In Uruguay, political impudence has become not only tolerated but actively rewarded. Figures like Pedro Bordaberry, Luis Lacalle Pou, and even José Mujica embody a culture where shamelessness, theatricality, and self-promotion substitute for responsibility and commitment to the public good. Bordaberry reappears despite a discredited record in both business and politics; Lacalle Pou governs with polished detachment, confident that media spectacle can eclipse weak outcomes. Even Mujica—once hailed for his austerity—often acts like a braggart, using his humble persona as a shield while offering simplistic reflections and ambiguous legacies. His image persists, less for what he achieved than for how effectively he performed a political character.

This culture rewards presence over principle. Media coverage rarely probes deeper than personal anecdotes or public gestures. Political parties circulate the same names and faces, valuing charisma and pedigree more than program or merit. Rather than being disqualified by contradictions or failures, these politicians are recycled—familiar, marketable, and functionally unaccountable. Boldness is mistaken for leadership, and moral ambiguity is recast as authenticity.

The Uruguayan public, weary and disenchanted, often participates in this ritual. With lowered expectations, voters accept the spectacle in place of substance. Institutions like the press, academia, and civil society offer critique, but rarely enough to disrupt the cycle. Democracy becomes performance, where the same figures act out familiar roles with impunity.

In this environment, the absence of shame becomes a political strategy. It signals not defiance of norms, but mastery of them. To speak loudly, to appear often, and to evade consequence has become the formula for relevance. Uruguay’s political system does not merely tolerate impudence—it cultivates it, offering applause to those who dare to show they no longer care.

In this landscape of political impudence, Carolina Cosse emerges not as a break, but as its continuation in progressive guise. While presenting herself as a modern, technocratic, and left-leaning alternative, her style reflects the same traits that define Uruguay’s entrenched political class: rhetorical self-assurance, media-friendly gestures, and an unwavering certainty in her own legitimacy. Cosse speaks the language of planning and social justice, but often operates with the same disregard for dissent, institutional critique, or self-reflection as those she claims to oppose. Like Mujica, she leans on symbolic capital—gender, party lineage, and administrative roles—rather than delivering a transparent and accountable political practice.

Her rise within the Frente Amplio consolidates the cycle, not ruptures it. The spectacle of governance continues, now dressed in technopolitical vocabulary and progressive slogans, but with few signs of deeper renewal. The managerial tone she adopts may appear distinct from Lacalle Pou’s corporate cool or Mujica’s rustic storytelling, yet it relies on the same cult of personality, selective visibility, and political untouchability. Her tenure in Montevideo has been marked by media management, strategic silences, and a careful avoidance of intra-party debate. Just like her predecessors, Cosse performs legitimacy, but resists interrogation.

Thus, impudence is not tied to ideology—it crosses party lines. It is the shared grammar of an elite that has learned to survive by mastering appearances. Whether conservative or progressive, in suit or in poncho, Uruguay’s political protagonists repeat the same choreography: speak boldly, act selectively, and trust that no one will demand too much. Cosse’s political ascent does not challenge this order; it confirms it. In her, the cycle of impudence finds a polished, forward-looking face—an updated version of the same old play.