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August 05, 2005

To Russia, With Love

Dear Momma Rodina,

I just wanted to let you know, we're praying for your boys in the sub, and we'll do everything in our power to help out. As all sailors in any navy would affirm, a sailor in trouble is just a sailor; we're all equal and at the mercy of the sea, and we owe each other a duty to protect each other from the sea's power, and the inequities it inflicts on us in a seemingly random manner. And while we're at it, we can't thank you enough for your sacrifices in WWII, in bleeding the Nazis white, even as your troops suffered and turned the snow beneath their feet red. We couldn't say this before, thanks to that damn scallywag you were living with, Karl Marx. But now that he's dead, we don't mind saying it. We remember. And thanks.

That said, we need to talk, Momma Rodina.

What's this we hear about you getting with Papa Zhao?

Now, I don't have a problem with you having friends and all. But shacking up with Papa Zhao for two weeks, for war games later in the month?

Momma! I thought we were, you know, that we had something special going on. You were trying to westernize a bit, get the word about the Enlightenment out to the Smerds, and we were supposed to help you pick up the tricks of democracy, the rule of law, the free press and so forth.

Now I hear you're running around with Papa Zhao, like he's some big deal? I'm telling you Momma, he only chases you because he knows I really like you. In fact, I more than like you. I'm coming to realize I need you. You're the only person who really understands me, for one thing. Well, other than Brittania, but she's my mother, so you know that's out of bounds. And Ozzie is just a cousin, like Kiwi. (But with think Kiwi may play for the other team, if you know what I mean). And some of the new kids on the block in Eastern Europe - they know us better than we know ourselves. But they're kids. You and me, Momma, we're made for each other, if you decide to roll with me.

But anyway, I'm getting way off track here.

Lookit. Papa Zhao has big problems. He's got too many people in that house, a couple out of control rooms packed with crazy Muslim extremists, another room where he keeps a bunch of Tibetans locked up, a big cash flow deficiency, and a complete lack of respect for all the things you think are normal, good and decent. He can't even brew a decent beer or vodka, ferchrissakes. (Though his cooking is good, the magnificent sonovabitch. I'll give him that). Plus, he's a neighbor. You get too chummy with him, and I'm telling you honey, he ain't like me. Next thing you know, he'll be parking his tank in your yard, letting a couple of his Maoist running dogs tear up your flowers... in this case, good fences do good neighbors make.

And one other thing about Papa Zhao. He's batshit crazy. A couple weeks ago, he said he'd nuke the shit out of any of us who interfered with his planned takeover of the Taiwain kid's place. When those crazy teens were protesting in the square out in front of his place a few years ago, he killed em' all. He didn't use salt rounds, like we might of; he just wasted 'em. He also thought, at least until recently, that you and me were lining up against him. Fact is, he's paranoid, and has a deep sense of racial grievance - which is ironic, because in my neighborhood, we think his kids are brighter than our own. But you can't tell him that. Did I mention that he has a listening problem, just like that troubled teenaged kid of his, NorKy?

But I'm going on far too much. Listen, it comes down to this.

Are we a thing, or aren't we? I mean, if we're a thing, Momma Rodina, you gotta stop seeing that Zhao guy, except as a neighbor and acquaintence. He's bad news, and I can't be hooked up with a gal who plays me off an SOB like that.

Maybe this sounds a bit desperate, be we've got a lot of things in common, and I'd love to continue to help give you a hand up. After all those years we spent arguing, I'm thrilled about having the chance to, um, get to know you better and build a beautiful thing here.

But the crazy sonovabitch in the tank top, with the wandering eye and the long sword has got to go. He's bad for both of us, and I think you know it. You see, one of the things I can share with you is Oprah. She's in syndication now. She'd tell you, don't be a great woman, who makes bad choices. You've got a great soul, baby. Don't sell it.

Call me honey. Let's talk.

Uncle Sam

Posted by Blackavar at August 5, 2005 07:49 PM | TrackBack
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