Friends;

I am sorry for any broken limbs and shattered teeth that my enthusiasms may have caused. It was not my intention to hurt any of you, and you should know that Father Russia loves all of his children.

I must thank you very much for this training session. I needed it. Sometimes, the stresses of a global Alpha can be intense. Sometimes, you must break something or you yourself will be broken!

(Waits for applause to subside)

A man does not have it easy in this world, let me tell you.

But I am not here to speak of the unknowable hardships and cruelties a man such as myself must endure. No, I am here to congratulate Ezio Gamba for the powerful and autocratic judo lessons he has dispensed to the national team! He has made you all super hardcore, and that is the Russian way!

We are too hardcore for the Americans!
(Cheering)

We are too hardcore for the Japanese!
(Cheering)

We are too hardcore all the feminine states of Europe!
(Cheering)

We are hardcore!!
(Waits for applause to subside)

And Ezio, much of that is due to you, and I thank you.

I will tell you something you would not guess, but it is not conducting surveillance operations or gassing protestors where I feel most at home.

No, it is on the judo Tatami. It is there where I am my powerful true self.

I am a master of all flesh in the Tatami. There, in a tight embrace, I can unleash the unmeasured furies of my passion!

When I was a young and confused KGB agent, it was judo that provided me with a safe spot. It was there I could be my masculine self and share my physical feelings with other men, but elders grew concerned at the disorienting and often unsettling intimacies of the matches, and so they set me up to fight with Lyudmila.

She was very mannish looking and a formidable opponent. I did not know she was of the females until much later, after much rough combat. We were eventually paired in matrimony and an off-spring was made in the dark of the Russian night.

The American song Islands In The Stream played, I remember.

Yekaterina.

A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.

Our daughter, it is the one good thing Lyudmila and I did together. She is better than any judo moves we ever made, and I am not ashamed to say I would kill with my hands any man who would think to violate her with his primitive heterosexual urges.

No longer paired with Lyudmila, I was free to practice judo with whomever I liked, and those were glorious times for Vlad. Such beautiful judo! Truly, it is the sport of love.

Anyway, my old female partner has gone on to marry another man, a man 20 years younger than her! How about that?

I could have him killed, but I will not. He will suffer with Lyudmila as I suffered with Lyudmila, and I will continue to be the most powerful Alpha in the world, enjoying judo with as many partners as I choose!

You must eat the pain, comrades!!!

Long live Russia, and long live judo!!

His silence during this time had fueled all sorts of speculation, with some people believing he’d been in Switzerland to attend his girlfriend giving birth, while others thought he was ill, had power seized from him or that he might even have been assassinated.

Well, he appeared hale and hearty on Monday morning, and it turns out that Putin, utilizing the survivalist training he learned as a KGB operative, had spent the last week camping on his own. These are his private journals from that trip:

Day 1:

As spring approaches, the burning comes hard and fast.

I shudder with the unnatural urges and I know that I must, once again, remove myself to the Bialowieza Forest and make peace with the natural world.

My mind, as if fevered, returns again and again to that Sikh cab driver as he stared out his car window on Shkolnaya.

For a moment, our eyes, like magnets, found one another, and we were two beautiful, masculine animals locked to one another, our breathing becoming so urgent and alive, and in such perfect and furious unison as to be inseparable. We would to be just one, all flesh, muscle and luxuriant and mysterious beard. Ah, but this moment lived only in our hearts and minds, for we never met or spoke, just two rugged ships passing in the fading light of a tired Moscow day.

In the Bialowieza Forest there are no seductive cab drivers with strong, Indian features. No, here there are berries. Here there are cold streams in which to cleanse impurities from one’s naked body! Here there are animals to kill! Here there are so many places to unleash the rage and to let the echoes of pain take flight!!!

Day 2.

I am heterosexual.

I am heterosexual.

I am heterosexual.

I am Dear Shirtless Leader.

I am a powerful, heterosexual leader.

I am ruthless and without pity.

I am heterosexual.

Day 4

I use rocks to pound my hands. The pain reminds me of how much I love women and not men. Rocks are my friends. I will incite my people to throw them at the homosexuals when I return from my purification!

Day 5.

I spent the day in penetrating, decontaminating meditation.

