The PORC in the elections

One day a pig stood for election. It was on the Catalan farm of 1931. At the troughs of the new Republic, political animals were starving for democracy. Like a multiplication of loaves, fishes, steaks, chops, sausages... Parties sprouted. One of them was the PROC, the Republican Party of Order of Catalonia. But there was a problem, and it was with a pig.

In the corral of life, comedy is tragedy plus time. The Catalan humor media altered the acronym of the PROC... and it mutated into PORC (PIG). It was the first viral Catalan party. The great quantity of jokes, pranks, and teasing turned into massive anti-slogans: "You have to say the name of the PIG". "One must be born a PIG and a gentleman"... The popularity was enormous. But the party did not find it funny at all. The leader of the confused reality, PROC-PORC, Ramon Pociello, even assaulted a gentleman named Josep Planes, believing he was the director of the weekly El Be Negre, Josep Maria Planes, who was roasting the PROC-PORC on the grill of laughter. But despite everyone having the name of the PIG in their mouths, the party only got 684 votes in the 1931 constituent elections. And it died, at the same time, due to a lack of votes and popular slaughter.

The politics of the 21st century have been marked by that Catalan PIG. The big change is that the voter is a consumer. They want their bacon, the snout, the cheeks, the loin... Now the animal is no longer of interest; what is wanted is to devour its pieces. It is the political slaughter. The parties are no longer at the center of life: they are on the periphery. They are farm, corral, exploitation. Grub and fun. Like a barbecue club. Now one salivates at home if an Abascal eats a Broncano alive. But like a steak, flipping it over, if an Abascal does not go to the plate of a Jordi Wild. Meat and liver are wanted. And everything well done, burnt. And let the politician explain, with gluttonous pseudo-sincerity, that he is the world champion of riding lysergic ponies; a collector of hopes from the beyond, or their octagonal sexual position with other pets... Smoke is confused with roast. There is more PIG than PROC.

Everyone has their menu, card, viand, food, pasture, pottage. In the end, we have what we have all cooked together. Interviewers who are not journalists, or simulate being journalists. Fault, in part, of journalism, but put yourselves in the hands of doctors who are not doctors, of mechanics who pretend to be mechanics... Politicians who are not politicians, politicians who do not do politics... And everyone makes the kitchen of lies boil.

The other day we were watching/listening to Ada Colau in Jordi Wild's video game chair. And the inanimate cartoons began. The politician, out of all the nonsense she brought, said that the working-class neighborhoods of Barcelona were built by immigrant working people from Extremadura, Andalusia, who came without any help, and that they were discriminated against... Thousands of Catalans felt the first hook strike of the slaughterhouse. Our ancestors: farmers, factory workers, transporters, warehouse clerks, girls who worked as maids, bricklayers, carpenters, locksmiths... They were bleeding out. Real people, truly, who already existed. Like the neighborhoods, the villages, already existing. Some yes, others no. Antidemocracy. And we felt like salted ham trapped, bitten, devoured between the slices of lies, manipulation, falsehood, inhumanity, exploitation, classism... That is why we fight: against the slaughter of the human PIG.