🍔 Fast Food Fascista: el menú Ayuso
Madrid huele a grasa recalentada. En la parrilla del poder chisporrotea Ayuso, sirviendo su “libertad” en combo con cinismo y ruido mediático. El PP madrileño ha convertido la polĂtica en fast food ideolĂłgico: rápida, barata, adictiva… y tĂłxica.
En Nueva Tribuna disecciono ese menĂş donde la demagogia se disfraza de modernidad y la desigualdad se sirve al punto.
👉 LĂ©elo completo aquĂ
(In English)
Fear and Loathing in Madrid: The Hamburger Queen
Picture this: Madrid, 2025. Midnight neon oozes down the Gran VĂa like radioactive grease, the air thick with exhaust fumes and the stench of fried onions. A city once proud of tapas and tradition is now overrun by burger temples, each one a fluorescent cathedral to the cult of mass consumption. And in the middle of this cholesterol-soaked nightmare squats the queen of vacuousness, Isabel DĂaz Ayuso — the Spanish Hamburger, swollen with rhetoric and mangled translations, dripping with sanctimony more plastic than McDonald’s cheese, a political patty slapped together by backroom strategists and the invisible hand of Capital.
I remember when hamburgers in Spain were a punchline — greasy proof of America’s cultural bankruptcy, the symbol of a society too impatient to taste, too vulgar to cook, too numb to care. Spaniards laughed. They scoffed. Now they kneel at the altar of the bun. The hamburger has been baptized, sanctified, stripped of its shame. They line up for “artesanal” monstrosities with names like El Iberian Beast, happily devouring the same junk they once ridiculed. Ayuso is that grotesque joke reborn as prophecy: processed, plastic, branded “authentic,” wolfed down by millions who pretend not to notice the cholesterol.
Like the burger, she was once dismissed as trash. Now she is haute cuisine for the right: the holy “Presidenta de la Libertad,” draped in Catholic conservatism while dismantling public hospitals, gutting universities, and flogging tax cuts to the gilded class who see anything public as one less trip to Switzerland. A populist miracle, they call her. But it’s the same miracle as a triple-stack Whopper: survival on grease, artificial flavoring, and lies.
Step into the grotesque hall of mirrors she calls politics. No straight lines, only warped reflections: a freedom that chains, a saint that sins, a hamburger that eats you alive. She shrieks about “dictatorship” while banning the mention of Franco in schools. She rules Madrid like a franchise manager drunk on her own commercials. Every scandal becomes proof of her victimhood: her partner’s tax-dodging shell companies? Evidence of the left’s persecution. The hollowing of public health? Proof of “efficiency.” The starving of schools? A “parental right.” She could torch your house and sell the ashes back to you as artisanal incense, then call it liberty.
Her Madrid is a “freedom zone” only if you’re wealthy, privatized, already insured. Everyone else? Stuck in a queue outside a collapsing hospital, waiting for a train she decommissioned, chewing on rhetoric while the real meat rots. Freedom is the sauce poured over rancid flesh to mask the stink.
And you, dear reader, are not exempt. We are all trapped in this malformed funhouse, condemned to watch as Ayuso grins with designer ketchup on her chin, claiming she’s the victimized chef while clutching the spatula. The contradictions are thick enough to swim in: she lashes the press as “government propaganda,” then scripts her own scandals as morality plays. Divorced and re-divorced, entangled with boyfriends who leap from hair salons to boardrooms to courtrooms, yet she plays the patron saint of Catholic virtue. She sells herself as the “everywoman” while feasting in the shadows of bankers, builders, and privatizers. A monster in pearls, devouring communion wafers dipped in grease.
Trump was the raw original — sloppy, raging, covered in wrappers. But Ayuso? She’s the perfected clone: sleek, cold, market-ready. Trump was a felonious prototype, a casino ghoul with ketchup crusted on his tie. She doesn’t stumble into hypocrisy; she bathes in it. She’s the hamburger re-engineered in a lab: more preservatives, fewer nutrients, upsold as “premium.” The copy is worse than the original because it lacks the messy humanity of failure. Her handlers polish the bun, trim the fat, sharpen the blade, and hand her the script. Ayuso’s burger doesn’t even rot; it just sits there, eternal, smiling, poisonous.
Walk through her Madrid and you see the evidence: hospitals like cathedrals of death, fluorescent morgues where nurses flee to other countries; waiting rooms packed like slaughterhouses; metros running on fumes, ticket prices spiking while trains groan like ghost rides; schools begging for chalk while concertados flourish like designer burger joints with truffle aioli. This isn’t governance; it’s a vivisection of the public sphere. A banquet for capital, served rare.
Like the Orange Tyrant, she plays both sides of the altar. One moment she’s the libertine divorcée, the next she’s Madrid’s catechist, preaching family values to conservative Catholics. A carousel of dramas — failed marriages, ex-boyfriends, a “businessman” lover under fiscal investigation — yet she dares to sermonize about morality. In a decent, informed society this would be comedy. In ours, it’s campaign strategy.
The gonzo reality: she’s no rebel, no outsider, no messiah of the common man. She is a manufactured vendor of austerity dressed up as freedom, an accountant for Capital, selling the public square for a handful of private coins. Every accusation she hurls — totalitarianism, censorship, corruption — is her own reflection in the fryer grease. Political ventriloquism: the hamburger speaking while the beast pulls the strings.
And yet she smiles, she preaches, she whispers to her flock: They want to silence me. They want to control you. Only I defend freedom. The oldest carnival trick in the book. The beast points at the mirror and screams “Monster!” while the crowd claps, hypnotized. Meanwhile the grease drips, the patty burns, and Madrid is served up bleeding to the gods of finance.
Laugh if you must. It’s hilarious in the way a three-headed clown is hilarious just before it devours you. That’s the comedy of Ayuso: the freedom queen who builds cages, the Catholic heroine gnawing on scandal, the champion of the people who sneers at the poor. A reheated vending-machine hamburger lecturing a Michelin kitchen on “authentic cuisine.”
So here is the epilogue to the feast: Spain has become a giant burger joint, and Ayuso is behind the counter, selling us our own entrails on sesame-seeded brioche. If you’re not already choking on hypocrisy, take another bite. The sandwich isn’t finished. The public pays the bill, the wealthy lick their fingers, and Ayuso grins like the cashier who upsold you a menu you didn’t need. She doesn’t govern — she marinates. She doesn’t build — she fries.
And so, after years of ridicule, the hamburger has become Spain’s culinary cross. Once mocked as a slab of American vulgarity, now it is the model for our politics: empty, greasy, aggressively marketable, consumed without question. Ayuso is that hamburger. She is the bun and the patty, the sauce and the wrapper, the grotesque copy of a grotesque original. And like the worst fast food, she leaves you sick, broke, and somehow still hungry.
