Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Tag: vladimir putin (page 1 of 4)

Call Me By Putin’s Name

“Russian Jenkins!”

“Da, sir.”

“Vhat did Putin tell you about comedic Russian accents?”

“Only you get to have one, sir.”

“Da. Putin is star of dialogue.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So many phone calls.”

“Well, you have so many phones.”

“Putin has most phones in vorld. Very important person.”

“You’re a VIP, sir.”

“Do nyet do that. Acronyms are for degenerates and the veak.”

“If you say so, sir.”

“China call. Say vonderful things. They have gift to honor Putin.”

“A gift? That’s lovely. What are they sending?”

“Not sending. Doing. Remember the thing in Singapore?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now is nyet thing in Singapore.”

“That’s a great gift.”

“Is just Putin’s size. And I am tough to shop for!

“Finding your Christmas present is always a nightmare for me, sir.”

“Vhat do you get the man who has killed everyone?”

“True, sir.”

“Cuba sent cigars.”

“Cuba always sends cigars.”

“Is their thing.”

“Has Chancellor Merkel called yet, sir?”

“She text.”


“Is mean lady. But Putin is vaiting on best call.”


“Da. You stay. Put on speaker.”

“I’m gonna laugh, sir.”

“Do nyet laugh!”

“He’s just so–”


“It’s him, it’s him.”

“I’m so excited!”

“Do not make me judo you, Jenkins.”

“Yes, sir.”


“Da. Is Putin.”


“Nyet. Is Putin.”

“General? Is this my General?”

“Goddammit, Mr. President, I’m standing right next to you.”

“I knew that and you know that I knew that, everyone says so. Who am I on the phone with? Tell me it’s not Mexico.”

“You’re on the phone with Vladimir Putin, sir.”

“Oh, he’s great.”

“Yes, sir. Now, please remember: don’t congratulate him.”

“Right, sure, congratulate him.”

“No. No, sir. Do not congratulate him.”

“Sure, of course, do not forget to congratulate him.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Putin can hear you two.”


“Do nyet call me that.”

“President Putin!”

“Is better. Hello, Donald.”



“Spaceeba, Donald. This means ‘Thank you’ in Russian.”

“Beautiful language, just spectacular. There’s a lot of really, really gorgeous languages out there, but you can’t beat Russian. A lot of people would go with English, they’d say ‘The President is supposed to root for English,’ but I didn’t set the Electoral College on fire by listening to anyone. Mexican, not a great language. Whatever the hell that African thing is with the clicks and whatever, not great. I think they’re making it up! Fake language!”

“Da. Russian is tongue of poets.”

“Your election win was absolutely spectacular, President Putin. The people over there love you. Maybe even more than the American people love me, not that you’d know from the lying media who just want to report about chaos and gossip, and who don’t see–and so many people see this–that I’m getting things done for my country. We’re gonna start executing drug dealers.”

“Is good start. Must be strong, Donald.”

“Strong, sure, right, strong.”

“People vant strong hand to guide them. People are veak and foolish. Need powerful man to keep them safe.”

“I have some of the strongest hands anyone has ever seen.”


“Da, da. Such strong.”

“No one thought you could accomplish what you did in the election, but you proved them wrong.”

“Putin front on the haters.”

“True, great, true, sure. Listen, I gotta go. I got a bucket of KFC here and my show is on.”

“Sounds like you have busy day planned.”

“No President has ever worked harder than me. Maybe you, but I’m talking about Americans. None. Okay, it’s chicken time. I’ll call you later on the private line.”



“Two things, Jenkins.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Vun: I can’t believe how lucky I am.”

“You’re having a good run.”

“Two: now Putin vant fried chicken.”

“I’ll call the kitchen.”

Election Night In Moscow

“Russian Jenkins!”

“Da, sir?”

“Ve cannot both speak vith comic accent. Make conversation very annoying.”

“I gotcha, sir.”

