V. Putin fastens a Cold War, Soviet-style sports bra: straps like umbrella handles, indifferent material akin to upholstery, a clasp that pinches his upper excess as would an inebriated toothless granny. Yet the bra—and the leader—exude the kind of sturdy defiance one might expect from the products of a durable if blundering empire. The sports bra, however abrasive to his Caucasian epidermis, holds; the contraption creates a bloc; the bloc holds. Once supported, V. Putin can dress in formal attire, a rose pinned to his lapel. Not far away, a catering staff prowls around the diplomatic affair, offering small pours of spritzers. The catering staff offers small bites of salty cakes. “Wired”, notes an American spy, “every living soul electric.” The American spy thinks of the difference between “W” and “V”, the difference, in English, between Wladimir and Vladimir. In glides V. Putin. He crouches. Judo rises into his eyes; he performs virtual parries and slips; he takes virtual advantage of the momentum he perceives about the assembly: a pair of ladies drifting in glittery gowns. His expression crosses from feline hungry to feline kill, crosses back to feline hungry. V. Putin slides invisible armies across the great steppes of his mind, swift columns of vehicles governed by gritty throttles. Every sweet, doomed soldier resembles V. Putin, arriving at a pock-marked destination shaped, in advance, by the shortages of his
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6 comments:
We demand the immediate take-down of this vile blog post. -- Russia
Do you happen to know if Putin likes to eat poutine?
Dear Russia,
Thank you for your request. At the current time, all taker-downers are busy. As soon as a taker-downer becomes free, your request will be forwarded. In the meantime, please consider a request for a putter-upper. We have many talented putter-uppers.
As a land that has produced many great works of writing, you will find it samovar-worthy, perhaps, that you have requested a taker-downer, when the post is about a putter-upper. The sports bra puts-up, as it were. You have requested the bra, as it were, to be unclasped. You request a put-down.
If this is really Casey, and not Russia, hey, man, how's it going? If this is really Russia, all our taker-downers continue to be busy. As soon as the medications wear off, I'm sure they'll do a little work this afternoon. Maybe check back then?
--Yrs, B.A.G.
As a pre-teen, Putin may have preferred poutine. As a man who has recently annexed another land, he may be thought of as Vladimir Lootin'.
I hear that the lootin' was stressful. In that, it had stressors, and that Putin had abdominal distension. As a result some of his inner circle (out of earshot) referred to him as Vladimir Pootin'.
At least, that's what WikiLeaks said.
-----------B.A.
What an epic burden this Strongman bears, compelled to calculate how every waking hr can intersect w/ a photo op, or moment of shirtlessness. It takes some planning, some KGB-style panache to go shirtless this often. While Mother Russia is thinking "tandemocracy," Strongman is thinking "half frontal." Somewhere around there the Second World imagination, as you say, blinks out, and the bully steps in. It is a wonder Strongman brought Koni the black lab, rather than a Siberian bear, to meet Angela Merkle.
if there is a book abt dick cheney's heart (or so i hear!) then maybe there could be a follow-up on vladimir putin's bare breast. he does, after all, keep us abreast.
speaking of tandemocracy, it should be medvedev out there, frontally, as well, riding some sort of indigenous bear or woolly mammoth. perhaps this is where the tandemocracy failed. medvedev either cldnt or wldnt.
i mean, a tandemocracy would fail either way. at first it must be exciting -- like space travel. but you can't avoid the administrative necessities of any government, no matter how farcical. it becomes, in effect, a memorandumocracy. many officials wind up memorandumb.
but i digress.
merkel has seen those vlad pictures. who hasn't? she's a married woman but you'd imagine she has . . . thoughts.
b.a.
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