Bonacini Shalala lalalala

Rain, Rain, Here We Go Again

Well, isn’t this just great? It’s raining… after months of drought, this should feel like a blessing from above. But nope, it’s a disaster. One day of rain, no hurricane, no typhoon, just a heavy downpour—not a record-breaker, but here we are, already turning into a catastrophe. And, surprise surprise, the same regions as before are under siege, especially the ones hit in 2023. Faenza, Lugo, Brisighella—Romagna is once again facing the nightmare of last year. What a mess, and it breaks my heart because I love that land—it was my father’s home. But I can’t help but remember the harsh criticism of a freshly installed government from the “Mario Biondi” of Italian politics, Bonaccini. High up on his radical perch, he flung mud left and right, complaining about the government’s lack of action.

But if you look at the numbers published by various ministries, it seems the government, with the help of European funds, did allocate the money. So now the question is: where the hell are all the expansion basins, new embankments, and water management works Bonaccini was going on about? The answer is clear—they don’t exist. And Bonaccini don’t exist. too, who, after losing the PD leadership race to the ghost-like Schlein, ran off to Europe, sheltering himself from the avalanche of crap heading his way.

Meanwhile, the amazing people of Romagna are already rolling up their sleeves to shovel mud—again—while the wonderful leftist rulers and bureaucrats remain silent. One might almost think God is punishing them for continuing to vote for the builders of boccie's fields and Arci clubs. And, in true biblical fashion, God’s chosen weapon seems to be the flood. But this time, there’s no Noah. You can’t save a region with the empty words of these fantasy-politicians and fantasy-rulers who, when tested, as they say, “exposed to the elements,” melt away in five seconds flat.

I live in Veneto, and though Zaia holds many views I disagree with—hunting, slaughterhouses, and that shaky autonomy push—here, even the smallest creeks have expansion basins nearby. So, aside from a thin layer of water when it really pours, we don’t suffer. Mario Biondi might croon “Shalala lalalala,” while Bonaccini, with his thick Modenese accent ("Nusòn," as they call Modenese folks, because historically the land was full of walnut trees), continues to pontificate from Brussels. Now he’s dabbling in geopolitics, despite having failed to govern four aging turncoats in the PD. He left the region as he found it, giving the impression he did something, but in reality, achieving a big fat zero.

Bonaccini claimed that while the Meloni government was busy with “trivialities,” he, Mario Biondi Bonaccini, was out “opening airports”—meaning he got to cut the ribbon for the sixth time at Forlì Airport. First off, that initiative is totally private, but as usual, the results have been another total disaster. A permanent reminder that even in managing logistics, Shalala lalalala hasn’t done a damn thing.

So, let’s give a farewell wave to Bonaccini in Brussels, where he’ll drone on in schoolboy French with his Modenese twang. And if he slaps on a toupee, some poor Frenchman might mistake him for an aging Plastique Bertrand. One thing I know for sure—Romagna, the land of piadina, Sangiovese wine, and warm hospitality, won’t miss him one bit.