The cold of the March forest felt good on my naked body. It was like being caressed and then handled roughly by the indifferent hands of an anonymous man looking to satisfy his own primal needs. I was an empty and willing vessel, a village waiting for to be led by its mayor.

I then ate two birds that I knocked out of the air using my belt. They are part of Father Russia now.

Day 6.

Today a young stag approached my camp while I made weapons from the beaks and talons of the birds I ate. This buck looked at me with both certainty and curiosity, and as a confident as a bear, walked right up to me and licked my bare chest.

I could have torn him apart with my horrible weapons, but I did not. He continued to lick– he must have been starved for nutrients and minerals—and I took his beautiful head in my powerful hands– and then he began to lick me in an intimate spot. The forest was a beautiful canopy above us and the sunlight was falling like gold coins all around, and for a moment there were no other living creatures in all of the universe, and then I twisted his neck and killed him, and there was but one living creature left, and it was then that I knew I had won and was ready to return to society.

I recently won a kitten and have brought it into my household. It is my wish that it will bring hope into our lives. How should I treat it so that it does not run off to live with some of our other competitors in life?

With respect,

Sergei

Sergei:

It is good that you have written me with this question for my love of kittens is of global renown. My love for them is like a thunder that rolls across the steppes. My passion for kittens is the same as the passion a Cossack feels for battle! Truly, my ardor is without boundaries.

Personally, I have six surviving kittens and I am proud to say that they are all a part of the powerful Putin clan. My strongest connection is with Polkan. He is such a character! Sometimes he walks over my keyboard when I am busy writing a new law against the homosexuals! I tell you, if some bureaucrat were to do that, my response would be swift and without ambiguity, but I have no rage toward the cute, little face of my Polkan!

To make sure your kitten does not stray to a more appealing environment, you must pick it up, kiss it’s neck repeatedly then set it in your lap so it has a feeling of security, as you would a woman. You must be positive that it understands that you are not a predator! If the animal wishes to break free from you, you should let it, for you do not want it to feel trapped and fearful that it is to be executed for a crime! However, you must swiftly return to it, employing the same strategy (also, add treat) that you first initiated. You must repeat until your subject has been subdued.

Pet Corner:

I have been thinking about getting a Siberian Husky as I am looking for a loyal guard dog. Thoughts?

Gratefully,

Pavel

Pavel:

Ah, the Siberian Husky! It is as if their piercing eyes can penetrate deep into your soul and see your most secret desires and ambitions. I understand why you would feel such a burning attraction to them.

Evgeni had eyes like a Siberian Husky—as blue and vivid as lake Baikal. It was like he and I were carved from the same block of heterosexual man, and sometimes it was hard to know where where Evgeni ended and Vlad began. Our glorious days training together at secret KGB locations, were so curious and tense and beautiful, that sometimes we lost ourselves to our fitness regimes, and glistening with sweat, we would spar with one another– rough and tender– again and again, deep into the caressing night.

However, just like Evgeni, the Siberian Husky, is not a one-man dog. The breed is not fearful of strangers but will go to them, even seek them out in the dark corners of the city, and then one day you may happen upon your beautiful dog with another man, and you will feel nothing but rage, shame and horror, and then your KGB training will kick in and you will eliminate the problem before you. There will be more blood than you ever thought possible, but you will clean it up, and from that point forward you will bury deep, deep inside, all the hurt, pain and confusion, and you will become a new, different man, a man who hates even the disgusting thought of tenderly practicing martial arts with another man! And so I caution you, the Siberian Husky presents as many risks as it does rewards.

The central feature of this work is just how much smaller I made Putin’s left eye than his right. It’s all scrunched up and sleepy, like a little deformity. Personally, I think he’s got something twisted inside him, a torturing secret that keeps that one punky eye twitching and moving all the time. He just doesn’t feel safe, like he’s worried someone’s gonna’ catch him doing something.

I know I initially said that I saw into his soul the first time I met him and that he was trustworthy, but that was bullshit. Politics is 95% bullshit, which is why I was so dominant at it– the Bush family, we’re like the goddamn New York Yankees of politics, something I think you can see reflected in my self-portrait. I look confident, like a powerful eagle that can just swoop in and have whatever lady bird he wants. I’m not really convinced that Putin likes the lady birds.

