How was it mocha tongueD. Andres pronounced himself as Escruch although their last names were of Spanish origin (something they tried to deny). For the same, he used to say Asturian instead of Asturias and in his embolic hypothalamus he insisted on venerating the Soviet Union, long extinct. Not to mention his improvised literary reviews where he recommended late-night readings by a certain Lenin and insulted any author who seemed right to him… ignorant and rather ignorant, Escruch professed a convoluted eclectic and childish Christianity, mixed with a cheesy tropicalism of out-of-date trova and prolonged pauses of clear irrational gaps, prone to dementia if it were not almost proven that under the guayabera that decrepit old man hid an iron hypocrisy, an iron daily foolishness for insulting and tying knives with everything that sounded like a neighbor and although it was not stingy (as the first version of his Christmas song insinuated), Escruch was the incarnate lie, the verbal bellicose of every morning, the flaming accuser to whom one fine day the spirit of a remote deceased appeared.
It was the afternoon of a Christmas Eve that was prolonged with tender messages that his little grandson sent him from Houston, Texas and snowy postcards that the youngest of his children sent, surrounded by hamburgers and cakes in a London boarding school… it was the afternoon that dragged on for him in desperate attempts to justify the disaster that he himself unleashed on his land… and it was sunset when the ghost of a remote deceased (shot wounded in the skull in a homicide officially forgotten as accidental) and in his moans the howls of howls seemed to be cloned. La Llorona. The filial ghost appeared to him at the foot of an ancient pyramid —now invisible— in the gloomy corridors of the Palace he inhabits, dragging heavy chains forged with cast cannons, formerly in the service of Benito Juarez… and the ghost warned him that three would appear to him. specters on Christmas Eve.
At the sound of the first bell of the Cathedral, the ghost of all past Christmases of the Escruch appeared like an Olympic torch in the open hand of Diaz Ordaz. pellejoepatoa frustrated baseball player in tropical diamonds, a mediocre cheap ballplayer who took fifteen years to shipwreck his university steps, his Oedipal entanglements, his paternal detachment and his cramped political militancy: convenient, sabotaging and contradictory… He also visited the secrets of his first love, his Life gone through water like a boiled egg and as soon as the holes were filled with minimal nostalgia, he fell asleep again in the corridors of the Palace.
At the second bell he was allowed to wallow in the mud of Christmas present: a luminous parade of pure falsehoods and broken promises, an immense and empty airport where they sell used clothes, a small circular train in the jungle that slowly sinks into eyes of water. meshes and endless rows of green soldiers that mark the pace around him and he was allowed to eat snacks on the side of the roads and pretend that he loves the masses and hug the mothers of delinquents and justify the misdeeds of his gang and invent comparisons utopian ideas to contradict his collaborators and he stayed like that for hours without limit, stuttering excuses until the ghost of Christmas to come flared up.
Here the Dickens-type story should narrate the epiphany of repentance with a sincere act of contrition; a miracle where Escruch found forgiveness in himself and opened his heart to the magnificent opportunity to become head of state, an honest and ecumenical leader of plurality and objective tolerance; reconciling and luminous… but I regret to inform you that —at least for future Christmas— what awaits you is the bumpy path of the irremediable: the prolongation of uncontrollable errors, blunders and shame, festering hatred and differences that polarize the population that is not himself, the entire country that in reality does not embody himself and therefore, the trampled wandering populated by irreparable setbacks, unspeakable outrages and shameless disasters that have to hoist him on a litter of black wings that have to throw him into the black abyss… into the wasteland pathetic where millions of Mexicans want to send it this very Christmas: straight to La Chingada, which is the name of their ranch in the heart of their darkness.
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