Like a World War II machine gun auctioned at a pacifist market, the culture of effort is being talked about again. Rat-a-tat-tat. But the body is dead. Effort and culture are needed to talk about this. And there is none. At least not in supermarkets. In other words: the culture of effort begins in the placenta. Even before. But let's take a step forward and go to P3.
How can there be a culture of effort if, from P3 onwards, many parents no longer want their little chicks, little squirrels, and little marsupials to spend a night away from home to protect them from the evil world, both worldly and cosmic. Prolong the secular, protective ordeal until they have hair all over their bodies, and you'll find that it's impossible, not even through lobotomy, to implant a culture of effort chip into youngsters organized into violent nihilistic gangs.
If you already have them installed in the limbo of nothingness, with this plastic bag as an anti-missile shield for life, you'll see that the so-called culture of effort won't stick, not even with reinforced concrete, nor with magnetic coaxial cables. Many of these children, no longer children, will have no culture, no effort, no neuron, nothing at all. Meanwhile, around them, other children will be sprouting, children who haven't been condemned by their families to problems of existential sterilization, who will be getting by. And one day, these two groups will look each other in the face, in the eyes, in the skin. And they won't be able to compete in careers, master's degrees, anise liquor labels, or posters made with stickers. Then will come misunderstanding, resentment, and racism.
There are no bricklayers, plumbers, carpenters, contortionists, funambulists... There is nothing. And someone has to do it. And clean bottoms and earlobes. But they are not here. And they won't be here to do the jobs of careers, nor the roads, nor the paths, nor the specializations, nor the courses, nor the hyper-courses in non-European fauna management... For anything. And if they're lucky, they'll live off their parents' scraps. And with more and more luck, off their grandparents and great-grandparents and anyone who is still alive in the coffin. Take note: from that apartment, from that other one, from the little fortunes, from the wedding ring. Or whatever. Because these dead, or dying, did it, precisely, alas, what a pity, with a culture of effort. And also without a future. Because there is never a tomorrow in 3D. And if all of them had come out of their mother's placenta, or a head of lettuce, without having done all this, they would have done nothing. In other words: life is hard and you have to eat a lot of vegetables. Yesterday, today, and the day after tomorrow.
True. Those who leave, those who clear out, those who make a move. Because there's nothing here. Or nothing can be done. True. More for vegetarianism than cannibalism. Transversal and horizontal vegetarianism. 360-degree mediocrity. A lot of bragging and faking and legalized organizations of illiterate people living off the para-public purse of the scoundrels. Therefore, here we go again. There is a culture of effort and a culture without effort. In the first, some push forward and others leave. In the second, everyone stays and parasites and sinks us. But everything has a solution: pickaxe and shovel. And it all ends. Which is what is happening and will happen more. Because everything is biological and everything ends. And now everything is ending. And everything will start again. And nothing will have been learned. You can whistle all you want if the donkey doesn't want to drink, or see. Because, here, we even tie donkeys with sausages, of course, from the meat of other donkeys. It's the culture of the scrotum.
