Ill-fated signs — like an eclipse before a bad harvest, balls of fire in the sky before the birth of some dictator, or the strange planetary alignment on Mourinho’s[1] birthday — confirm the harshness of the financial crises. In the United States, the Treasury and the Federal Reserve have had to abort the printing of almost 1,100 units of the 100 dollar bill, known as a benjamin;[2] not because it is the cost of a bottle of cava[3], but for the portrait of Benjamin Franklin found on the face of the bill. An error in the quality of the paper has provoked this singular case of “monicide.”[4] Money does not smell (Pecunia non olet),[5] as Emperor Vespasian explained when an official reproached him for imposing a tribute on public latrines. Perhaps it is experiencing death before birth, during a time when liquidity is needed more (something the Spanish Savings Banks should be asked about). While banks are rationing credits, it turns out that just like in Ali Baba’s cave, the vaults of The American Treasury have accumulated $1.1 million of useless benjamins. It hurts just thinking about how frustrating this peculiar situation has become.
Gila[6] was also probably wondering what “the boss” of the Treasury in Fort Worth is going to do with so much paper. In one of his greguerías, [7] Gómez de la Serna[8] defined banknotes as “the sweat of the world’s blotting paper.” To say that the governments of Greece and Ireland have sweated ink hits the nail on the head. It is possible to say that the governments of Portugal, Spain and Italy may have done the same. There seems to be enough [banknotes] to make scented towelettes. Of course, it gives cause for speculation. Coffee shop politics would say that it is the biggest unnecessary waste that there is; a scriptwriter would write scenes in which cohorts of orthodox monetarists led by Axel Weber[9] would try to attack the piles of money defended by expansionist Barack Obama and Ben Bernanke; while José Blanco[10] would ask for the damaged benjamins, just in case he needs to slip them to the air traffic controllers — although it probably would not arrive in time for pay day.
Still the provincial perplexity remains: How is it possible that with so much digital technology, after centuries of experience ironing notes, the United States has to throw $1.1 million in benjamins in the garbage because the paper folded and a small piece was left blank? Let “the boss” of Gila come and explain that to us.
Translator’s Notes:
[1] Mourinho: Current coach of Real Madrid, a team in the Spanish Football league.
[2] benjamin: Term made popular by rap artist Sean “Puffy” Combs to refer to a hundred dollar bill.
[3] Cava: Spanish sparkling wine, also referred to as a benjamin in Spain.
[4] monicide: Refers to the killing or destruction of money.
[5] Pecunia non olet: Latin proverb made popular by Roman Emperor Vespasian.
[6] Miguel Gila: Spanish comedian, famous for monologues in the form of one-sided phone conversations, where he would always ask for “el encargao” (colloquial for the boss or the person in charge).
[7] greguerías: Spanish literary device which is a mixture of a pun and a metaphor.
[8] Gómez de la Serna: Father of greguerías.
[9] Axel Weber: German economist, president of Deutsche Bundesbank (German Federal Bank).
[10] José Blanco: Spanish Minister of Public Works & Transport, having problems with air traffic controllers on strike.
Signos nefastos, como los eclipses antes de las malas cosechas, las bolas del fuego en el firmamento antes del nacimiento de algún dictador o las extrañas alineaciones planetarias en los cumpleaños de Mourinho, ratifican la crudeza de la crisis financiera. En Estados Unidos, el Tesoro y la Reserva Federal han tenido que abortar la impresión de casi 1.100 millones de unidades del billete de 100 dólares, conocido como benjamin, no por lo que cuesta un botellín de cava, sino por el retrato de Benjamin Franklin en el anverso. Un error en la calidad del papel ha provocado este singular dinericidio. El dinero no huele (non olet) como explicó el emperador Vespasiano cuando un funcionario le reprocho que impusiera un tributo sobre las letrinas públicas. Pero acaso sienta el morir antes de nacer. Cuando más falta hace la liquidez (que se lo pregunten a las cajas de ahorros españolas), cuando los bancos racionan los créditos, resulta que en las bóvedas del Tesoro americano, cual cueva de Alí Babá, se acumulan 1.100 millones de benjamines estériles. Duele solo pensar en este singular parto frustrado.
Gila se preguntaría además que va a hacer el encargao de los sótanos del Tesoro en Fort Worth con tanto papel. En una de sus greguerías, Gómez de la Serna definió los billetes de banco como "el secante del sudor del mundo". Los Gobiernos de Grecia e Irlanda han sudado tinta, nunca mejor dicho y es posible que lo hagan los de Portugal, España e Italia. Pero sigue siendo mucho papel para convertirlo en toallitas perfumadas. Da pie, eso sí, para elucubrar. Un moralista de cafetería dirá que es un desperdicio con la de parados que hay; un guionista escribiría escenas en las que cohortes de monetaristas ortodoxos capitaneados por Axel Weber, intentan asaltar las pilas de dinero defendidas por los expansionistas Barack Obama y Ben Bernanke; y José Blanco pediría los benjamines fallidos por si se los cuela a los controladores. Aunque quizá no le llegara para la paga de mes.
Y queda la perplejidad provinciana: ¿cómo es posible que con tanta tecnología digital, después de siglos de experiencia planchando billetes, en Estados Unidos tengan que tirar 1.100 millones de benjamines a la basura porque se dobla el papel y un trozo queda en blanco? Que venga el encargao de Gila y nos lo explique.
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The U.S. must decide what type of foreign policy it wants to pursue: one based on the humanism of Abraham Lincoln or one based on the arrogance of those who want it to be the world’s policeman.
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The U.S. must decide what type of foreign policy it wants to pursue: one based on the humanism of Abraham Lincoln or one based on the arrogance of those who want it to be the world’s policeman.