I'm hot, Daddy

Summer has started off by making us feel "in a big way," to put it like the vassal Rutte when he talked about the millions we're going to spend on bombs and tanks, and all thanks to the sympathy of the only thing that could bring us all together: Daddy Trump. He extorts you, but it's for your own good. And for the good of American arms companies, but that's the least of it.

We've gone from Uncle Sam to Daddy Trump. Gone are the days when the president of the United States was "the leader of the free world." Daddy It is the most appropriate patriarchal title for the vulgarity that is now in fashion, that mix of Air Force One, reggaeton, nuclear button, greasy hamburger and military salute with golf polo and MAGA hat.

Daddy It's the perfect name to describe the world's toxic relationship with Trump, that of minors devoted to rich men with the right to dominate, supporters of public humiliation, in an era in which the practice of communicative politics consists of projecting strength through the same means by which classmates don't want to have problems with the harasser and the siege.

The arrival of warm weather while we're still in June is being stunned, and contributes to increasing irritation, which has also become a permanent element of the collective mood. Irritation at any focus, and with everyone. In the absence of affordable housing, we've been provided with digital spaces of comfort so we can hate and delude ourselves into standing firm, defending a space we believe belongs to us. And all with three stock phrases that are the complete opposite of words of love. In the face of days of booing and torrid nights, where dignity doesn't reach, let at least restraint reach.