The Water Manufacturer Workers Union

The Water Manufacturer Workers Union washes its hands of it. On the fifty-two times saint land -at least and thanks to HUNOSA lay and martyr at the same time -we are present at a ‘Pilatos like washing-hands-of- it’s from the first political-union power, which was formerly known as Asturian Mine Workers Union and, at the present time, while eager for power and lessened in cash- in the process of being transformed into the Water Manufacturer Workers Union. In possession of a superior depredator’s eye, just as it concerns a hawk, an upper bird of prey, Tuilla Sadam’s is still involved in ‘change-of-defeat’ campaign: from coal to water, and, in the meanwhile, power stations, social banking and mass media that being a prey -due to well-kown matters and disarmed- hand the profits from all their clients and subsidiaries on a plate to the above mentioned Lord of the War who is so neat after his last hands-washing. It is impossible to know whether by using the water jet he will be able to clean such a shady past, or whether he will be able to soothe his scrotum stinging since chocolate eggs turn sticky and dirty in the summer hot. And he must have some pretty big kinder eggs, since he mentions the poor metal workers in struggle as if they were the centre of his own desire. If he had a different kind of eggs, the accusations of being a betrayer and a collaborator of the frankism shameful police would be checked, which has not happened yet and would not be likely to happen, since much strong the jet would be, there are stains that are never deleted. In such a republic of mental dwarfs some people know as the Atlantic Albany, they try to wash our brains by means of inappropriate and old proposals. The building of a Popular University that may cover the gap the state education leaves exposed is meant to be sold as a modern powerful idea, but it proves to be an old aim to be got by the young intellectuals that were involved in a struggle against frankism in the 1970s, an aim to be designed for the Nalón Valley before it began to get going in Gijón. However, in the mid-seventies the satrap-learner showed his special breeding in such a way that the only idea of those university youngsters turned into politicians and snatching his selfdesigned future punched his hypertrophic-inclined greasy liver. By being helped by the Les Pieces mower he devoted himself to the surgical operation consisting on relieving the intellectuals from so heavy a load, their own heads. That way, while the most lively and independent started a move forward, the most naïve ones lost the two inches sticking up over the moral and physical height of the Great Builder, Morning Star, Guide and Source of the Movement, and the most cowardly ones bent their knees to close ranks together with the rest of the flock. The first ones turned into sorrowful and moody professionals who try not not be dirtied in the pigsty of the Res Publica; the second ones remain brain-removed holding their heads under their arms; the last ones wander suffering and howling ‘there comes the wolf, there it comes’. It’s no good crying over spilt milk. Piñera priest is called the pope by the kids. It must rain, it must rain cats and dogs for the stream to draw all these weeds that block the future of our wretched but saint valleys. Saint, saint, saint our lord in green moustache. From Albany with love.