Was it with a Blue Label or with a bottle, on a white background, of Anisado Garlín? Was it with cannabis or fentanyl? Was it with Dom Pérignon P3 Plénitude Brut Rosé, which Mrs. Cilia likes so much, or with Fruit Punch, which Mrs. Cilia does not like, in any way?
The president of the former republic, so-called “Super mustache”, last Saturday, decreed in an unconventional way, as we will see, National Sports, to the so-called “motopirouetas”.
Goodbye to baseball duels, between the “Eternal Rivals”, Leones vs Magallanes; to the life or death matches, with the stadium, bursting at the seams, in Pueblo Nuevo, in San Cristóbal, Táchira state, between the home team and the Caracas Fútbol Club. Goodbye to the Creole ball games in our popular sectors, as well as in the most expensive private clubs.
From now on, the stamina of our supposed cultists of the “mens sana in corpore sana” will be reduced to street cartwheels on motorcycles.
Let’s start with the case of the industrious fast food delivery drivers, collectors, motorcycle taxi drivers, couriers, workers in the sector, in general, often outsourced, without collective contracting, exploited as jobbers, who are doing somersaults to survive. As if that were not enough, now, a drunk or drug addict, wants them to be his jesters.
In narcosatrappy, the only law is that there is no law. Like the local emulator of Baron Pierre de Coubertin – “The important thing is not to win or compete, but to get a hand in the National Treasury with the fury of Messalina” – he has not provided his feminized athletes with any racecourse for the “healthy” practice of muscle To hell! with the land traffic regulations in force in Venezuela, which prohibits organizing motor vehicle competitions on public roads.
And then, we allow ourselves the usual comments, related to the second group of alleged “motorcycle riders”, specifically, the supposedly revolutionaries who, suckled in the udder of the Public Heritage, will continue to exhibit their tricks, how, when and where they want. – including intimidation, cornering, repression on behalf of and by order of the tyranny that pays them. The only difference will be that, from the decree Presidential in question, they have earned the title of “athletes.” The press, which truly is, was not going to ignore it without hesitation, the cultists of the new national sport within 24 hours of the decree in question. , took to several streets and sidewalks in the country, drunk or drugged, to have a great time at the expense of other people’s peace of mind.
Several groups of detractors of Mr. President, who have plenty of him, have already shouted to Heaven. They announce that they will exercise the required annulments against the questionable decree. They will do it for what we lawyers call “vices of consent.” Armed with the video whose link we offer to the kind readers below, they will invoke the legal effects of the flyer that Mr. Dottol, or Mr. Superbigote was clearly carrying at the time of issuing the controversial measure. “Drunk is no good! ” goes the chorus of that old tune. “Throne”, even less so.
There is not much room for discussion. An image says more than a thousand words. Upon confession, release of evidence. If there is any controversy it will be over the type of fuel that generated such a mother of poisoning.
The chronicler believes that the worst narcotics are the internal humors of each person. The effects of a kurda or a snort of the highest octane powder, no matter how harmful they are, wear off in a matter of hours. Social malice, resentment, imbecility, moral anesthesia, on the contrary, do not pass. They are for life, 24 hours a day.
@omarestacio
