Every time the miners from the coal region of my native Coahuila go down to the mine, two shadows await them in the dark: that of coal and that of death. Hard is their work, and dangerous.
When they leave their house they don’t know if they will return. They are threatened by explosions, landslides, floods. If they survive these risks, another one awaits them: that of the serious illnesses that derive from having breathed the dust of the harmful mineral for years.
Death is for many; profit for few. Periodically dozens of homes mourn the loss of the father, the husband, the son; of the brother. The fact that the same thing happens in coal mines around the world is no consolation.
In that sense we are still living in the nineteenth century. The tragedy will only end when the exploitation of man by hunger ends; when the use of fossil energy sources is abandoned; when instead of the blackness of coal we use the transparency of the wind, the clarity of water, the luminosity of the sun. Meanwhile, the mothers of coal miners in Coahuila, their wives, their daughters and sisters, should always have their mourning clothes ready. The nature of this article forces me to now turn to the light section.
The day after the wedding night, the newlywed called her mother on her cell phone. She told him full of happiness: “Do you remember, mommy, that I always told you that Pitoncio had a I don’t know what? Well, last night I found out that he has a yes I know what!”.. The woman goes to the wedding thinking that her boyfriend of her will change. The man goes to the wedding thinking that his girlfriend will not change.
They are both wrong. Morrongo was drunk, güevón and womanizer. Milinga married him thinking that the tranquility of the home would take away those bad qualities. She didn’t take them off: that Morrongo continued to be a crook, drunk and lazy. One day Milinga complained to her neighbor: “My husband gives me a very bad life. In the six months I’ve been married to him I’ve lost 5 kilos.” She suggested the other: “Well, get away from him.”
“Not yet,” replied Milinga. “I’ll wait until I lose another 4 kilos.” Picio, I must say, was very ugly. His friends consoled him: “It’s not that you’re ugly, Picho. What happens is that you were on the wrong planet.” To his misfortune, the unhappy man fell madly in love with Rubilia, a young woman who, more than beautiful, was rich. Picio used to serenade her with songs like “Gema”, “Enamorado de ti” “Y hablame”. She would go out the back of the house and take the next bus to Chetumal – she lived in a city on the northern border – so as not to have to listen to the loving dirges of her unpleasant beau.
One day he told her: “Rubi: if you don’t respond to me, I’ll throw myself out the window of my apartment.” “Hey!” the girl mocked. “You live on the first floor.” Picio replied: “I’ll throw myself 15 times.” Glafira’s boyfriend, Don Poseidon’s daughter, told the stern man: “I have come for mere formality to ask for Glafira’s hand.” “Hey, you! -the vejancón bristled-. Who told you that my daughter’s hand is requested by mere procedure?”. He answered, cachazudo, the lad: “His gynecologist.”
Lorelei, a naive young woman, knew nothing about the things in life, especially what concerns bees and flowers. She still had a boyfriend and got married. The night of her wedding she entered the bridal suite, she took a chair, placed it in front of the window of the room and sat down. She asked her new husband strangely: “What are you doing, my love?” Lorelei explained: “My mom told me that this will be the most beautiful night of my life, and I don’t want to miss a moment of it.” FINISH.
LOOKOUT
By Armando SOURCES AGUIRRE.
I hold José Vasconcelos in high esteem.
I know that he was a man of passions, of contradictions, and of surrender, but I also know that he was a man of balls, if I may use that word. of the spirit above the crude materiality of those who held power in his time.
The Master of America was wrong about one thing. He said, disdainfully, that the Mexican north was the kingdom of roast beef. If he had tasted a tasty cut of meat from Sonora, Chihuahua or Coahuila, he would have become a permanent subject of that kingdom. Another great master, José Alvarado, wrote that a fried kid is a more baroque dish than the most marinated Oaxacan mole.
At this moment I have in front of me a thick, juicy, tender, medium-rare red meat, dark brown on the outside, pink on the inside. (“The cooked, well cooked; the roasted, poorly roasted”). I’ve had a couple of tequilas. The soul that dwells in the agave and the carnal flavor of the meat make me evoke Vasconcelos and tell him with respectful compassion: “Of what was lost, master!”
See you tomorrow!…
MANGANITES
By AFA.
“. AMLO’s ‘corcholatas’ compete with each other.”
Uncovering was premature
the result of some occurrence.
What is now competition
it will become zipizape.
#politics #worse