Friday, February 25, 2005

I Am Rusty Zeprodalovitz      The American president returned to his tropical shores today, leaving those of us in Murmansk to scavenge for beets in our filthy underpants. Did he take this one great opportunity to lay his fist on scoundrel Putin's brow? One must assume that he did not, since the evening found him standing with the cursed one himself, smiling like a dingo with a meatbone in his mouth. The Bush said great devil Putin had declared his absolute support for democracy in Russia. Bah. What does democracy mean to a man with no shoes? No that is not me, but there are many souls in our village who are reduced to such a meager life. I am more fortunate than most, possessing both shoes and socks. My hut has windows and a door, and I am owner of an empty Coke machine, which the state awarded me when a high Moscow official drove his truck into my spine. What about the first paragraph? No, the beets are not in our filthy underpants. That is what we wear when we scour the frozen tundra in search of them. Do not blame Rusty Zeprodalovitz for your lack of skill in reading. Bah. Even though we are poor, we are entrenched deeply in the art of literature, most unlike the 'civilized' west where the average man struggles to comprehend a book of comics. Our lives are the very stuff of literature, of this there must be little doubt. Radio Murmansk announced today's weather and radiation forecast. The sun shines brightly and the temperature has already risen to four, but alas, the Geiger count is high, so I must don the lead boots once again. They torture so my stubby feet, but as you are aware, the salt mine never sleeps. My daughter Donia does not know yet  the meanness of the world, even though she radiates with orange light. For her I sacrifice my all. Tonight she'll have a cup of broth! Let her enjoy these carefree days, for age will bring her sorrow plenty. There is much truth in the proverb of the peasants - 'The boys don't like the girls who glow'. 12:53:31 PM    comment []

I Am Rusty Zeprodalovitz No longer do my hands work in the correct way. Ouch! My feet appear most similar to the fingers of a withered peasant woman from the village of Koznikolkavastantstan, a woman who has spent her spirit's essence pleading by the side of one of Putin's grotesque bureaucratic buildings in his city of sin and enigma. For mercy! Feed me precisely. All that I require is the rib related region of a hog, a portion of the beast that no other man should or would desire. I shall ask for nothing more to stave my hunger. My buttocks, much to my shock and surprise, have been attached to the my frontal region. Do you know that my poop runs directly over me? Such is the sorrow of a Russian national when he exists as an un-empowered man. It is only God's fortune which has made me right handed, with the additional fortune of having a right hand. And yet I dare to think that things will soon be very much better for me and my countrymen. Am I foolish? Bah, I am born Russian, and comrades such as us, Babinski we were born to move in an extremely swift manner. I am tired of these promising songs of opportunity, which never seem to apply to my own starving family, no matter how we pretend that we do not wish to overthrow the corrupt government of puppetmaster Putin, no matter how degenerate his designs on our very souls! Do you not see how badly I am put back together, comrade? A Russian surgeon, a freshman he was... My face has been solarized, frozen into a mocking grin of rictus. Bah. Frightening, is it not? Do you also sometimes feel pain? Perhaps you are the lucky American, awash in all your Florida. Oh, to warm my feet, or as they are these days referred to, fingers. The novel, which I hid in the non-existent sole of my shoes, has not been finished, nor shall it ever be. Bah. My name, I think that is in the title. I was named after a virile NASCAR driver, by my few true  friends, who wished only to give me one moment of joy before I was condemned to a life of salt and cucumbers. Did I escape? Spit your comments out at me, as would the mouth of... as would the... Jeez... as the teeth would be projected from the face of a bitter and broken-faced man. Why do you look at my buttocks, sir? Was I at one time this rude to you? 10:08:54 AM    comment []