Almost a month have passed, without people, without soldiers, without ideas; they cling to the suicidal hope of a foreign military intervention.
Recently I heard a group of opponents (escualidos) talking about caution, patience, and cunning, before the possible inauguration of Guaidog as president of props. They spoke of moderation, because the opposition bases would not tolerate one more disappointment. That the 2017 guarimbas had already done too much damage.
They did a mea culpa, many of them, for their incendiary contribution in the disastrous guarimba adventures. They, who dared to sell the hollow leadership of Freddy Guevara, now swore to guide, as it corresponds to opponents of their height, the people on foot in this new strategy, which had to be prepare carefully, without follies, without false steps … We have already learned, they said … That was on January 10, when Guaidog did not swear in the AN, as they expected. Serious and solemn, taking care of each step so as not to step on false, until achieving the inevitable (now we will achieve it) exit of Maduro – they said-. Everything was sobriety and pretense of sanity until January 23 arrived. It was enough that a guarimbero, of whom the country only knew his buttocks, would stand in a street and be sworn in.
President, they called him and built a lightning story about a parapet of WhatsApp chains and photos with sepia filters of the white buttocks, now tuxedo “president”. And there they go, down the cliff again.
Almost a month later, without people, without soldiers, without ideas; they cling to the suicidal hope of a foreign military intervention and purify it by disguising it as humanitarian aid at the rhythm of reggaeton.
Twenty thousand rations of “stuffed meat” that will save the country. Any idiocy is worth to this idiots, who do not fear a civil war, they said, but they shit themselves when they see a “colectivo” biker.
The foreign intervention they long for is getting complicated. The Maduro government maneuvers with skill to stop it, while Guaidog insists on the bombing (humanitarian, of course) that would leave his followers with their fashion clothes covered with dust debris, wondering what happened.
And there they are, again, trapped in their crazy shortcut in which if they win, they lose, we lose all, and if they lose, they win peace, and a deep new moral hangover. For them, for their children, for our children, we will win.
Translated by JRE