Peronism is still invoked as if it were the battle horse of the homeland, but what is actually galloping—unbridled, panting, without a rider—is a pack of famished greyhounds fighting for the scraps of a treasure that no longer exists. Because Peronism no longer mobilizes, moves, or convinces. The methods are the same. They embalmed it with such liturgy that no one can distinguish whether what they venerate is a symbol or an illusion. And while… the usual suspects argue whether Perón was left or right, whether Cristina is an heir or a usurper, reality—that cruel lover of politics—has already passed sentence: Peronism committed suicide and, on top of that…left a signed note. End. That leftism which, in the seventies, assassinated the most lucid and loyal leaders to Perón, those who could think with their heads and not with their rifles. And not content with that, they politically tortured them, disappeared them from the map, and replaced them with university slogan-militants who turned liturgy into a carnival of subsidies, placards, and narratives. Even Eduardo Duhalde, the last dinosaur with a survival instinct, admitted it: “Cristina said: ‘Not a single peso for that old shit.’” And she didn't say it to Lanata, or Grondona, or Majul. Eternally grateful that she doesn't generate cadres, that she leaves no political legacy, that every victory is a collective suicide. Thank you, Cristina, for your 678, for your Victor “Humo” Morales, for your Barone, for your Dorio, for your Gato Silvestre, for your Rebord, your Gelatina, your untalented singers, your Rial and your Tinelli, your Brancatelli, your Tenembaum, your Sietecase and your Nancy Pazos. Thank you for that stable cast of subnormal idiots and functional people who support your circus with the same faith as the lambs to the slaughter. And also to the ineffable Guillermo Moreno—the best of his side, which is not exactly a compliment—for predicting with his usual precision that they would win Buenos Aires, Santa Fe, Tierra del Fuego, and Córdoba. They were dynamited, falsified, defeated, manipulated, and finally squandered by their own heirs during the most infamous decades of our recent history. Corruption, the same. They NEVER want to see them again. Peronism was once a machine. The same slogans, the same rusty phrases, the same names printed on placards that no longer move even the corner newsboy. The messages that were once foundational myths have become discursive fossils. Cristina Fernández, the mother of the void, the architect of the alias “The Constitution Ankle-bracelet” honoring the historical—much more valuable—neighborhood workers. All libertarians thank her in secret. The surnames, the same. And the choreography, unalterable, like the humidity of the conurbation. Of all that political fauna, only their “delayed” strategist—the worst in contemporary history—remains, who still believes that power is exercised with hatred, arrogance, and little dances in defeat. Today it is a souvenir. It was a mass movement, and now it is an anachronistic brotherhood of nostalgic bureaucrats. It was doctrine, and it became a cult of defeat. The corpse of Evita is preserved better than the idea of Peronism. And sadly, that is not true either. 41% and I would dare to say much more, belongs to new generations, seasoned and already fed up with the filth of Kirchnerist governments, children of eternal devaluation, disappeared Julián Lópezes, murdered Juanes Castros, persecuted Campagnolis, woman-beating presidents, VIP vaccinated, murdered prosecutors, Stiusos, millionaire officials, and rent-a-militants who confused ideology with a pay stub. That generation grew up watching how cardboard heroes paraded in official cars while their parents counted coins. Rebord, that influencer heir to the polished Julio Barbaro, who wouldn't pass an ideological test even from Herminio Iglesias. Peronism is not Rebord, or Grabois, or Taiana, or the widows of the narrative, let alone the “believers” of La Cámpora. That movement that was once flesh, muscle, and epic, is now reduced to an ideological mummy exhibited in the museum of Argentine failure. Peronism. The precarious resource of the “external enemy” linked to the “internal enemy” no longer convinces even the most fanatical militant. The 70s, the 80s, and the extended ignominy of the 16 disgusting years of Kirchnerism. The ideas, the same. What surgical precision, what supernatural lucidity. Don't help each other anymore, comrades. The story of the wolf is over for them: they cried so much, so often, so falsely, that now no one runs when they bark. The happy result has been the transformation of Milei into the Wolf, no longer the Lion, to eat the lying Juanito…who no longer shouts anymore. Twenty years later, the names are the same. Peronism was not Kirchner and it is definitely not Cristina Fernández de Kirchner. Why don't they have a compass? It has become a religion of empty dogmas, repeated with the blind faith of those who don't even understand their own creed. The defeats, the same. Not Peronism: Kirchnerism, the postmodern, populist version of institutional looting. Peronism today is a gathering of mental laggards, a sect without a god or doctrine that was more than half a century ago swallowed, digested, and defecated by the very left they let in. Because the “gathering of cats” that Perón knew how to tame with a whip and charisma, now devours each other without needing an external enemy. And one day they said enough. They said it to Rebord, the new YouTube oracle, the utility peronometer of this digital age. Every time they try to “help,” they go back twenty years. Every time they talk about “model,” “redistribution,” “sovereignty,” they only manage to confirm that they are trapped in a discursive loop that ran out of tape. Don't help, because you will end up creating the narrative that La Libertad Avanza wins because you allow it.
