It becomes inevitable to ask what remains of these Olympics macronianeas they have called them to express the prevalence of political reason over sporting reason; and a good answer could be the void, the sense of emptiness that has weighed down a tournament that suddenly appeared specious, aimed, as has been said many times, at the Narration that would be the story of what is not there for the purpose of a new global ideology, more elusive and hallucinatory, more underhand. Liquid.
Narration has also distorted these Olympic games: a sort of annoying anger, of delirious polemic, from social media, has covered them by amputating the epic, chasing away Homer to make room for the singers of the woke, that is, of what is not there. The athletes themselves have come out of it mortified, athletes without stories to tell, without heroic, pathetic or moving aspects. They too are soaked in the non-binary logic and arid of the chromosomal complement, of the testosterone, of the masks for throwing a shot, of the “give me their because I am multitudes”: but if then they “win”, how many medals should be given to them?
The one who sparked the imagination most of all was a Turkish shooter who shot with his hand in his pocket, like Callaghan, but more as an exception than a sports story that invades life and makes it romantic, the medal as the epilogue of a long dream. Instead of imagination, the rancorous triumph of the female athletes hypersexwhatever that means, that is, nothing, who, not satisfied, proceed to collect the complaints considering themselves the subjects of bullying since the world has asked themselves their true nature.
Narration demands falsehood and falsehood demands stupidity in and out, that pretending to believe in order to make it truly believed. From the beginning the trend was understood, the opening ceremony on the obscene childish, from queer subcultureand everyone swore: but where have you seen the attacks on Christianity, but you are deviant and moreover ignorant. Then the admissions, in the face of such consecrated baseness, the polemics and the final ceremony, much less intentional, less militant, Jesuitically cautious, entrusted to the Tom Cruise of Scientology which at the Elysée, especially Macron, seems to have a certain consideration.
Stupidity is contagious: athletes sent to swim in the shit of the Seine who don’t know how to refuse, they go there, comforted by the Narration that who knows where it sees pure and crystalline waters, that if anything blames climate change, as if a colossal lie cleaned everything up, but then they vomit, end up in hospital or, the height of idiocy, to wear masks at the awards ceremonies and even on the plane.
Narration is a liea lie is stupidity, stupidity is dullness and hypocrisy: for the forfeit of the most awaited Italian athletes, Tamberi and Sinner, the clownish information finds a way to invert the cause-effect relationships: “They are sick because they are too thin”. But if I try to advance a correlation, also on the basis of my personal experience, if I remember that Drums was a government testimonial of the vaccines and invited the younger ones to dose themselves without limits, immediately the PD troll starts to remind me that I have to keep quiet, die, and threatens to have me arrested like in England.
Why the Macroniadi have been the backdrop for an accelerated degeneration of European, Western democracy; and, one might say, not by chance but by cause, with a timing that is at the very least suspicious: Political and sporting narration intersect and cooperate for a complete overturning of the truth. Then the sportsmen who sip beer on the sofa will be able to console themselves with the medals, “which is like Tokyo but with more gold”, but there remains in everyone, even in idiots, a vague sense of unease, a vague suspicion as if it were the end of time, of the world as we have known it and lived in it more or less until we grew old.
These Olympics with little or no sport at allcrushed by the intertwined circles of business, of Jesuitical respectability, of political correctness, ofinclusive ideology which is the most racist and petty, of total finance, leave the perception of a full stop beyond which lies nothingness; the nothingness of capitalist democracies devoured by too much tolerance and from the nonsense, the nothingness of every fixed point and of any security and legacy to hold on to. The nothingness of a great unknown, of a homogenized, effeminate, emasculated global society, with athletes who whine, who console themselves for a missed podium, who quote badly the De Coubertine ofit is important to participatewho are ashamed of their competitive anger, comforted by a charlatan information unleashed in celebrating the androgynous anger of fighters who without scruples smash the faces of opponents who are too weak, too feminine, and boast about it.
There homogenized society already removed, chased away, replaced by a dissociated society, intrusive but not at all inclusive, not at all willing to tolerate the whining of those who welcomed it and, in order not to regret it, goes so far as to censor, to arrest the victims with the reputation of white fascists instead of the wayward, terrified and helpless natives that they are. The Power of Narration.
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