Archive for December 11th, 2007

El Idiota (Anonimo)

December 11, 2007

Idiota no es cualquiera Sr. Director: Se necesita vocación y entrenamiento. Sea cual sea el empaque.Porque hay varias clases de idiotas: los invisibles y los que encandilan. Los inoloros y los que apestan. Los insípidos y los que empalagan. Hay idiotas con toga e idiotas con botas. Hay idiotas de reciente cosecha y los hay añejados. Hay idiotas por conveniencia y hay idiotas por convicción. Todo idiota, sin embargo, tiene su equipamiento básico: una serie de rasgos peculiares que lo definen y lo separan del resto de la especie.

El idiota típico, por ejemplo, no distingue colores ni matices. Ve el mundo en blanco y negro. Alimenta su discurso con dicotomías.Pobres y ricos. Patriotas y lacayos del imperio. Buenos y malos. Capitalismo y socialismo. Bush y el otro.

El idiota practica el autoengaño. Cree que maneja a los demás… y los demás lo usan. Lo ponen, verbigracia, a dar insultos a un gringo en tierra ajena, mientras el anfitrión voltea su estrabismo para desentenderse. O algún analfabeto presidente, embutido en un poncho, le organiza un acto de adulación para vaciarle la bolsa mientras habla.

El idiota no sabe lo que dice. Usa la lengua pero no el cerebro. Le rinde culto a la consigna. Llama a formar ‘uno, dos, tres Vietnam’, sin recordar el sufrimiento que un solo Vietnam le causó al mundo. O grita a todo gañote ‘Patria, socialismo o muerte’, como opciones alternativas de futuro. Como una amenaza enarbolada a los cuatro vientos, que deja sin espacio a quienes creen en la humanidad, la libertad y la vida El idiota no sabe sacar cuentas. Se mira en el espejo y grita ‘¡Somos dos!’.

El idiota, en efecto, asocia a su país con tres países pobres y pequeños… y cree que el imperio está temblando. Venezuela, Cuba, Bolivia y Nicaragua se embarcaron en esa aventurilla que es ALBA. Unidos suman unos 50 millones de habitantes. La mitad de los que tiene México. La cuarta parte de los de Brasil. La sexta parte de la población del imperio. Bush no se ha dado ni cuenta de que el ALBA respira. El idiota no sabe que los demás lo en. Persigue al hombre de su vida (sino existiera Bush lo inventaría) por toda América Latina, y luego dice que aquél lo anda buscando. Monta un show de bostezos y de insultos en un pequeño estadio de un barrio bonaerense y luego va a dormir en el Sheraton
hotel. Prédica y conducta por distintos rumbos.

El idiota no tiene identidad política. En Argentina se proclamó hijo de Bolívar, de San Martín, de Tupac Amaru, del Ché Guevara y de Perón. Cuando visita Cuba es hijo de Martí. En Nicaragua es hijo de Sandino. En Perú, de Velasco. En la China, de Mao. Esa mezcla de padres tan disímiles tal vez sea responsable del desorden ideológico que el pobre idiota carga entre verruga y ceja.

El idiota prefiere lo parejo. Le tiene miedo a la diversidad. Por eso quiere un partido único donde todos complazcan sus caprichos. Y un pensamiento único que evite la comezón de la disidencia. Y un líder único y eterno, cuyo dedo decida el rumbo el país. El idiota no asume responsabilidades. La culpa es siempre de otro. Del neoliberalismo. Del imperialismo. De la oligarquía. De los medios de comunicación. De sus ministros, incluso. Es un experto en el arte de lavarse las manos.

El idiota se cree grande porque hay otros idiotas que lo aplauden. El idiota se cree tigre de acero. El idiota no sabe que el acero también se derrite.

The Idiot (Anonymous)

December 11, 2007

Somebody sent me this, telling me it was published in a newspaper in Argentina. It was too good not to translate and reproduce in Spanish too, even if it contains the forbidden B.. word a few times. If anyone knows the source, would love to give credit where credit is definitely due.

The Idiot (Anonymous)

Not anyone
is an idiot Sir. You need vocation and training. No matter what the packaging.
Because there are different classes of idiots: The invisible ones and the
flashy ones. Those that are odorless and those that stink. The tasteless ones
and the ones too rich to eat. There are idiots with cap and gown and idiots
with boots. There are idiots of recent harvest and aged idiots. There are
idiots by conviction and idiots of convenience.

Any idiot,
however has his basic equipment: a series of peculiar features, which define
them and separate them from the rest of the species. The typical idiot, for
example, does not distinguish colors or shades. He sees the world in black and
white. He fills his speeches with dichotomies. Poor and rich. Patriots and
lackeys of the empire. Good and bad. Capitalism and socialism. Bush and the
other one. The idiot practices self-denial. He thinks he manipulates others and
others use him. They put him up, for example, to insult the gringo in a far
away land, while the host turns his crossed eyes to wash his hands. Or an
illiterate President, stuffed in his poncho, organizes for him an act of
adulation to empty his purse while he speaks.

The idiot
does not know what he is saying. He uses his tongue, but not his brain. He pays
homage to slogans. He calls to create one, two, three Vietnams, without remembering the suffering that
one Vietnam
gave the world. Or he shouts with all his lungs: “Fatherland, Socialism or
Death” as alternative options for the future. Like a threat waved at the four
winds, that leaves no room for those that believe in humanity, freedom and
life.


The idiot
does not know arithmetic. He looks at himself in the mirror and shouts: There
are two of us! The idiot, in fact, associates his country with three small and
poor countries and believes the Empire is trembling. Venezuelan, Cuba, Bolivia
and Nicaragua
have embarked in that little adventure called ALBA. Together they add up to 50
million inhabitants. Half of what Mexico has. A fourth of Brazil’s the
sixth part of the population f the Empire. Bush has not even noticed that ALBA
breathes.

The idiot
does not know that others can see. He chases the man of his dreams (if Bush did
not exist, he would invent him) throughout Latin America
and later says it is the other one that is looking for him. He stages a show in
a Buenos Aires
barrio and then goes to sleep at the Sheraton.

The idiot does not have political identity. In Argentina he proclaimed he
was Bolivar‘s, San Martin’s and Tupac Amaru’s, Che Guevara’s and Peron’s son.
In Peru
Velasco’s. In Nicaragua,
Sandino’s son. In China Mao’s. That mixture of such dissimilar parents is
perhaps responsible for the ideological disorder that the poor idiot carries
between wart and forehead.

The idiot
prefers uniform things. He is afraid of diversity. That is why he wants a
unique party where everyone pleases his every whim. And a unique thinking that
avoids the itching of dissidence. And a unique and eternal leader, whose finger
will decided the course of the country. The idiot assumes no responsibilities.
It is always someone else’s fault. Of neoliberalism. Of the oligarchy. Of the
media. Even of his Ministers. He is an expert on washing his hands.


The idiot
thinks he is great because others applaud him. The idiot things he is a steel
tiger. The idiot does not know that steel also melts.

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