From Tacitus we know that there is a direct relationship between the degree of moral corruption of society and the abundance of its laws, these pragmatic sanctioned that, as warned Don Quixote to Sancho, very rarely apply even if they present themselves to us as if they were the solution of all earthly evils. What best explains the identity of Spain is not one of our flags. Nor the endless patriotic stamps that are the autonomies. It is the political corruption that crops up in the four cardinal points of the country, including the two island departments. Corruption is our universal breakdown. The heart of indigenous politics. The gasoline that makes the system move. The only ecumenical issue that defines us. The exact chain that links us.
We are governed by criminal gangs. Some have been in business for decades. Others have just arrived. The ruling of the Gürtel case has certified – late but precisely – that the PP was illegally financed, had a parallel accounting and its leaders profited from the ‘bites’ paid by the entrepreneurs of the ‘house’, including illustrious Andalusian surnames , from A to Z, to get public contracts whose price inflated in order to lubricate the transit from the public to the particular. An exemplary conduct Of medal Here we can not talk about extortion: the ‘industrialists’ knew exactly what they were doing. They accepted gladly. They had certain guarantees that they would recover the investment.
They are the same ones you can see, dear natives, every spring in the sociological pictures of our festivals, where the heroes ‘petitions’ and the generous ‘donors’ – who drink our blood – celebrate their friendship and teach us their respective litters, the lines called to perpetuate the custom. This is what family photos have: they indicate that the right to donate over the public coffers is transferred from one generation to another, prolonging the uberr race of southern ‘getters’. It happens in Catalonia. It happens in Madrid. It remains in Valencia. And it is the bread (sour) of every day in the Marsh. While ‘His Peronissima’ had fun a few days ago in the pilgrimage of El Rocío, from the marsh came the new frights of the Faffe, turned into the best metaphor of a regime in moral decomposition. We have everything in the menu-tasting: crusading legions, waste of public funds, expenses in luxury services and, of course, sexual joys financed with taxpayers’ money. While the ‘Queen’ pretends to be a feminist, her hosts spent the funds against unemployment in houses of whores. This is your equality.
It is logical that the ‘Dear President’ pilgrims to Almonte short dress: she has many things to pray for. First you must keep the ‘Quirinale’, which is absolutely not guaranteed. And then he must pray to Blanca Paloma , a black virgin, so that the sentence of the ERE does not have for ‘Ella’ the devastating effect that the Gürtel is going to have for Rajoy. As nature imitates art, the President of the Government has given the same excuse as the ‘susanato’ when Griñán and Chaves: “These are isolated cases”. Already. We are surrounded by isolated cases. In Andalusia there are more isolated cases of corruption than bottles. But the truth, as Quevedo saidIt is bitter and should be thrown out of the mouth, is that all this happens while many people suffer calamities, another dies (by neglect) in the emergency and poor old people are fleeced under the pious benefactor smile of the ‘Rocío Peronists’. We have a shit of autonomy. Or a fucking autonomy. Choose the formula that you like the most. The order of the factors will not alter the result.