“How is election for Putin?”

“Excellent, sir. The returns are coming in now.”

“Is New York Times doing needle? Makes evening so tense and fun. Putin love needle.”

“They’re not, sir.”

“Vhat about Tvitter? Are there memes?”

“Let’s stay off of Twitter, sir. That’s his thing.”

“Da, da.”

“Sir, Novgorad is reporting. They’re calling it for you with 96% of the vote.”

“They love me in Novgorad.”

“Murmansk is at 94%.”

“They love me in Murmansk.”

“Stavropol went for you 85-15.”

“Have Stavropol starved to death.”

“Yes, sir. Ooh, you got 100% in Krasnoyarsk.”

“All dozen voters?”

“Every single one, sir.”

“Hooray for Putin. Ve celebrate.”

“How, sir?”

“Send a hundred pizzas to Angela Merkel.”

“I’m on it, sir.”

“Have pizzas topped vith chunks of dead spy.”

“It’s a bit much, sir.”

“Da. Just the pizzas. And have some people killed in–




“Done, sir. Anyone in particular?”

“You choose this time.”

“Hmm. Ah. I noticed Krotov did not laugh at your hungry bear story at the last cookout.”

“He did nyet laugh at hungry bear? Is my best story!”

“I love that story, sir.”

“Bear is so hungry!”

“It’s not the story’s problem, sir. There’s something wrong with Krotov.”

“There vill not be for long. He is in Spain?”

“He can be dumped there.”

“Da, da. Is such good day.”

“Yes, sir. The Vladivostock returns are in.”

“Did I vin?”

“You did, sir.”

“Vonderful. Putin vorried about Vladivostock. Vas story going to come out in paper, very bad, very embarrassing.”

“Well, you won with 90% of the vote, so I don’t think it hurt you.”

“Da. Also, I have journalist murdered.”

“That helps.”

“Whole newspaper staff, actually. Putin got carried away.”

“You’re only human, sir.”

“For now.”

“Sir, Project: Robot Body for Putin is way behind schedule.”

“They vill figure it out. Putin brain vill be implanted into robot. Lead Russia forever.”

“I’m not saying I don’t want that to happen, sir.”

“Do not be hater, Jenkins.”

“No, sir. Leningrad precinct is reporting, President Putin.”



“Nyet. Make Leningrad vote again. Tell them 92%.”

“Yes, sir. Or we could just save the money of another election day, and say it was 92%.”

“But then the kulaks vould not have to stand in line. Russian soul needs to stand in line. Russian soul vas born in line.”

“I’ll cut down on the number of machines, sir.”

“Now you are using noodle, Jenkins. Enough vith this election. Ve now concentrate on our next one.”

“The 2018 Midterms?”

“Da. Putin have so many fun ideas.”

“I can’t wait, sir.”

Putin On The Ritz

“Sure, I’ll talk about my clothes. Thanks for asking.”

I totally didn’t.

“My boots are Marvana featuring Wicky Z for Quilty by Leomberge.”

Never heard of ’em.

“Of course not: you’re poor. The pants are Scaramucci.”

Like the Mooch?

“No, the same guy. The Mooch made my trousers. I don’t agree with his politics, but he can sew like an angel.”


“The tee-shirt is Visvim, obviously.”


“Their new line of raw shirts is astounding. Raw cotton, raw dye. The tailors who make the shirts? All they eat is nuts and berries. Completely raw.”


“You just don’t understand fashion.”

Apparently not.

“The necklace is a Billy Bling. Only forty grand because we’re friends.”

You have the worst taste in men.

“What about women?”

You have predictable taste in women.

“And now we go to the piece de resistance. That’s French for ‘thing that resists.'”

It’s not.

“The toppermost.”

It’s a nice one.

“It’s called Lizards Quake When Dusk Falls On The Desert.”

What an evocative name.

“My new topper-shifu created it for me. His name is Makira Gojira.”

No, it isn’t.

