And honestly, I intended to dedicate today's column to something completely different and not to use the string of letters "Aleksandar Vučić" in it, when it did, none of that. That man, like absolutely superb drama queen, it demands our constant attention, and the worst thing is that it constantly receives it. And the more she gets, the stronger she craves. Like an irritatingly spoiled and chubby child (type of that disgusting little scumbag from Biljani's Grasshopper) who, as we know, is the way he is because of his parents' reckless behavior, and not because he was "born that way". So, I guess, and Vučić: Vučić is not born, one becomes Vučić. I we make all of us. Here, jbg, I also participate in it in my own way...
Anyway, when I saw in several newspapers today (Tuesday) the melodrama for which the synopsis was written by Miloš Vučević (SNS mayor of Novi Sad), I realized that the devil may be wearing Prada, but he is playing a joke, and that unstoppably. Vucevic disclosed a kind of open letter to his own party colleagues demanding that they devote much more attention, care and love to... who? Citizens who live hard, have no job, no money, etc.? Yes, but Vučić to Aleksandar, exactly Onom: to the president of their hyper-ruling party, the Prime Minister of Serbia, the general director of the main couple in this country, the editor-in-chief of almost all "mainstream" media in that same country and, in general, a man who currently (perhaps) is not only wondering about what kind of jerseys he will wear worn by the first teams of the clubs in the Second South Banat League - East-South group (although someone of his is probably wondering about that too). Namely, Vučević says that he is under the strong impression that Vučić is left more or less alone now that it is the most difficult for him and when he is being attacked "but also crows, kuso and tails" (V. Drašković) from all sides. To retell that shocking lyrical reading in my insufficiently sophisticated words, everyone somehow elegantly slipped their asses and watched Vučić from the leeward side as he, alone in the world, prometheanly fights for the torch of freedom and progress with which he - as we all feel - illuminated Serbia. And which - the torch, and in the future perhaps Serbia - is being taken away by evil magicians of all heinous kinds, mobsters and tycoons, lawyers and journalists, the opposition, educators, students who set fire to grain and various other forces of chaos and madness. And there are all sorts of other things, and there are all kinds of reactions, mostly those that express full understanding for Vučević, and therefore also for Vučić (um, a new comparison in the Serbian language: positive Vučićević, comparative Vučević, superlative Vučić?).
Folks, this is becoming contagious, therefore very dangerous. Vučić is no longer alone in his surreal public self-mourning, in playing misunderstood self-defeating martyrdom, in that intolerable acting of a second-rate schmuck whose entire career contains not a single tangible achievement of any kind: nothing, literally nichevo, fog and smoke. Here, he also gets clowns, and that in the form of people who obviously consider that no form of ritual self-humiliation is unworthy of them if it fulfills the purpose, which is to impress the Boss, who - as he is - cannot remain indifferent to such naked outpourings of boundless love. Leave it alone that love and flattery are not the same thing: in politics they are, or at least in one specific type of politics.
In a way, therefore, Lord Mayor Vucevic is right. Until now, Vučić was alone on the public stage in his theatrical emptiness of vanity, and his collaborators - perhaps with the exception of the distinguished Dr. Stefanović - did their own thing, of course faithfully serving the Master, but still not taking any significant part in his shunt-performances. Vucevic announces the beginning of a new era, when it will no longer be enough to be in the Lord's grace, but it will have to be followed and imitated where it is most meaningless; after all, if he can do it, why not them? That is why in the future it will be necessary for a consistent loyalist of the ruling party to utter periodic lamentations on the subject of the utter unworthiness of all of us that Sun which shone on us in the form of AV, and which we do not know how to appreciate enough, but we are stingy in reciprocating even a fraction of the love with which It shower generously.
Miloš Vucevic set the bar of "humanitarian" courtship challengingly high, but take my word for it: soon his record will be surpassed. Why? Because here, alas, it is not about the problem of the mental outburst of an overly enthusiastic flatterer-individual, but about a phenomenon that will quickly turn into some kind of epidemic. And which, again, is a completely logical by-product of the system of personal authority and grotesque idolatry that is (re)establishing itself in Serbia.
And why exactly did Vučević run out with this touching self-recommendation? He must have well understood that his and the universal Master is deeply dissatisfied (with us, not with himself) and therefore unhappy, although apparently "he has everything": the little he doesn't have seems disconcertingly greater than all the huge things he has. But the truth is harsh: he will never have that "little", because it cannot be achieved in the ways available to him. And thousands of Vučevićs do not help here either, on the contrary, they only further underline the misery of a palanquin show, a sterile narcissism that can bewitch (almost) all people for a while, it can also bewitch some people all the time, but... At the end of the day, it cannot blur and cancel the deep schism between infantile drama and adult statesmanship.
