I Am Rusty Zeprodalovitz
Why does he continue to haunt our unblessed land, this American
president, so full of youth and vigor, his face untroubled by remorsefulness
or doubt? One look is enough to confirm that this is a man who eats with
regularity of something more than beets and cabbage - his mouth is full of
teeth and his eyes do not look yellow.
There are rumors in the village that he has made a pact with Scoundrel Putin.
Such things are just a curiosity to a man in my position, looking up from my
handcart with it's squeaky metal wheels. Do these wheels get the grease? Ha.
Perhaps in Moscow. Here in Murmansk I am considered fortunate to have such
luxury as this rolling plank. Someday I shall walk again, the doctors have
assured me. A fortnight past, they removed my kneecaps, which had been
crushed by misfortune in the salt mine. In Autumn, they promise, I shall
have new knees, fashioned from the shell of the exotic coconut. Would that
it were Autumn of this year.
We saw this Bush fly over our barren tundra
in his Air Force 1, on the way to meet with Devil Putin. Everyone in the
village stood outside to watch it pass, hoping for some sign that our
suffering would soon be lessened. And like a silver vulture which has eaten
too much lead-infested herring, it disgorged the contents of it's belly,
sending forth a massive block of frozen excrement which crashed down through
the roof of our small unheated church, thus ending the mobility of Father
Brownskalonovich. Perhaps now the sanctimonious old fool can empathize with
my sorrows.
Do you wish to know the thoughts of Rusty Zeprodalovitz
as he listened to reports of marching feets on
Radio Murmansk? Perhaps I shall
write them down someday when I can buy new paper. It was a lovely May
day here, the temperature rising to the upper twenties, and the Geiger count
lower than it has been in weeks. The sound of martial music reminded me of
my father, who would probably be celebrating the glorious victory over
Hitler's hordes along with me, had it not been for his unfortunate
impalement by Stalin's courtesy police, following his unforgivable gum
chewing incident. He loved gum, and had the same piece for thirteen years.
Ah, well, it is all so much vodka over the tonsils now.
Radio Murmansk said that Failure Putin
allowed the president Bush to take hold the wheel of our Car of State. It is
a lovely automobile, the Volga Gaz-21, a symbol of the greatness Mother
Russia once possessed. My mother used to keep a picture of it, lovingly torn
from the village's copy of Soviet Life, in a frame made out of twigs and
tar. She would gaze upon it and dream of better days before her untimely
demise from consumption. Someday it shall belong to my little daughter Donia,
and should she somehow gain her sight back, I'm sure that she will treasure
it.
Khrushchev was the first to drive the
glorious Car of State, a vanity of which Stalin would have disapproved. But
this was a new Russia, and the people were cheered to see that such rolling
dreams were now within our reach. Odious Putin has defiled the dream.
American buttocks have defiled the driver's seat. Putin, shameful seed of
sorrow, may you be tormented by cuts of meat no knife can cut. They say he
let Bush honk the horn, and I cannot forgive him. |