“He’s a marvel. Totally blind. He sews by zen.”

He sews by zen?

“Oh, sorry. I meant Zen. That’s his assistant’s name. Does most of the actual sewing, but Gojira-san oversees. Well, not oversees, but you get the drift. They’re making me another toppermost right now.”

How many do you need?

“It’s not for me.”

Goddammit, Josh, do NOT act as a personal stylist for Kim Jong-Un!

“You’re not my boss.”




I know.

“Is this Kim Jong-Un? I’ve been meaning to talk to him.”

Sure, pick up the phone.

“Nothing looks grim when I’m hanging with Kim.”

“Is nyet Kim, Hot Dog Dick.”

“Ah, fuck.”

“Putin now have toppermost technology.”


“Ve have vays of getting toppermosts, Mr. Dog Dick.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Is so comfortable. Very stylish. Putin is beautiful Soviet peacock.”

“Seriously, where did you get that?”

“Invade Japan.”

“You didn’t.”

“Da. Posion Hello Kitty.”


“I am bad guy.”


“Answer question for Putin.”


“Vhy Taylor rip off Spike Jonez? New video is just Veapon of Choice.”

“You are way more in tune with pop culture than I’d figure.”

“Putin is online.”

“We’ve noticed.”

“Is no good vith Taylor. She dance like babushka. Putin miss Christopher Valken.”

“I gotta go.”

“You think he kill Natalie Vood?”

“I’m hanging up.”

“Da. Putin look better than you.”

“No, you d–



Meeting Of The Minds

Butterscotch. Tiddlywinks. Foot.

“What are you doing?”

Are you not listing words on your little board?

“Words that have something to do with my lecture.”

Lecture? You’re a lecturer now?

“I know, right? It’s like: where does he find the time in the day to master so many forms of performance? Guitar, singing, acting, Instagramming, and now I’m a teacher. I share my gifts with the world.”

Are you calling herpes a gift?

“Please go away. I’m busy teaching these kids how to write a hit song.”

Do you still remember how to do that?

You know, cuz it’s been a while.

Since you wrote a hit song. Like, a decade or so.

You not talking to me?


Fine. Talk to him.


“Nope. Not picking up.”

Pick it up.



Pick it up.




Pick up the phone.

“I hate you.”

Yeah, yeah.

“You’re on with John.”

“Hot Dog Dick! Long time no talk!”

“Ah, fuck.”

“Guess who back? Back again. Un is back. Tell friend.”

“Don’t quote Eminem at me.”

“Slim Shady real hip-hop. No like Lil Xan. He disrespect hip-hop.”

“Why do you know who Lil Xan is?”

“Follow on Twitter. So much beef.”

“Why are you calling?”

“Back on top, Hot Dog Dick! Kim Jong-Un in news again! Didn’t even need to blow up nuke or kill college student this time! Gonna meet Dotard. Take selfie.”

“I don’t think the meeting’s actually gonna happen.”

“Will happen. Take selfie.”


“Name is Un. Only Korean name go backwards. Children know this.”

“–no one is going to let this meeting take place.”

“I got ace in hole. Gonna talk Annoying Orange into it.”


“He on other line. I three-way.”

“Do NOT three-way me!”

“I three-way. You there?”


“Hot Dog Dick, is Putin. Putin, is Hot Dog Dick.”

“My name is John Mayer.”

“Nyet. You are Hot Dog Dick.”

“Haha! Putin call you Hot Dog Dick.”

“Okay, Putin have to go. Big election coming up. Have press conference.”

“You’re gonna take questions from reporters?”

“Nyet. Vant to gather them in one place so is easier to murder them.”


“Hot Dog Dick, I got favor.”

“I’m not doing you any favors.”

“Need new clothes for big meeting. Want to look sharp. Like Joe Jackson. You remember Joe Jackson, Hot Dog Dick?”

“Of course I remember–”

“Sang is different for girl. So true. Is very different for girl.”

