Michela Murgia and her queer family: “Me, Claudia and Raphael…”. Facebook photo
It must be confessed: a crocodile in such cases is difficult, firstly because crocodiles must be kept ready in the drawer, secondly because even some enemies are entitled to certain funeral respects, thirdly because funeral respects are neither military honors nor military honors (for for the uninitiated, the honor of arms is a chivalrous military courtesy that the victors bestow on the valiant defeated, allowing them to parade in combat gear even if without weapons, but led by an armed officer, in front of the equally ranked victors who pay a present’at arm). Military honors are not due to Michela Murgia: first of all because she would not have liked them either, being avowedly anti-militarist, secondly because she would not even have understood their meaning, and finally due to a clear lack of qualifications to deserve such a homage: at the level of human empathy I sincerely regret that a person, even more so at a relatively young age, dies of illness, but only the worst respectability of a Beguine-Catholic matrix can beatify those who detested themselves the day before yesterday.
And for many of us, Michela Murgia was a summation of detestable tics, at least in her public image: short-sighted if not blind partisanship, pure ideologization of pasta and chickpeas, parish fanaticism, fashionable enslavement of formulas and overblown stilettos from overseas, abuse of anglicisms in the absence of ponderous and above all thoughtful knowledge of the Anglo-Saxon language and culture, anti-fascism frenzy from a procession of middle school students already laughable in a pimply average student, let alone after thirty/forty years of age, buffoonish crusades but unpleasant in use, for another silly in print but ultimately hilarious in the phonetic execution, of the dumbest solution to the absent problem of overcoming the “siore e siori” (very valid, mirabile dictu, from the local market to the presentation at the Teatro Scaligero), turncoats even reaching politics, endorsements declared to operetta characters, friends as important as embarrassing and embarrassed, including many invariably more miraculous than deserving, thundering gaffes even later defended with sword drawn, oratorio sense of humor (not to mention the matrix rightly once deprecated even by songs by Zucchero Fornaciari), visual hallucinations from Roman greetings found everywhere, even in pasta and beans (also probably of an archaic Catholic nature, like those pious women in the women’s gallery who see Jesus weeping in the cirrus clouds), feminisms out of time and cut into frog initials sacrosanct Labor and anti-liberal impulses then lost in record time in the chaos of the most suffocating false flags (and here Anglicism is needed) of the most cracked vulgate on the planet, the LGBTPRSHJFGQQTTPPTTTZGFZ, and here we stop precisely for the sake of the country.
Michela Murgia rejected them, since even just the word Patria in her opinion was an obelisk erected to the glory of the patriarchate, except OPSSS, forgetting that even in a country that is certainly a bit chauvinist like Italy in the Italian language one usually says MADRE PATRIA, thus frustrating the passionate Murge studies, and especially the delirious proposal of the neologistic “matria” put forward by Michela Murgia herself, in an orgy of online gravure lysergy in the “noi gggioFani” area (obviously commissioned by old men in Maybachs with chauffeurs and sometimes sewn by young underpaid kebab eaters). So, don’t go any further. Make a slight bow to the presumable good faith (in these cases judge those who know in person and not those who simply read or listen to position papers, albeit dirimenti) and continue to oppose this block of ill-reasoned even if well-paying partisanships. Sic transit gloria: and think about it, this joke is not transphobic and sexist. Unbelievable huh?
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