Why? Well, he made a big deal about his dog being bigger than my dog, like he was actually talking about our dicks. I don’t know what they teach you at the KGB, but when I was a cheerleader at Yale we learned that your dick is very different than your dog, and the cheerleaders that were always talking about how big their dog was, well, they were almost sure to be queer.

One of the guys that was a cheerleader with me at Yale actually became a dental hygienist. Imagine that! Only male dental hygienist I ever heard about. Don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t want another dude cleaning my teeth. Anyway, this guy, Anderson, when he was a cheerleader he was always talking about how big his dog was, so it just goes to show you. Over-compensation, that’s what the shrinks call it.

Oh yeah, the painting! I also made Putin pout a bit in the painting, like a little crybaby, and I wanted his eyebrows to look like caterpillars because I really don’t like the guy. He’s got no sense of humour, and he’s always wanting to show off his karate moves and flip you. Very touchy-feely, but in an angry way, you know?

Just a douche.

He needs an infusion of Jesus Christ in his life.

Stat.

*********************************************

Round One

You’re in hospital. But it’s not for some pedestrian reason like suffering a heart attack after having a long, hot shower and then masturbating while visiting your parents. No, you are in the hospital because you did something heroic and cool, like destroying the Mountain Dew skate park/pinball machine theme park while fighting Vladimir Putin with a croquet mallet.

That is what you did and due to minor injuries, you’re in hospital. You’re recovering like a champion. No tubes are connected to you and you’ve grown a beard during your stay, even though you could never grow one before. You look good. The nurse who is looking after you is pretty and compassionate and thinks that she remembers you from somewhere. She has soft, cooling skin. You have the first pick in the fantasy baseball draft and you select all-world outfielder Mike Trout, the best player in the history of the universe. Your opponents, like Vladimir Putin when he saw you grab the croquet mallet, know that they are defeated.

Round Two

You are a young girl only just past her eighteenth name day and it is your fantasy baseball draft. Your hair is silky, like it was made from the finest silk of the seven kingdoms; your eyes as dark as the night with no moon; and your skin a pale cream. You are one of the most beautiful girls in all of Westeros, but you don’t think that.

You sigh as you look in the mirror. Who will you select in the second round of your fantasy baseball draft? There are many noble options, so many great warriors available to you, but whom to pick?

It is time. The cruel and maniacal King Joffrey Baratheon fingers his crossbow and suddenly shouts at you, “Pick damn it, before I take your head!!”

You look him calmly in the eye, “My Lord, I pick outfielder Ryan Braun of the Brewers of Milwaukee.” Unexpectedly, the great Braun had fallen due to suspicions of steroid use, and your pick is brilliant.

There is stillness in the room, and then, a faraway wolf howls in the daylight, the dye had been cast and you are full of a confidence you had not experienced before.

Round Three

In spite of the stunning beach, bikini model and sex star Kelly Brook and I were arguing about whom to select in the third round of our fantasy baseball draft. She wanted to take Clayton Kershaw, even though he was an obvious injury risk, while Dustin Pedroia seemed like an obvious choice to me.

“No!” Kelly screamed, splashing into the surf.

I pursued her, grabbing her firmly by the waist, and she turned her slick body toward me, her breath coming hot and fast.

“Goddamn it,” I insisted, “we need to pick a second baseman now!”

“I don’t know what’s right anymore,” she said.

“Yes, you do.”

“Dustin Pedroia, “ she breathed into me, “Dustin Pedroia is our pick,” and then we collapsed into the waves and into one another.

1. Chances that an American athlete would break down a door in the Olympic Village 7-1.

I considered this bet to be easy money. We all know that athletes are competitive, and none more so than entitled, overfunded American ones who really like to get their party on. Combining this personality type with the decrepit state of Russian infrastructure and the rage associated with steroids and steroid-masking technologies, it was almost a guarantee that a door would be smashed in. I bet $700 on this, and when Johnny Quinn, an American bobsledder and ex NFL player, broke naked through his poorly functioning bathroom door in the athlete’s village, I was a winner.