“Please let me–”

“Help Kim Jong-Un, John Mayer. Need fancy outfit. Need be flossing.”

“You want me to help you pick out clothes?”

“Yes. You best at clothes. Much style. So fashion.”


“Yes! Kim Jong-Un and Hot Dog Dick have storyline again!”



When The Swag Met The Benj

Benjy, you be nice to Swaggie Maggie.

“I’m the nicest guy in the world.”

She’s a sweet young woman who is just starting out in this world. Do not instigate foolishness.

“Dude, you’re talking to the wrong person. Watched her lift three wallets and pull a chick’s hair extensions out for eyeballing her.”

Swaggie Maggie?

“I’m pretty sure she’s carrying a knife.”

I’m ignoring you. What have you been up to?

“Talking to lawyers. I, too, am a victim of sexual harassment. I am a brave survivor.”

Benjy, Billy did not sexually harass you.

“It started small. I believe he was grooming me. Comments about my appearance. Waking me up with his sack on my face. He liked when I watched him brush his teeth. He would, like, tongue the toothbrush while making eye contact with me in the mirror.”

None of this occurred.

“At least once a week, he would tell me that I looked sick and take my temperature.”

“Not in my mouth.”


We all get it, Benj.

“–ally. Okay. And, honestly? I don’t think it was a thermometer some of the times.”

It’s not right that you’re saying these things.

“We were out by the pool once, and he made me bounce my junk on the diving board.”


“He called it Cannonballing.”

You are not telling the truth.

“On numerous occasions, Billy sicced the skank on me.”

You can’t sic skank.

“Tell that to the skank and my nipples. They were puffed out like cherries for a week.”

What did the skank do to your nipples, Benjy?

“I don’t want to talk about it. Hurts too much.”

You feel emotional pain over the incident, I understand.

“No, my nipples still hurt.”

Ah. Benjy, everything you’re saying is fake news.

“Da. Is fake news. Hello, Svaggie Maggie.”

Oh, no.

“Putin get svole for young chickiedoodle. Come to Putin, Svaggie Maggie.”

NO! You stay the hell away from Swaggie Maggie!

“Need new vife.”

Current one gonna have an accident soon?


You’re a monster.

“Monster vith pecs of steel. Putin vork chest and tris today, back and bis tomorrow.”

When’s leg day?

“I do leg day next veek.”


“Svaggie Maggie vill be Putin’s new vife. She travel around vorld. Ve vill hunt, ve vill, dance, ve vill vrestle.”


“You cant just change W’s to V’s across board. Must look at usage vithin vord.”


“Typical. Deliver me Svaggie Maggie for purposes of matrimony. She vill make good vife.”

I dunno about that. She’s kind of a pain in the ass.

“Putin vill train.”

OH, HELL NO. Get out of here.

“Excuse me? Can I interject here? Vladimir, I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Benjy Eisen. We’ve been in a couple of storylines togeth–”



“Da. I remember you.”

Goddammit, stop blowdarting people.

“Nyet. Now bring Putin Svaggie Maggie.”

“Hey, motherfucker. You think you’re a man with those little-ass fucking weights?”

“You on the little girl machine. Trying to build up your titties.”

“Are nyet called titties, Miles David. Are pecs.”

“Big fat white titties. Rub on them titties while I lift weights.”

“Putin have chest like Perun. Pecs made of thunder.”

“God of thunder’s name is Thor, you Trotsky-stabbing motherfucker.”

Guys? Would you mind knocking it off?



Yeah, okay, neither of you can actually kill me. Listen: Swaggie Maggie has left, so there’s nothing to argue about any more.

“The fuck there isn’t. Bench press time, motherfucker.”

“Da. Putin get belt.”

I’ll leave you two to it.

Some Girls I Give All My Bread To

Were you drinking in the car?

“Snorting cocaine, too, motherfucker. Shut the fuck up.”

