INSURRECTION/ SP MPs rebel, drag Gjati to vote on territorial division!

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2026-10-16 14:22:00Patronazhisti SHKRUAR NGA REDAKSIA VOX
A typical day in the life of a painter

PARIS/TIRANA – He had never thought this day would come. In those emotionally charged moments, he remembered again the phrase of the former prime minister when he called him to a meeting and invited him to become Minister of Culture:

"Just be careful, don't do too many good things, just a little. People are generally ungrateful and no matter how hard you try, they won't know. Here, I'm giving you a chance because I'm interested, but I know like the gin you drink that you'll try to screw me over."

How many centuries ago that time seemed to him! How much he had given for this people! But it turned out to be true; ingratitude is the worst of the vices that a person can have, especially in a society.

He had painted the buildings in the center with paint; he had demolished the ugly kiosks without a permit and had built buildings with a permit, asking the builders for only a stinking 20 percent; he had carried out a bunch of reforms, and even later reformed the previous reforms; he had honored Albania in the world with his salty jokes, extravagant outfits and solving global crises, competing even with the master of peacemaking, Trump. And what was his fault that all the ministers, deputies, directors, mayors, police chiefs and mayors were calling thieves, thugs, criminals or all three together?

***  

All of this flashed through his mind in two seconds, as he was making final preparations to leave the prime minister's office. He had just announced his resignation. Outside, the buzz of people gathered in front of the building could be heard.

"The idiots," he said, "I was right, Lilua. They don't deserve me. Black point, let the influencers fire you!"

He gathered up the drawings, the notebooks, dismantled the basketball hoop by the office door, and slowly drank the last glass of the 33,333 euro bottle of Chateau Lafitte from 1959.

"Okay, 33 thousand, I understand, it's expensive wine. But why did the pigs add these 333 tails? They're robbing the poor people ," he found himself thinking, but then he came to his senses. He began to scratch and tear off the bottle's label so that the brand wouldn't be visible, then he threw it in the trash.

" The time has come. We must go, Mr. Prime Minister, " the aide said. The Prime Minister, indeed, said silently. He stood up, took one last look at the office, and began to descend the stairs.

***  

As the main door of the prime minister's office opened and a tall figure emerged with a bag in his hand, a resounding ovation erupted from the chests of the crowd.

“Noise, noise, lots and lots of noise, ” he thought instinctively, without realizing that he was repeating the lines of his old song. But a piece of cabbage that fell on his shoulder brought him to his senses. People had opened a corridor and were not touching it with their hands; they were just throwing products from the basket at him from time to time, from those with transparent prices. An egg broke on his head. He touched the spot with his hand and saw that the color of the egg was bright red.

"Come on, poor thing, come on, " he said to himself, "the village will get rid of those 500 lekëshet. And they complain that they don't have anything to eat. Hypocritical people!"

But he said something else out loud: " As you can see, I'm leaving. If I've made any mistakes, please forgive me. I'd like to stay long enough to get you into the European Union and reduce the village egg to 350 old lek, but you can't stand it. Okay, whatever you want!"

And he headed towards the car that had stopped far away because of the people. Greek tomatoes, yogurt with powdered milk and palm oil, pieces of Brazilian meat soufflés were falling on his body...

***   

He woke up startled. The soufflé part of the dream must have gurgled his empty stomach, and at first he didn't understand where he was.

But he quickly cooled down. As soon as he tried to scratch his head and saw the seven-centimeter nails, he looked around. It was the same place under the Pont des Arts in Paris, where he had been selling his scribbles for the past 30 years. He had fallen asleep on the bench and someone had covered him with a blanket out of pity.

He was trying to recover from the dream he had just had, but he didn't know when to focus first, on the village egg (ahhh how he could eat an omelet now), on the soufflés, on the nightmare prime minister, or on the products in the basket that the imaginary protesters were throwing at him.

"Yes, yes, Eddie the Black ," he laughed to himself, "I hope no one makes you prime minister. Play your hand at selling something, and let's go grab a plate of pasta, you bastard !"

He went to the usual snack shop. The Albanian owner, who knew him, often gave him a free bowl of pasta when he wasn't selling anything.

While eating, he opened his cell phone, even though news from Albania had long since ceased to interest him. He read the first headline on Voxnews:

“ Tirana in flames. Protesters demand Prime Minister Zengjine Kaushi resign !”…

Note: Patronage is a hypothetical satirical column. Sometimes it makes a joke and comes out…


Në përputhje me standarded JTI

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