“My childhood tastes like cherries from my grandmother’s tree, smells like fresh forest leaves, and understands through Mortadelo comic panels. It was my favorite tradition: going to the kiosk, buying a Super Mortadelo (or whatever had arrived that week from Bruguera), and immersing myself in the pages and the slapstick humor of ‘El sulfato atómico’, ‘El preboste de seguridad’, ‘El profeta Jeremías’, or whichever adventure featuring Sportys, Pafmans, or Doctor Pacosteins.
This weekend, a light went out within me and in the hearts of thousands of children across multiple generations: Francisco Ibáñez has left us, you bumbler, dimwit, simpletons, and fools, with a farewell that none of us had in mind. Perhaps because, simply put, we didn’t want to entertain the possibility that he wasn’t eternal.”
Run, boss, run!
The TIA flag (and probably the ABUELA flag) at half-mast. The building at 13 Rue del Percebe completely empty. The evening howl, devoid of news. Pepe Gotera and Otilio with nothing left to fix. Rompetechos mistaking the wake for Velas De Orio. Chicha, Tato, and Clodoveo finally giving up on finding employment. Francisco Ibáñez’s creations are countless, immortal, hilarious, and always magnificent. Even in commercials like Pepsiman, he was able to bring out our most primal instincts: the desire for slapstick humor and various mishaps.
While it’s true that Francisco Ibáñez’s later comics may not have reached the same aesthetic level as “El sulfato atómico” (an album originally intended for France), and his recent works may not have been on par with the past, several generations have learned to read thanks to the “¡Corra, jefe, corra!”, “¡Le voy a dar yo!”, “¡Burricalvo!”, and other shenanigans of the most iconic, number one, and beloved character for obvious reasons.
Now begins a life after Ibáñez. A life that won’t be easy, knowing that we will never again see the deadbeat in the attic, Bacterio with his beard on fire, Otilio eating a mouse sandwich, or Tete Cohete causing mischief. We can talk for years about the legacy of great literary wizards and Nobel Prize winners, but no one has left as much of an impact as an ink-stained wretch who always claimed that his wife knew he was alive because she heard the pencil moving.
Every time I have to write a humorous text, the first thing that comes to mind is the obligatory reference to Ibáñez. Because it has to be there. Because without him, I would have never written a word, I would have never thought of opening a comic book, and I would have never laughed until tears streamed down my face with phrases like “Men with mustaches look like hotentots” and “Either wipe it with a cloth or scrub it with a scrub brush, your pot will shine with Cascajo detergent.” You fools, I told you to “Pray to God in the street,” not “Bid farewell to Ibáñez”! Don’t run, noooo!
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