I am walking down the Gran Via in Madrid. It is Saturday night, and I’m surrounded by men in various states of undress. Many of them appear to be trained dogs based on the leashes they’re wearing. Many more are sporting no underwear. I know this because they also have no pants, or at least pants with seats. All of them appear to be elated. I am not.
Why? because the idea of naked men repulses me? Yes, in public. But what repulses me more is that, apparently, “Gay Pride” means nothing more to these creatures than the ability to share their backsides to the rest of the world, and thus, so far as I am concerned, they are not serious about their own cause, except in so far as it has the ability to repulse normal people.
Ergo, the gay movement is not really interested so much in equal political rights as it is with the shock value of their most base elements. It is, in a word, a photographic negative of Christian culture, a distorted image of what is natural, as defined by every major religion on earth, and doesn’t pretend to be anything more than that, save in those rare moments when they are clamoring for “rights” which are not available to the rest of us, such as the ability to demand services of private companies even when such companies feel a moral compunction to distance themselves from such depravity.
IOW, the fag movement is a zero-sum game in which their new found “rights” represent a surrender of yours. And that is what has taken over the city of Madrid this hot summer night, declared Madrid Pride 2016 (“the largest such event in the world”), and you can see it just as clearly in the banners hung from government buildings (including the US Embassy) as on the streets of the city, which is no longer safe for children, or even farm animals, from what I can tell.
So, no, if Madrid chooses to identify itself with such monstrous devolution, I will not recommend anyone to spend their tourist dollars here. My advice is to get in and get out as quickly as possible. Yes, you’ll probably have to fly in/out of here to get to Spain, but no need to tarry after a one day visit to the Prado. Just pack up and leave (well, OK, do the Royal Palace as well), and move on to more beautiful parts of the country, which is to say any of them, because, in addition to the fag flags floating all over Madrid, it stinks…badly, and I’m sure these two items are probably related, because wherever you go in the capital of Spain, you will be accosted by the rank stench of urine and the open filth of garbage poured out onto any and every city street, and it has been there for days, if not forever. I have been to Third World dung heaps that do a better job of waste management.
It’s a pity, because the Prado has world class art. Like the Rick Steves book says, probably more grand masters than any museum on earth, so much so that some of their single pieces would, by themselves, put any other art museum on the map. El Greco, Rubens, Raphael, Van Dyke, Goya, Titian, Bosch…they’re all there, rooms full of them, just waiting for your viewing, and, even though the museum is laid out, in typical Spanish fashion, incomprehensibly, with exhibits inexplicably missing, you find yourself not caring, because you realize that the Louvre has nothing on this fine museum’s collection. Just one word of advice-book your tickets in advance, because the admission lines, stretching out into the broiling noonday heat that could cook Don Quixote alive in his armor, are of Disneyesque proportion, but without the attendant amusements of canned “It’s a Small World” entertainment to alleviate your suffering and/or possible heat stroke.
So, by all means…go to Madrid. See the Prado and the Palace. Get out. Unless you are a modern art fan. Then you’ll want to visit the Reina Sofia or the Thyssen. I will admit I don’t understand modern art in general or Picasso in particular, and thus I didn’t bother with either of these.
Nor would I spend so much as an extra nanosecond in Spain’s capital. Trust me, the country has much more to offer. It is a wonderful, old world culture that has seeped into the nooks and crannies of the Andalusian Hill Towns and the old capital of Toledo alike. You can see it in the faces of the old men sitting at the “bullfight” bars in Ronda or the Flamenco dancers in Seville-there’s a fire in the eye, a pride that isn’t gay-but it surely is the product of the sons and daughters of Castile and Aragon. To find it, all you have to do is leave the capital, and point your car in almost any direction.
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