Where you coming from?

“Gig. Fucking Canada. Weird little motherfuckers up here. Chipper. I don’t like Canada. Too much like America.”

A lot of people like Canada for that very reason.

“Fuck ’em. I gotta cross a border, I wanna see some foreign shit. Japan. Those Chinamen in Japan are some foreign-ass motherfuckers. Don’t do nothing right.”


“The women are fine. Quiet. I like that. Small feet. I ain’t got a foot thing, but they got small fucking feet. Good for dancing with so you don’t step on ’em. Italian bitches got big feet. And they ain’t quiet. Italian bitch knows how to cook. Food you recognize, too. None of that weird Japan food. Japanese bitch liable to just throw a live squid at your face.”

I don’t think they would.

“German bitches cost too much to feed. Always fucking hungry. Like wolverines with big titties.”

This is like the worst cover of Some Girls I’ve ever heard.

“South American women got that something. See, there was a lot of mixing going on down there. Conquistadors and Indians and shit. Plus it’s real hot, so everybody’s half-naked all the fucking time. The South American respects the ass. White man fears fat asses. The white man thinks he isn’t man enough to make that ass do what he says. This is why all your movie star bitches got no asses. The white man teaches his white children to fear the ass.”

How much cocaine did you have?

“English bitches all like getting pissed on.”

Can we talk about literally anything else?

“Vhat about Russian vomen?”

“Ah, not this motherfucker again.”

“Russian voman is best voman. She cut down tree in morning, plow field in afternoon, ride on boner at night. Is best woman.”

“Russian bitches got fat ankles.”

“Da. Is sexy.”

“No, it ain’t.”

“Da. Fat ankles good for standing in line for radishes. Provide sturdy base. Hot.”

“You motherfuckers ought to burn your whole country down and start the fuck over.”

“Nyet. Ve are awesome. Okay. Ve play My Funny Valentine.”

“Fuck you.”

“In C.”

“Figures you only like the white keys.”

“Putin is nyet racist. Have had many negros assassinated.”

Guys, guys. Let’s keep it down.

“You got a fucking ending for this shit?”

“He nyet have punchline. Vas going to let us bicker pointlessly.”

Putin’s right, Mr. Davis.

“Motherfucker. Typical.”

“Da. Is typical.”

I know.

Live/Evil #9

Is…is that Emerson, Lake, and Palmer?

“Yeah. I don’t know which one’s which, though.”

Me, neither. All prog rockers look alike.

“White people, too.”

You always go there.

“White man’s got less ethnic variation in him than the black man. Africa’s big as a motherfucker, Europe’s the size of Delaware. Less places for the genes to wander. Look at Africans. You got dark-skinned motherfuckers, light-skinned motherfuckers, all kinds of noses and shit. White folks all the same shade of pale.”

I guess, maybe.

“These boys are okay. Trained fucking musicians. Can read. Familiar with my music. Most of those sissy motherfuckers ain’t shit, though. I pushed Cat Stevens down a flight of stairs once at a festival.”



Wow. Hey, Mr. Davis? I just watched a great documentary about James Brown. Did you know him?

“Course I fucking knew James. Knew him for years. Used to call me up. We’d talk about business, I think.”

You think?

“Don’t tell no one, but I never understood a single fucking word that man ever said to me.”

He needed sub-titles.

“Sounded like a washing machine full of rocks. Country-ass motherfucker. Didn’t trust banks. Liked cash. Motherfucker would always have $20 fucking grand on him. Said to him, ‘You gonna get robbed one day.'”

What’d he say?

“How the fuck should I know? Told you I didn’t understand the mushmouthed motherfucker.”

“Ve get band back together.”

“Ah, not this motherfucker again.”

“Ve will play progressively. Call band PDELP.”

“Suck my dick. DPELP, if it’s anything, and it ain’t anything. You ain’t in my band.”

“Da. Bring fresh new sound of balalaika.”

