The horrors gallery and the heroes gallery
Heavy tribute paid for the life I chose is what is concerned with the need to flip the newspapers of the homeland. The predictability of the news and the way they are addressed; the repetitive planet of the opinion columns; The indigence of the alleged reports that report nothing beyond the ideological assumptions of journalists are to go to tears. With few exceptions, if this sunrise (where I always wrote what I wanted) and a small part of the observer. Add to this short List some-very few-more, case of Clara Ferreira Alves in the magazine of Expresso, and-has days-João Miguel Tavares, in the public.
Let’s go to the usual gallery of the horrors of this press that never fails: from the outset, the great orange demon, this executed Donald Trump who, from the first to the last page, since three months ago loses all the battles in which he entered the eve without ever reporting, the next day, that these battles who were lost were, after all, overcome. This ‘Bronco’, elected by bronchos and supported by bronchos. Three months ago that it has been politically died every day on the pages of this ‘serious’ and ‘rigorous’ press without ever being announced their obviously indispensable resurrections. Following is Tesla’s ‘Crápula’, Musk, which in six months was pushed from the pincaros of genius to the most Cassa Idiocia gulf and that every day, for six months, loses dezens of billion but continuing, miracle! As rich as before. Here are the inexhaustible idiots of the plasticized Hollywood, these Kens and these cocaine embalmed barbies within pink tubs that abandon, without abandoning, their pools with crocodiles amstaged in the degraded California towards Europe because of Trump ‘and’ Musk ‘and’ Vance ‘. What a tenderness.
It follows, in the unchanging predictability of these urban devil’s cornets, the national monster, ‘The Ventura’. Oh… the ventura! This smart guy, Nipo-Nazi-Fascist, accepted by an army of racist and xenophobic grunts. No climbing and down the newspapers, everyone goes up, but André Ventura always goes down. Disregarded, he and his party, for a certain kind of characters who imagine Carlos da Maia but who are just factorial copies of the immortal Damasozinho Salcede, shape and archetype of them all. It’s chic people to be worth it, ‘with ideas’, ‘with projects’, with proposals, they say of themselves and the newspapers and magazines proclaim it. Forgetting that it was the ‘ideas’ and their projects that dragged us, to all, even this land of no one and everyone who is Portugal today.
As for the heroes’ gallery, the grandiloquent account, by the same newspapers, of their magnificent adventures cannot hide, or even disguise, the frustus wardrobe with which they are paved, the dick swords with which they threaten and the scenery where they shake but, especially, the disorientation with which they move on the European stage. Macron swords inside Elisha with large phrases and small means. Von der Leyen promises pazadas of hundreds of billion that do not exist or exist. Maybe at Pfizer? Merz, current chancellor and former Blackrock gathers a ghost parliament to straighten the Germans until the fifth generation. Tusk, the old guru of Brussels, holds political opponents in Poland. But here the comedy becomes tragedy, is for next week.
