No hi ha al món re més repugnant que un botifler

He’s always stood a monumental symbol against the criminal hordes of garish sharnegian usurpers (despicable thief-spics), sent to overwhelm Catalonia by dint of sheer number, spade after spade of hateful indoctrinated anticatalonians; he’s been pelted with stones and bullets by the coward Nazi spic brigade — always working their mischief shielded by the corrupt machinery of the state and its occupying police forces.

Culturally they’ve been shoving down our throats, willy-nilly, all kinds of spic shit — the coward killing of the bulls, abhorred by Catalonians — the cacophonous din of flamenco, that insufferable dreck — their horrendous screeching ignorant machine-gun dialect… — their asswipe of a nazi flag — their dogmatic pseudoliterature, where only boring truisms are harbored, now and then peppered with the unavoidable tirades of hate against us backed by the usual turd-sucking church pieties…

Xirinacs gives us his revered example. He says, naked against the hateful gunbarrels, we have nothing but our will for survival!

Bear with me. Today’s rant is salutary.

They have all the weapons of annihilation (they are genocidally intent on wiping us from the face of the earth); their judges, their priests, their cops, their armies are our enemies, and yet they operate in our territory — we’ve got no priests, no cops, no soldiers, no judges, no teachers other than a few betrayers; our people have to emigrate in order to become this type of professional, otherwise they are hostages to the terrorist state, and they have to serve it, they have to punish their own people only for trying to exist — they fight us, they beat us (and condemn us, the fanatic judges in their courts, the shit-eating priests in their pulpits) if we speak our Catalonian language; their sbirri, the police, fine us if we demonstrate our patriotism; their state, their tacky, ludicrous officials reward lapsed individuals turned vomit-like traitors… They’ve got the propaganda machine, they’ve got the totalitarian state machine, they’ve got the fucking guns — the attack planes, the tanks, the gases, the viruses, the armies, the submarines — even, in the case of the repulsive frogs, they’ve got against us the atomic fucking bomb…

And we’ve got only our will to remain being Catalonians — culturally the proudest people on earth — and rightly so, for our language, its perfection in sound and construction, its multilayered cross-referential panoplies of meaning, has never been equaled so far in the history of the world.

Yeah, they are loaded with murderous weapons against our nakedness… We’ve got nothing but our hallowed resistance spirit — lauded by no less a world figure than George Orwell. Here we are still, keeping firm against the onslaught, helped by nobody, but we are used to it — the English betrayed us, and gave us to those inbred idiots, the bourbons (the spics are still holding tight to their own blabbering idiot), so that they could split our country, and thus better terrorize us into compliance; three hundred years later, we are still here, Catalonian and nothing else — neither frogs, nor much less spics… The faithless Americans propped that miserable blood-thirsty spic puppet, franco, when they could have helped destroy like a rotten moldy straw that nazi nobody, as when they helped our enemies, the useless frogs, get rid of hitler and mussolini…

The war against the Catalonians is still going strong. Our enemies never let up, they want to obliterate us. Lluís Xirinacs is a core Catalonian — a Catalan — the Catalans at the core are carrying on, even if the peripheries are fraying — the spics are invading Alacant, the frogs Perpinyà, the dagos l’Alguer… But we are bound with our persistence (and the new freer generations) to take back sooner than later every inch of Catalonian territory. That’s what we say to our conglomerated enemies: We will never cry uncle, you fucks!

Em vull afegir a l’homenatge per a En Lluís Xirinacs, qui durant tants de malsons endinyats per l’espectacle repel·lent de tants de botiflers llepant el cul dels xarnecs a merdís — el Pukhol abans, la puta Mara Gallina ara — ens ensenyava que encara hi ha esperança. Que amb ell, i els milions que el defensem, la tasca no serà mai abandonada. Fins la independència, fins la llibertat. Per això dic, som independents ara! Amb En Xirinacs hem de dir: ens pensem independents ara, ens volem independents ara, som independents ara!