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 a diet 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 of 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 for that I cannot forgive him.

 

 

2005, Mark Hoback