“That’s a commie-guitar is what that is.”

“Is nyet commie-guitar. Balalaika.”



All right, gentlemen. Knock it off.

“Fuck you.”

“Da. Vhat Miles David said.”

“Don’t be on my side. You ain’t on my side.”

“Da. Am sideman. Or else.”

“Or else? You threatening me, motherfucker?  What you gonna do?”







“Motherfucker, did you just blowdart Emerson, Lake, and Palmer?”


“They dead?”

“Not if antidote is given in time.”



“Not you, motherfucker. The other motherfucker.”


“Yeah. You. I don’t like this shit no more.”

You think I enjoy it?”


Ah, shoot me. You’d do us both a favor.

“You on my list.”

I’m on my list, too.

In A Semi-Fictional Way

“You ever been this cool, motherfucker?”

Nope. Not even close.

“I’m like this always.”

You are.

“Many of the problems I’ve had with white people stem from this. White man sees me, and he’s threatened. Knows he can’t walk like me, knows he can’t dress like me. This threatens him. Then he sees the white bitches wanting to fuck me, and this angers him. Plus, most white men are homosexuals, so they also want to fuck me. I fuck the white man’s head up.”

Mr. Davis, did you ever pay the National Anthem before a game?

“Why asking me that? You in the CIA?”

I am not in the–

“Most white men are homosexuals and in the CIA.”

Uh-huh. Not in the CIA.

“What the fuck you asking about the anthem for?”

There’s a kerfuffle about it when I live.

“You just say ‘kerfuffle’ to Miles fucking Davis?”


“You know I’m gonna shoot at you, right?”

Also yeah.


I deserved that.

“Ain’t never played that shit. What, you mean stand on the fucking pitcher’s mound and play that dumb-ass song? Nah, fuck that shit. Mets asked once.”

You turned them down?

“Yeah. And the next time I saw Cleon Jones, I punched the motherfucker.”

You know Cleon Jones?

“Everybody knows Jonesy. Outgoing motherfucker.”


“Who the fuck is that playing that shit?”

“Is your piano player.”

“You ain’t my piano player, motherfucker! Where’s Herbie?”

“Herbie Hancock have accident. Very sad. Fell on upside-down lawnmower. Tragedy. Now I piano player.”

“Stop playing that fucking piano.”

“Putin nyet play Fender Rhodes.”

“That’s not what I meant, motherfucker!”

“Putin solo.”


“We’re in B-flat, motherfucker!”

“Putin play free.”

“Not on my fucking stage.”

“Kiss ass, Miles David.”

“What the fuck did you say to me?”

“HEY! Gentlemen!”

“Not okay, boys! We are NOT going to fight here”

“Who the fuck are these motherfuckers?”

“Putin know skinny man. Owns restaurant I invade several time.”

“Eyes up here, fellows.”

“Look how disappointed Phil and I are in you.”


“If you’re not gonna play nice, then we’ll separate you.”

“Who the fuck are these motherfuckers?”

“Maybe they vill have accident.”

“I’m okay with that.”

“Putin make call.”

Dark Magus

I had a watch like that.

“Mine cost $800, motherfucker.”

Mine didn’t.

“Checkmate. You ever stay in your house for five years having freaky sex and doing cocaine?”


“It’s worth trying. I had a good time. White women would bring me money. I liked that. They would do things on one another, and that interested me. Taking a lot of pills at the time. Think I killed a maid.”

You think you killed a maid?

“I told you, motherfucker: I was taking a lot of pills.”

You did tell me that.

“Place got messy, but I didn’t care. A Jewish fellow bought me a piano to try to get me to play again.”

That was nice of him.

“I think I killed him, too.”

You really did have a dark period.

“Couldn’t handle the music business no more. Too many people using their Jewishness on me.”


“Exhausting. That’s all the music business is: Jew magic.”

Please stop.

