I ask you to please accredit me as a reporter in the former Oval Office and now Oral Office (due to the nascent tinsel decorations of the Home depot) of the half-destroyed White House in Washington DC, hometown where I lived from the age of two to 14. I want to go and leave a mourning bouquet where the east wing of the building stood (now demolished to create an elephantine ballroom in millimetric concordance with the ballroom that Adolf Hitler had built above the bunker where he committed suicide last century without imagining that he would be resurrected with orange skin, corn hair and greater imbecility, thanks to Goebbels clone Stephen Sycophant Miller).
After condolences for the lost legacy, I ask most sincerely that I be allowed to attend any of the decadent and ill-fated (or grief) press conferences that President Trump usually holds in the once austere and Republican office, now transformed into a roadside den for color-blind truckers. I want to witness his drowsiness and confirm the smell of his diaper, I want to witness the delirious distillation of his senile dementia, the exponential unmasking of his stupidity and of that furtive malice with which he insults, erases, censors and lies lie after lie without anyone daring or daring to contradict him at all.
Here is the title I chose for this request column: “Why don’t you shut up?”is what I intend to say to Trump in Spanish (as an unforgettable memory of the day in which His Majesty King Juan Carlos pronounced that phrase to the primate commander Hugo Chávez) and then repeat it in English (perhaps with the porcine touch of “Don’t worry, Piggy“ that Trump blurted out at a respectful reporter) but adding Shut up, pig! where the word pig in German reminds him of how his monstrous father and delinquent grandfather, both German migrants in times before ICE ice, spoke to him as a child.
If I reach my goal, it could be my last public appearance and quite a few gringos will celebrate my wardrobe change with the orange tracksuit or jumpsuit (size XXL), but it is confirmed that beyond the nostalgic “They will not pass!” The anti-fascist spirit and desire force us to transform our efforts into something like: “Since they have passed and since they have returned, at least be silent!” (A position I owe to a wise friend who thus maintains dignity in the face of the avalanche of so much facade of power here and there).
Enough of Trump’s misogyny (and justified by the stupid, hypocritical speaker who wears a little gold cross on her breast just long enough to interrupt her conversation just as her sternum and devilish skin start to smoke). Why don’t you shut up, pig? That you’ve been screaming and vomiting since your first presidential campaign where you bragged about kidnapping the Bermuda Triangle girls without anyone holding back your vulgarity and that you can’t silence that scare tactic of accusing journalists from all over, telling them to their faces that they are pure phila and fake news without anyone daring to tell you – respectfully – “NO! What you claim and much of what you say is FALSE” risking cancellation and greater censorship, but with the at least salivating relief of facing a hooligan, standing up to him. Bully Older and alive to tell the tale.
To achieve my journalistic goal I would like to practice a plan of stupid questions (forgive my French) where with apparent ingenuity a childish dilemma is realized (like Sesame Streetneighborhood or Sesame Street) like: if the entire Weinstein dossier is nothing more than an invention of the Democrats, why are there a thousand victims, women raped and injured by a criminal organization with at least one participant prosecuted and imprisoned? If everything is pure gringo spectacle, how do you explain that the act deprived a prince of England of title, dignity and surname? Or would I like to ask the genius of imposture if the drug trafficking superboats that his army destroys with the cybernetic technology of video games can really sail from Venezuela to Florida and if in fact the drug traffickers continue in the senseless attempt to transport their products knowing that missiles await them anywhere in the sea?
Of course, it would be epic not only to silence Trump in the midst of his self-apology, but the icing on the cake would be to ask him whether or not the reddish and watery eyes of his son Jr. respond to an addiction or dependence and to extend the sympathetic interest to the obligatory question: if he really fights against the transfer, distribution and trade of narcotics, what actions will he try to alleviate the ravages of the endless question that transpires from the country he presides over? without knowing an iota of its history, a reliable fact of its administrative and economic disaster, of its true geography and of the growing repudiation and weariness of many of its former sympathizers?
I just want to try to silence him or commit another ridiculous thing in my life by trying, but if I don’t get accreditation (assuming my travel expenses) I could confirm myself with an entry pass for Mañanera’s call at the National Palace of Mexico where in the most humble way I don’t believe it is necessary to silence anyone, but with a modicum of common sense and for the sake of the viewer’s mere calm I would respectfully request the cancellation of this gueva already unbearable and unsustainable because not only does it go against the culture of healthy breakfast (and my usual routines in the local gyms) but Chole has already sold his house. That is, now, for goodness sake, stop that program!
The original Mexican Morning Ceremony is already retired and lives in a hammock in the jungle, on one side and on the other there is no evaluation, no touch screen, no curve that can erase the bad memory of quite a few small gestures (a teacher who launched herself as Chilindrina to unmask a failed educational plan, several errors trapped in falsehoods, ephemeral chants and dances, a lot of bad humor and quite a few fundamental shortcomings in respecting the rights of others, etc.) and above all the theater of false journalists or of the honorable mediocrity of the paleros who follow zombie from dawn to dusk, not to silence anyone, but to orchestrate a sweet simulation of light distraction and heavy politics that hinders the free programming of cartoons, delicious documentaries on flora and fauna or new video versions of the national anthem… when what this country, this planet and the majority of people really urgently need, against the advice of many people, is that all the animals of the new Farm animal We remain silent (knowing that pigs bark) to get at least a minute of silence.
