Isentinho is taken by his parents to the Festa da Democracia, held this year in an ice cream shop. Just need to see! He looks like a little man, Isentinho, in his MrCat shoes and Brooksfield uniform. He gets in line and, when it’s time to cast his vote, presses his nose against the thin glass of the flavors showcase. An attendant named Alexandre (oh no! that again?!) offers Isentinho the two flavors available.
— We have pistachio with mango — he announces loudly, showing the pot with the green and yellow icy temptation. As the boy seems indecisive, the attendant bends down and whispers in Isentinho’s ear. — But this one is a threat to democratic institutions, a disseminator of fake news and a rogue who does not respect the decorum of office. Ah, he also sold himself to Centrão.
Isentinho widens his eyes. Towards the other pot. Quietly letting out an “I knew it” triumph, Alexandre takes the red pot and displays it with undisguised pride.
—And we have this one here, oh, cherry,” says Alexandre, opening that smile. seducer of those who master the art of dictatorially perfect decisions. To the surprise of the hardworking attendant, however, Isentinho remains undecided. — Come on, brat! There are more people behind you. Do you want the cherry ice cream or not? he asks, eagerly dipping his spoon into the soft mass of Lulopetismo. I mean, in the cherry ice cream.
Then Isentinho, who until then was quiet, starts a falsely indignant scream. — Dumb! Judicial activist! Censor! – he shouts, pointing to the attendant, who sneaks out of this story, although he insists on staying in the Supreme. Isentinho, then, throws himself on the ground. “I feel offended that I have to choose between these flavors! I want vanilla! I want the Third Way!
— The Third Way is gone. And we don’t have vanilla ice cream,” says Abi Fenaj, an attendant who hurries to replace Alexandre. Which we now see in the back of the ice cream shop, chasing some businessmen who committed the serious crime of preferring pistachio ice cream with mango. How absurd! Hearing the attendant’s mellifluous voice, Isentinho gets up and wipes the snot of fake crying on the sleeve of his suit. — But I want vanilla ice cream — he says, pouting and saying like a baby just because the chronicler wants it.
— As the Excellency Alexandre has already informed you, we have this one with pistachio with mango — begins Is it over there. Who, with brutal, surprising and, for me, disgusting, sincerity, completes: — But I’m only offering it because the TSE obliges me. That’s fascist flavor! You, a clean exempt person like that, won’t want to. Nobody likes fascists. Not genocidal. From unscientific, homophobic, sexist. What do you think your colleagues will think of you if they see you eating pistachio and mango ice cream at the democracy party?
Isentinho was thinking, thinking, thinking. And in that he sees the urge to shout “Third Way” arise and disappear one last time. Unlike the flustered Alexandre, the attendant/militant perceives in the boy’s hesitation the revolutionary opportunity to convince Isentinho to choose the flavor of press regulation, property invasion, corruption, developmentalism, debauchery, the persecution of political opponents — everything with a light touch of cherry.
— You know what?! she asks without asking and dipping her spoon into the communist ice cream pot before the boy can react. – Here’s your ice cream. We’ve decided for you,” she says, handing the spoiled little boy the gluten-free waffle cone. As soon as he takes the ice cream to his mouth, Isentinho feels the bitter taste of the lie, the sourness of the hypocrisy and above all the saltiness of his own falsely virtuous omission. But now it’s too late.