“Black man and the Jew are natural allies, but Jews don’t see it that way. Look in the mirror and think they’re white. This makes them side with their oppressor. Changing their names and shit. Had an accountant try to introduce himself to me as Mr. Adams. I said, ‘Motherfucker, your middle name’s Adam. Your last name’s Boogershmitz or some bullshit. I see your hair, motherfucker.’ That angers me. Even if I could pass for a white man, I fucking wouldn’t. I would feel dirty inside.”

You’re a man of principle, Mr. Davis.

“I got principle like a motherfucker, yeah.”

“Now you have new rhythm section, Miles David.”

“Who the fuck is that?”

“Is Putin. Am jazzbo.”

“You can’t be in my band, motherfucker.”

“Da. Putin is in Third Great Quintet.”

“Go fuck yourself, Boris. And what the fuck is that thing with the bass?”

“Is Crazy Ivan. Is so funky.”

“Fuck him, too.”


“Vhy you make Crazy Ivan cry?”

“Because fuck him, that’s why.”

“Stop being ungrateful, Miles David.”

“Fuck this. I’m going back in my house for another five years.”

“You can nyet go to house. Ve have gig at Plugged Nickel.”

“Take that ugly motherfucker and play it yourfuckingself.”


“Nyet cry, Ivan. He lie. You beautiful.”

“No, you ain’t.”


“Ve are now enemy, Miles David.”

“Suck my dick, bitch.”

Every Breath You Take

You’re up early.

“Nah, fucker. Up late.”

What’s happened to you?

“Vacation Trixie is a fucking hellcat, bro. I’m raging.”

You’re taking a hike with your mom.

“It’s a family-oriented rage.”

How was the after-party?

“Party was wild. It was really a Jerry Tribute.”

Nitrous room?

“Nitrous room. I stay away from that shit, though.”

Good choice.

“I stuck with shrooms and cognac.”

Is that a good combination?

“It’s an active combination. Lotta things going on at once.”


“Poured a little out for dad.”

That’s sweet.

“Then I lit a mattress on fire for him.”

Sweet in a different way, but still sweet.

“Ow. Someone’s flashing a light in my eyes from over there.”



Are you pointing?


Well, Trix, this is a dialogue-based form. I just can’t–

“Go and take care of it, dipshit.”

Yes, ma’am. Hey!


Oh, this is creepy.

“Is personal now. Putin develop feelings for Trixie Grateful.”

Dude, you back the fuck off.

“All is fair in love and var.”

That’s kind of your motto, isn’t it?

“Da. In Russian, but: da.”

Stay away from Trixie.

“Putin vill take her like Crimea.”

None of this is okay.

“I vill voo her.”


“Nyet. Voo. I vill voo her. Putin vill pitch his voo.”


“Do nyet make fun of accent.”

What could you possibly have to offer Trixie?


You don’t have Poland.

“Give Putin two years.”

She doesn’t want Poland.

“Dacha on Black Sea.”

Not her thing.

“Condo in Trump Tower.”

Definitely not her thing.

“Maybe Putin send dick pic.”

Yeah, try that. I bet she’ll go for it.

“You think?”


“Putin vill take selfie of Russian meat. Must go fluff and…vhat is light flashing over there?”


“Ve should nyet repeat this joke.”


“Putin see.”

“Kim see you, Snowball Dick.”


I’m not okay with this.

“Hello, Fatty.”

“Hello, Baldy. See you found shirt.”

“Vhen you are not great big fatso, you valk around vithout shirt.”

“Keep up talk. After nuke America, maybe nuke you.”

“Kim Jong-Un went too far. Apologize.”

“Spaceeba. Vhy you here?”

“Jerry Tribute. Warren Haynes there, then I there.”

“Am burned out on Varren Haynes.”

“No talk bad about Warren.”

“Is enough vith him.”

“War-dog is man!”

SHUT UP the both of you. I need you out of America right now.


“Here to stay, Yankee Noodle.”

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