Aaaaguacaate Maaaduro, Aaaaaguacaaate!
That’s what the avocado peddler in my Havana neighborhood used to sing out as he traversed our streets, selling his very special top-notch merchandise. His avocados were the best. Hands down. They were always perfect. And perfectly ripe. That was the key to his success: Riiiiiipe Avocaaaaados.
Everyone waited for him. And everyone was miffed when he failed to show up.
It was a beautiful song. I often hear it, at unexpected moments. It calls to me, from some pristine Alzheimer’s-immune spot in my brain, where that memory is stored. It might very well be the last item to go as my brain shuts off when I die, just like the computer HAL in 2001 A Space Odyssey, with his primal memory of the song “Daisy, Daisy.”
But every time I hear that Aaaaaaguaaacaate song, I also hear my father going through his list of avocado jokes, poking fun at the peddler’s refrain.
Top of the list: Aguacate maduro, peo seguro. Ripe avocado, guaranteed fart. Aaaaaguaaacaaate maaaaduuro, peooo seguuuroooo…..
Next on the list: Aguacate verdoso, peo apestoso. Green avocado, stinky fart.
He had a long list of adjectives for avocados, each with its own unique unpleasant flatulent outcome.
No doubt about it. Those refrains are as loaded with truth and wisdom as any Biblical proverb.
So, what do we have now down in Venenozuela/ Caracastan/ Cubazuela….whatever you want to call that stinking hellhole where “Bolivarians” bloviate at hurricane force levels?
We have Nicolas Maduro– Nick the Ripe — telling all Venezuelans that he and his fellow Bolivarian Bloviators will crush any opposition without mercy.
The coup was guaranteed from day one. The election itself was a farce, so why quibble about the inauguration. The Bolivarians are in control. And they are not about to give it up, no matter what. Never mind that the Bolivarians are marionettes with strings that lead straight back to Havana. They think they are really in control.
All of this bloviating leads to one question, and just one: will the opposition in Venezuela do anything? Will it have the nerve?
If you want to read the painful details of this Venenozuelan tragedy, go HERE. It’s in Spanish, the perfect language for all narratives that accept desengaño as the key to understanding the universe. Disenchantment. Yeah. Fatalism. It all sucks, and there is absolutely nothing you can do about it. Disappointment is inevitable, no matter what. And you just have to sit there and take it.
And on top of it all, you have to listen to some mustachioed macho-man cretin threatening you, reminding you that if you don’t accept your crappy fortune, you’ll be mightily sorry.
In sum: Maduro, the Ripe One, is stinking up Venenozuela with his lethal gas, saying the obvious: the opposition stands no chance. They are already crushed, suffocated. Their ass is already in the proverbial sling. No need for The Ripe One to threaten that they will be crushed. They stand no chance. They can’t even breathe in the wake of his deadly Third-Reich level furzen.
Time for some Bluto to show up in Caracastan.