The National Patient

The asylums and the jail covet him, but his freedom helps him make the political environment look like an asylum or jail. Some people’s wistfulness for the history cesspool continues to send him back into the Parliament, the institution which he managed to turn into a monkey business destined only to offer him the immunity.

His hands are shoed with golden Rolexes because the steel cuffs are too tough for his wrists. He is moved from one place to another in luxurious cars, when he should be wearing a strait jacket.

Big trucks are still going on the tracks left behind by these creepers. This highway resists more than any firm could guarantee. In the times of dictatorship and its husband, Nicolae, there was some sort of a private highway, more resistant than the Maginot line, between its den and the Primaverii Neighborhood (Bucharest). Nowadays as well, the Hosannas built in the honor of dictatorship by this sore shoehorn prove to be a more important investment than 15 years in the communist prisons.

Many important people lost a lot of time and health by looking through the so incomplete - today, tomorrow, always - archives that were made available to an approximately invisible institution by another one, which seems to last forever, just to show that the creature was also a member of the political police. In fact, the only thing that had to happen in order to show that the suspect had been a member of the political police is the copying of that weekly scrip in which he blew against "the people’s enemies" in a way in which only his den boss was able to blow.

"Anti" - when he drinks a glass of wine, "filo" - when he takes drugs, this pile of brazenness pulls over his copper belly the death drawers, or silky shirts with Talmudic prints. He gathers around him many agitated idiots which he refers to as trustfully people and which, when he is shacked for one more time by a crisis due to him suffering from Calache’s disease, he throws away. In the same time he labels them as infamous people that did things he used to deny when he was still liking them.

He started his after-the-revolution crusades by making several "lists of shame", him being the symbol of effrontery. He asks for unlimited courage and virtue. However, the stenographs that became of public use show that the "incorruptible" that was always almost bursting is actually a bellboy that the party of all the parties used to send to buy roasted sunflower seeds and cigarettes.

The fiddlers are the only great compatriots and party that resist to this 9-Richter-degrees shake. They open and close the meetings or the congresses in which the Great Frenzy enters as President and gets out as Pope. Himself one of the most noisy fiddlers of the Romanian "Ceahlau of Thinking" and his consort, "The World Known Savant", lady Codoi, the fearless leader of all the clinical and pathological frights could settle for a more suitable groundwork than the one based on the worse.

For a while now, rhetorical as a gentlemen, contagious as cholera and everlasting as death, the national patient has started to sign in as…Doctor. It seemed like he was going to leave us, but he changed when he ran out of his costly imported sedatives. The comeback of the national patient on the throne of the political drain postpones what seemed to be possible: the rehabilitation of the abomination concept.