As goodwill gestures, the Russian football team has been touring Brazil and meeting various people and organizations. Today they made a heartbreaking tour of an orphanage. Here’s a quote.
‘It’s so sad to look at their faces and see no hope.’
— Juan, age 9.
My my. How difficult things have been there.
The Ukrainians have lost a Il-76 military transport. The result was that the flight crew of nine died along with 40 passengers. I personally lament this terrible loss of life and offer my sympathies and condolences to the bereaved.
Assuming it even happened.
Let us be logical. The uprising in Eastern Ukraine is by freedom-loving citizens. Normal working men and women do not have access to three ground-to-air Ilga MANPADs in the area. This therefore precludes any notion that the plane was shot down.
This security camera footage from a building that happened to be pointing at the aircraft’s flight path has been claimed by the Ukrainians as proof the aircraft was shot down. You may note that the video begins with a climbing dot of light on the left and several moments later, a ground level flash of light. Again, pure logic indicates that this is not proof that the transport plain was knocked down by
my antiaircraft fire.
There is a much simpler explanation.
Gypsies did it. Either that or those salo-eating drunken pilots from Ukraine crashed it themselves and are trying to pin it on me. For example, some alcoholic infantryman probably forgot his well-camouflaged grenade belt near the Ukrainian president’s office that had been outfitted with a remote trigger (so I am told) and they’re trying to blame it on me. Me of all people!
I was hosting a charity dinner raising money for blind veterans at the time.
Besides, I have problems with aircraft of my own. A new T-50 from Suchoi had some sort of fuel leak and caught fire on landing. That’s a lot of roubles up in smoke and a lot of rubble.
As a good Russian man, I eat a lot of cabbage. Unfortunately, I had a massive gas leak when sitting next to Angela recently. It nearly peeled the paint off the desk. In what was one of my less suave moments I told French President Holland that if he helped breath it in, it would go away faster.
Anyway, in at attempt to modify my diet to avoid any wind-related incidents, I’ve decided to cut back on the kapusta before conferences.
It’s also a change to improve my cooking skills. Now that I’m a bachelor again I need to feed myself. Eating out in restaurants can be expensive. Okay, so here’s my mother’s recipe for baked fish.
- 1 lb cod
- 8 potatoes
- 2 cups of sour cream
- 2 tbsp butter
- 2 tbsp chopped parsley
- 3 eggs
- 1 carrot
- 1 onion
- salt and black pepper
- green veggies
Get the political prisoners to soak cod in cold water for an hour. Clean it, slice it. On the side, boil in a salt, carrot and onion d 15-20 minutes.
Chop potatoes/tomatoes. Put fish slices in a stew-pan as a first layer, then chopped potatoes (tomatoes), chopped parsley. Then goes fish slices and again potatoes with parsley. Whip sour cream with eggs, add salt and black pepper. Cover cod with this and put the stew pan in the oven for 20-30 minutes.
Decorate with what ever greens you have.
When I was at Sochi, I spent a lot of time making sure there were no homosexuals. I disguised myself and spent hours in the showers and men’s room’s making certain there as absolutely no funny business. I was like a prune by the time the games were over. And I got an ear infection that took forever to clear up.
No wonder kids howl so much. Ear infections hurt like the Dickens.
Sochi was not an unalloyed success, I admit. Those Canadians barely got off the plane before they skated off with the hockey gold medals. And good for them, I just wish we’d at least made it to the medal rounds.
So does the former Russian Olympic team. Or, as they are now known, salt miners.
Sadly, the ten-year public relations exercise of the Winter Olympics has been lost just because the freedom loving people of Crimea decided to be embraced by Russia again, rather than those Hitlerite pork back eating Ukrainians. I am sure, however, that long term, people will chose to remember the Olympics than the events in Crimea.
Now, what do with all those goddamn buildings. Turns out the tourism industry in Russia has gone into a tailspin.
Greetings from beautiful France.
I’m here with my G8 colleagues celebrating the 70th anniversary of the Normandy invasion. From my perspective, the D-Day landings were a comparatively minor event in WW2 (or as we call it in Russia, the Great Patriotic War).
The perfidious French have arranged for me to meet with incoming Ukranian President Petro Poroshenko, the chocolate magnate. You may or may not recall but he was voted in during an illegal and silly election after a coup that saw my wise and intelligent friend, the then president, thrown out.
French President Francois Hollande doesn’t wear lifts in his shoes like Sarkozy but is vain in the way of the French who’ve been trying to build their version of the British Commonwealth. They have damned fine intelligence in some parts of the world thanks to those efforts and this lets them punch above their weight in some regards. Good for them.
I was going to say no but Angela asked me. Beautiful, beautiful Angela.
I melt when she’s around. I may be a fool but she has that effect on me. So, with her at my elbow, I went in to meet the gentleman. We shook hands and I removed my shirt for our short chat. He and I promised to meet again so that we could see if I might help with the freedom fighters in Eastern Ukraine that I have nothing to do with.
And that was it! No promises and nothing to report.
Mind you, Poroshenko seems to me to be the sort of guy who suffers from a secret depression and will commit suicide by ingesting a slow acting poison.
I can predict these things.