"Whenever I go into a restaurant, I order both a chicken and an egg to see which comes first"

Saturday, April 6, 2024

A Tart, A Priest, And A President - The Biden White House As Seen By Vladimir Putin

President Putin of Russia gathered his inner circle of advisors to discuss what to do with the United States, a pesky gnat of an adversary, nothing like Ronald Reagan who had Russia on his mind and kept adding tanks and missiles and submarines until the Soviet Union cracked under the pressure.  Putin remembered - how could any Russian forget - 'Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall', and he, Putin, had picked up the pieces, put the Empire back together, and would restore Imperial Russia to its former glory. 


Outside of President Eisenhower's famous military-industrial complex which still cranked out more weaponry than Russia could match, the United States was, under President Biden, a paper tiger, a mewling cat that would be sent back to his sandbox with little more than some catnip and a dish of tuna fish.

Biden was a sissy, a man whose whole Congressional life had been spent compromising, bargaining for peanuts. As President he washed his hands of the whole Afghanistan affair, gave away the whole kit and kaboodle to the Taliban, and now has said bye-bye to his only true ally, Israel - a geopolitical, Machiavellian power just like Russia. 

'Not to worry about Biden, Comrade', said Putin's Chief of Military Operations. 'The man is a pussy'; and so it was that Putin kept up his assault on Ukraine knowing full well that the American President would never send a warplane over Russian territory, would dilly, dally, and dither until that Jewish fool in Kyiv gave up, ceded Donbass once and for all, and finally became what he always was intended to be, a lackey of the Russian state. 'It is only a matter of time', said General Popov. 

The meeting ended with Putin's senior advisors having a good laugh over the American President, the worst president in American history but by far the best for Russia, a man conditioned to give in, make peace, and only act Presidential.  'I am told he has a faux woman in his Cabinet', joked the Interior Minister, borrowing a phrase from the Russian Myth of Azhdaya where the three-headed dragon becomes a woman to fool Prince Volzhov then changes back and devours him in one bite. 


Not only a faux woman but flotsam and jetsam picked up in the ghetto; political ciphers, window dressing, a few black and brown faces to give a bit of color to the White House.  It would be as if our President, said the Minister of Land and Energy, appointed a few Chechens and Abkhazians to spice things up in the Politburo.  

On the catty chatter went, and carried on to herring and vodka in the Cabinet social chambers - Biden's tarts, priests, and turnarounds, his side show of two-headed babies and bearded women with a Catholic priest to say grace. 

Marshal Zlitsky a former military attaché to Washington, knew all about America.  'A cultural ship loosed from its moorings', he once wrote in a classified cable to Moscow, but used more down-to-earth terminology after being reprimanded by the Home Office.  'Give the facts and only the facts, Grigor' he was advised and after that went on to describe the Arctic howls of Congress' progressive wolves, the insanity of policies to actually, seriously, promote homosexuality, and the bowdlerizing of the black man. 

The tart - the former Blaze O'Glory, burlesque queen, sequined, rhinestone glamour girl formerly of Las Vegas and Atlantic City, call girl extraordinaire, consort to the rich and famous, star of Mme. Dupont's Washington establishment of ill repute, but generous contributor to the Democratic party, tapped to fill out the President's roster of diversity - was what really jollied up Putin's cabinet. 'Can you imagine?', said his aide-de-camp, 'a hooker in the Kremlin?'.  Their man, a real man, would have nothing to do with merchandise.  A beautiful woman came to his chambers every night of her own volition.  What  would he do with such trash in boardroom or bedroom?


Biden's priest was another story altogether - a gay man who had reluctantly left his position as counsellor to the priesthood at Catholic University, for he had been quite happy as confidant and lover to young men off to their parishes to celebrate Our Lord. There was something sacramental about sexual union in the sanctum sanctorum between two ordained ministers of Christ, and this marvelous opportunity would be denied in the White House. 

Still, it was the White House, and he would have unlimited access to the President, a good but meandering Catholic who both wanted to show the flag of the Crusades and get pastoral support for his position on abortion.  He imagined talking with the President about his happy childhood in Delaware, the Atlantic beaches, cotton candy, and the boardwalk.  They would be chummy, good male friends, and God would be with them. 

So when Putin's inner circle got wind of the priest who was the third person of the White House trinity, they couldn't believe their good fortune.  Not only was America's Chief Executive the ideal patsy for Russian ambitions, but he was running a clown show, a hapless assortment of misfits and wannabes and could be had at any moment.  His mind which as President should have been filled with thoughts of geopolitics and international chess moves, instead of Q-B4, he thought only of bathhouses, tarts, and Bernal Heights butches. 

Of course this weird Washington claque had never gotten over their Cold War impressions of Russia. Aside from Wimbledon beauties like Sharapova and Kournikova, Russian women were still steel-toothed, zaftig mamas in babushkas.  Every May Day tanks, missiles, rockets and jack-booted soldiers paraded in front of Soviet-era toughs receiving the salute on a Kremlin balcony.  The KGB was a white version of the Tonton Macoute, Sevak thugs, and the Salvadoran death squads.  Russia, despite its onion domes, snowy Dr. Zhivago beauty, and the glory of the courts of Peter the Great and Alexander, was an uncivilized, boorish, dictatorship. 

While the Russians knew that because of their version of America - a correct one - they could best them at any time and place; Americans believed their version and were afraid of Russia and what it might do.  There was no emotional parity here, the psychological cold war had already been won. 

'Have another vodka, Comrade', the Military Adjunct said to the Admiral of the Fleet, and they both did, laughing like schoolboys over the joke across the sea. 

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