Result= +$4900

2. Who would win the gold medal at men’s skeleton in Sochi?

I was on the Lisgar Collegiate Institute boys’ skeleton team in high school, and I can tell you participation in that sport is an insane death wish—you fly face-first down an ice cliff on a bladed Krazy Karpet using your toes to steer. (It should go without saying that high school was a VERY difficult time for me, a time made even more painful by the ceaseless bombardment of snowballs I endured whenever I took sliding to the track.) Gambling on this sport is like playing the lottery, as none of the martyr/athletes really has any influence on the outcome. That being said, it would have been wise to pick a Russian, as it’s common for officials to heat the track to make it slow and sluggish after the Russians have competed. However, the odds on handsome Spaniard Amber Mirambell (300-1!!) proved too enticing and I bet $500 on him for gold.

Result= – $500

3. Over/under for deaths in short-track speed skating (including relay): 7

I felt very compromised betting on this as I abhor the idea of rooting for anybody’s misfortune, but it seems clear that there would be way more than seven deaths in this sport. Honestly, I think there could be seven deaths in just one race. It’s Roller Derby with knives, practically a Slasher film. I bet $1300 on the over.

Result= – $1300

4. Olympic Sex Tape

Given that the matchmaking app Tinder was the breakout star of the Sochi games, it was speculated that it would be the first Olympics that featured a leaked sex tape.

Odds that a sex tape will surface: 3-1

Odds that the Russian men’s ice hockey team will be involved in the sex tape: 1-1

Odds that the Jamaican bobsled team will be in the sex tape: 9-1

Odds that the sex tape will be of a homosexual nature: 50-1

Odds that the sex tape will include any of the mascots from the Opening Ceremonies: 50-1

Odds that an ice-dance duo will be in the sex tape: 200-1

I bet $3000 that there will be a sex tape and placed $250 on each of the sub-options. Fingers crossed.

Result= – $4500

6. Odds that there will be a biathlon shooting accident involving a homosexual: 25-1

I could see that getting certified proof that the accident victim was an actual homosexual was going to be a bureaucratic nightmare, so I just avoided this bet altogether.

Result= Even

7. Odds that America, in the corporate form of Sports Illustrated, would attempt to upstage the Olympics by featuring Kate Upton in a bikini, floating about in a zero-gravity plane, as their feature story instead of, say, sports: 7-1

You simply cannot bet against America being America, and so I wagered $200 on the model in a zero gravity plane.

Result= + $1400.00

Total= Even

“The Invisible Gays” was a Black-Ops project undertaken by the CIA that lasted through the 1950s to 1980. The highly classified covert operation implemented weather manipulation technology, chemical warfare, mind control and the paranormal in an attempt to influence social behaviour and undermine the USSR. Like a weather system, the CIA sought to create  “Homosexual Clouds,” with which they could then target various key groups of Soviet society. This imperceptible cloud would infiltrate certain groups creating gays, or at very least feminine, neutered sensibilities, from what was otherwise very vigorous, heterosexual stock. Through this process the USA hoped to gain the upper hand in the Cold War by emasculating, demoralizing and destabilizing the male-dominated, warrior culture of the Russian empire.

The success and even existence of the operation is still in some debate, although there are many in the West who believe The Invisible Gays played a large role in the eventual collapse of the Soviet Union.

The Invisible Gays and hockey

The “enigmatic” Russian hockey player is said to be a direct result of The Invisible Gays project. Historically, hockey was a very violent sport in Russia, but over the course of the 1970s the game took on an artistic character that saw fighting almost entirely eliminated even though it had always been a beloved and encouraged part of the sport. According to sources within the CIA, “Homosexual Clouds” were directed in greater and greater number into the locker rooms of powerhouse Russian hockey teams like the Red Army and Moscow Dynamo during the 70s, resulting in an effete style of play that lingers in the national character to this day.

Vladimir Putin and The Invisible Gays

It’s believed that Vladimir Putin’s current anti-gay laws have much to do with his knowledge of The Invisible Gays from when he was working for the KGB. Although it has never been confirmed, it is believed that Putin worked exclusively as an anti-The Invisible Gays operative for 6 years, at which time he was exposed to many Homosexual Clouds. Some have posited that this exposure has had lasting effects on the man, leaving deep within him homosexual desires which are now expressed as a repressive rage. Some argue that is a False Flag, and that Putin simply knows from personal experience how dangerous and what a threat The Invisible Gay project, and thus homosexuality, is to stable Russian society.

The Invisible Gays and popular culture

Reclusive American author Thomas Pynchon wrote a novel called The Invisible Gays.