The broken

Most people greet the new day with coffee and a shower.

They serve to put the batteries.

Those ravaged by disease also gorge themselves on medical pills, to dull the pain or send them into exile for good.

Likewise, there are seriously damaged people who need a shot, a line or a joint to face their daily chores, if they still have the strength to face them.

My main reason for getting out of bed is to watch El Roto's daily vignette.

It is the only editorial that I believe about the state of things.

Someone rational affirmed that one cannot be sublime uninterruptedly.

But such a sensible opinion is something negotiable seeing every day the work of this thinker, humorist, analyst of rottenness, painter of the almost always intolerable reality.

He is brilliant, dark, devastating, lucid, fierce, compassionate, free.

Powerful stupidity and barbarism make him allergic.

This week he published a cartoon in which a mother held her baby in her arms.

And she told him: "No, son, being born a boy is not machismo."

The creature asked him: "Really?"

I only find a term to define what I see.

It's great.

Also necessary.

With nine words she pulverized dominating idiocy, boundless, drunk with power.

And I imagine that in that dazzling, hysterical and predatory little thing on social networks they will want to lynch him, they will call him a fascist and a Nazi (how the nature of those terms has degenerated in their use), the new censorship (that is, the usual one) will be preparing your fire.

I can only thank you, listen once again to the unbeatable

song and return to the eternal refuge of my bed.

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