In the area of the call games theoryan area of the aplicated math which, today, is used to study anything – from the interaction and behavior of individuals in matters related to marketing, advertising and incentives, through sociological and psychological issues, and, above all, in the field of strategy military and geopolitics – the key to the matter is the analysis of tactics, movements, conflicting interests and distrust in the other, in the opponent, when the objectives of the contenders are diametrically opposed and difficult to reconcile.
One of the most famous games, and one that inevitably always comes up, is called game of chicken. The classic, foundational example is the famous car race in the movie Rebel without a causeof James Dean, running parallel to his opponent towards a cliff. Whoever locks the accelerator pedal first and jumps out of the vehicle loses. Is he hen. In fact, this is a losers game, in which the only prize is to save face, personal pride. The updated version of the game sees two insane people driving at 140 kilometers per hour, ready to crash head-on and kill each other.
Well it turns out that Alberto Núñez Feijóo and his happy mambo peperos have discovered – Eureka, cheers! – the old Game of Chicken in their spiritual retreat last weekend, as an unbeatable example of the insane way of negotiating, to the limit of a heart attack, typical of Pedro Sanchezthe felon alien of the Moncloa Palace, with each and every one of the progressive extractive parasites of ultra-right extreme fascist who blackmails him and they keep him elevated in the limelight of power. “Some kamikazes; Those of the Spanish Onanist Sanchista Party, and those of Junts for Cocomocho, are all kamikazes… ¡ Banzai!“, Feijóo came to say with the look of having fallen off the icing, as usual.
Changing the Game of Chicken for another more common and harmless game (for example, poker), things would go like this… “I raise the bet: binding self-determination referendumpublication of fiscal balances y asymmetric fiscal pact Catalan, and, of course, absolute transfer of immigration skillswhat Silvia Orriolsthe mayor of Ripoll, eats the cake of racism that right now gives a lot of profit here…” – grumbles a Jordi Turull turned on like a lightbulb, looking out of the corner of his eye at his cards–; “I see, I see, there is a game here. But let them be two non-binding consultations, one in Spain and the other in Catalonia, and depending on what comes out, we’ll talk about that, do you think? And please tell Miriam Nogueras stop jogging and neighing, because today my head is like a lottery drum” –answers the amoral cheek of Sánchez–; “Don’t kid me, man, that’s nothing, and you already know that without a binding referendum, little redhead, this story is over” – Turull replies nervously and hanging on his red phone flying towards Waterloo; “Well, let’s see, add the olive oil without VAT, which would remain in Catalonia as Olive Oil…, and also that we will apologize for what happened in 1714, and that we will withdraw article 43 bis to close the way to judges. Of course, it is tacitly understood that in the coming days Felix Bolaños and I will deny everything, that we are losing votes by a tube” –says Sánchez, looking at the impeccable manicure of his hands–; “You deny the biggest, deny whatever you want, whether three times, or 33, because your name is Pedro for a reason,” Turull proudly adds.
Agreement closed, here peace and then glory and kick to follow, as they say in rugby terminology.
Given what has been seen in recent days, in this way, or in a very similar way, do not doubt it, dear readers, the agreements between the Monclovite tick and its companion octopuses are closed. I recommend that you read in Global Chronicle one of the last columns of my partner in slaps and ironies, Don Ramon of Spainwhich focuses on how they deceive themselves and make fun of each other in these matters, and thus manage to survive day to day, pushing, as we say in Catalonia, the year until they overcome it.
Afternoons of glory we will live in this restless give and take between shellers, gamblers and intellectual ruffians of national politics. There you have it, after the agonizing approval of two of the three well-known decree laws of ours every day – or funnel laws because I’m worth it and, furthermore, I cut the cod -, Emiliano García-Page, president of communities of Castilla-La Mancha, about to explode neurally for the umpteenth time. Quiet. False alarm. Or to Yolanda Diaz, the blonde Galician girl with a Marxist streak, who after exclaiming that this is how there is no one who lives or governs –because this is a sindio of the divine ciborium–, took off, dressed in Prada, to have a photo session collecting, a strainer of Chinese kitchen in hand, four polluting pellets on the Costa da Morte. It will surely be a stellar report in the next Vanity Fairthe magazine of proletarians who thrive and tread with panache.
But the best of all when it comes to raising his voice in the midst of the grotesque Valleinclanesco that is right now our pathetic Iberian bullring politician has been Salvador IllaCatalan gentleman of the sad figure and leader of the PSC nutritional administration granary, who says –referring above all to Junts already Carles Puigdemont– not understanding this way of closing legislative agreements: “There are people who seem to like to turn every negotiation into a Vietnam. Not me; I don’t like the Vietnams, I like solving problems…”
Oh, Savior, blessed son of God! Are you not able to understand that this is Vietnam; that this is a hell of napalm, and that normal people (yes, damn, I said normal) can’t even feel our legs anymore?
2024-01-23 05:03:37
#feel #legs #hell #Vietnamese
