I have nothing against imbeciles: I have many imbecile friends. Imbeciles who pass for intelligent, moreover, since the average level is what it is, and if you have a degree the public thinks you are cultured (my grandmother thought so too, but my grandmother had a Padre Pio altar next to her bed: not he gave himself a tone like the rest of us do today).
I have nothing against my friends either; I find it an excellent comedy, which suffers from the reception problem from which every product now suffers: educated imbeciles mistake every protagonist of a satirical parable, from Count Mascetti to Carrie Bradshaw, for a behavioral model.
So, the premise of yesterday’s disaster is that the plump West of the twenty-first century is populated by barely literate individuals to whom society has given intellectual roles (as there are more places to fill than valid people to fill them with, which is the reason which there are no misunderstood or deserving genes who have not had a chance).
And these adult individuals, may some non-existent god help me write it without giving me an embolus, play jokes. They don’t play jokes, ashamed of themselves and their senile infantilism, feeling like Fausto Bertinotti imitated by Corrado Guzzanti, no: they play jokes and call them “sociological experiments”. (Let’s talk about the damage of the humanities faculties another time). They play jokes and if you ask “are you stupid?” startle: but how, you always laughed at the cinema, when they slapped the passengers on the train.
So yesterday morning a guy – who I don’t know but who is intellectually average with my friends and in fact he writes in this newspaper – creates a paragraph text to be affixed to the raves decree; fake enough not to be credible even with a seventh grade repeater. The best minds of my generation fall for it, and the article could end here: with our being the dumbest generation of all time (until the next one, that is, the one raised by mine).
But instead I want to focus on the after. First I copy the text of the forgery. He said thus: “The law applies exclusively to gatherings with playful-recreational purposes, having as their object the use of non-native music and the consumption of psychotropic substances referred to in Presidential Decree 309/1990”.
My little readers will ask: Do you have friends with a learning disability? What adult person capable of understanding and willing can believe in “native music”? Maybe someone in Morgan and Sgarbi’s chat, which seems like a situationist experiment very often but especially when Amedeo Minghi intervenes to rejoice in the hypothesis that the radios must by law transmit fifty percent of Italian music (who is going to answer “like the French »Please remember that the French made the revolution, the rest of us, at most, did the Festivalbar).
And yet out there – out of the situationist chats, out of the cuckoo’s nest, out of the reach of the support teachers – there is a lot of people who believed in it. It is full of people who take the bait like the last fool at any bad pretense (and then babble about fake news, shouts at the danger of disinformation, stigmatizes Elon Musk who links untrusted newspapers). You will remember: a moment ago they believed that a comitiante who was calling for children and non-animals for the West was giving non-European children animals; even the last of the idiots guessed that she was referring to the custom of taking a dog instead of giving birth, but they didn’t.
The last of the idiots – that is me – had understood this because she is gifted with logic and that of the dog was Occam’s razor-sharp interpretation of that sentence: almost always the most plausible explanation is true, not the one that allows you. with more ease of indignation. The average fools hadn’t noticed because, he says, the movie was cut; and it is not that their urgent indignation could wait to verify the entire video: it is Elon Musk who has to verify the reliability of the links, not them.
But that’s not what I want to despair of either (today I’m particularly slow to get to the point). It is the moment when Bertinotti with the ambitions of Count Mascetti says that it was all fake. And everyone – himself, my imbecile friends, half the Italian ruling class as crazy as and more than my friends – don’t say: what a mouthful they are, sorry. Not at all.
They say, and they say it seriously: here, it is yet another proof that this right is so absurd and obtuse and unpresentable that everything becomes credible. No, jerk: it is proof that you will not be able to move this right from power either now or in a century because you do not distinguish a sloppy parody from a text of law, a fascist from a scoundrel, a degree from a culture, a ‘occupation as an adult from being on social media to look for new excuses every minute to tell us that you are on the right side.
It seemed credible to you that raves were allowed if done with the music of Articolo 31 instead of Placebo: isn’t that reason enough to keep quiet for a while? To replace the vocation of cultural and political commentators with that of watercolor painters, or at least to be ashamed in silence for not saying months but at least hours? No, now you explain the world a little more, and in that other little bit there is: eh, mistress, it is not I who am a donkey, it is that the task was too very difficult.