhere, unfortunately without the proverbial canteen of water (because there is a drought!) and without the proverbial pistol with a shot in the barrel (because we are unarmed and non-violent), there is one thing that these beings , the intensity of whose hallucinated delirium, whose peremptory apodeixis , is directly proportional to the ease with which one swallows the bale of that press that "is truly our friend", and inversely proportional, in equilateral hyperbole, to the smallness of their count nothing, there is one thing, but only one, that I would like to know from these little men ( rectius : products of little men), who obsessively spend the much, too much free time they have at their disposal bombarding us with questions, with the sarcastic grin of someone knows a lot about those who know things or think they can deduce them all more geometrico , from his own paranoid obsession with being immersed in a lucid and articulated unitary design, in a cosmology of which he is the center and purpose, here: whoever he tries so little to hide from us that he knows everything and that we don't do it to him, I would like to ask one thing, just one, so then we cut it off with this bullying and we find ourselves, that is, we find a less stupid way of flaunting intelligence: but Is Giancarlo our enemy, or our friend?
Make up your mind.
Because it seems clear to me that
tertium non datur !
And so, dear wrecks of former friends, one of two things: either you decide that we're fucking losers, at the mercy of a dark knight whose only purpose is to fuck us, which we, like real suckers, don't care about. we would realize (perhaps also because having had an entire legislature at his disposal I don't think he succeeded: let's say that they still let me pass at the entrance to the Chamber…), but in this case it is clear that you cannot come and tell us that we are its faithful executors; or, alternatively, you decide that we are his ring buddies, the accomplices of an articulated and shared "role play" (an expression that expresses the 666 of imbecility, the new brand of the jerk!), a game that we would play in perfect harmony and elegant synchronism, with a considerable expenditure of energy and time (which we would find who knows where: perhaps in the grilly slime of the cerebral parenchyma of those who think that we are there not doing shit!), for the mere purpose of pulling it into pocket in the center of the galaxy, which in this new cosmology is not a supermassive black hole, but some rigorously loser and indefectibly provincial jurist, lecturer, economist or teacher, but in this case it is clear that you should stop considering us its victims, because we would be his accomplices, and if it is true that Cronus ate his children, I don't think any puppeteer has ever devoured his own puppets: the papier-mâché kneads on the palate and the strings get caught in the teeth…
When two things cannot be simultaneously true, maybe they are simultaneously false. Perhaps, given that Giancarlo cannot be simultaneously our enemy and our friend, he is neither one nor the other, but he is our minister (a word whose etymology escapes you) and we are parliamentarians of his majority, or, said in other words: while you finish off the mental jerks, we simply work. Good or bad is not for me to say, but for you, and not every single nanosecond that the atomic clock of your miserable paranoia strikes, but in four years.
To the others, the normal ones, the ones with a life, I say only one thing: don't help me!
Not even with all our most assiduous effort would we be able to produce a billionth of the contempt that those who rape in this way deserve the deepest root of our being Western which, don't mind me, is Aristotelian logic, if only because St. dedicated his time, and because the credo quia absurdum must be rooted, precisely, in a strong rationality, and not in its caricature, in the conspiracy of people who are aging as they deserve, that is, badly, without affection, without professional satisfaction, without a dog because they are too mentally lazy to carry him around, and without a cat, because cats know how to choose their masters.
And you will say: but if they are, as they clearly are, nonentities, why do you dedicate so much time to them?
For two reasons: because a tiger mosquito, being infinitely more useful and pleasant than them, woke me up (and therefore I am visibly floating in a bubble of good humor); and because once upon a time, when they pretended to know how to stay in their place, some of these wrecks were also friends, and still remain, in their petulant insignificance, decent people, so humanly speaking, it's a bit sorry.
Every religion has its fallen angels: those of stalking are the ppdm! They don't have horns (or maybe they do, and maybe this explains so much bitterness), they don't have a tail, they don't smell of sulfur (in many cases it would be preferable!). And then, you will say, how will we recognize them? Not from their fruits, because they are sterile, but from their habit of obsessively reeling off a string of incongruous litanies: "oppofinzioneeeh", "I don't vote for you anymore", and, of course: "party game"!
(… the advantage of not existing is that you can speak clearly: this blog that doesn't exist and that no one reads at the end is a message in a bottle. If you are a ppdm and you come across it, it is useless for you to open it, anyway what is written there you know…)
This is a machine translation of a post (in Italian) written by Alberto Bagnai and published on Goofynomics at the URL https://goofynomics.blogspot.com/2023/06/il-gioco-delle-parti.html on Mon, 26 Jun 2023 02:25:00 +0000. Some rights reserved under CC BY-NC-ND 3.0 license.
