Putin’s Been Smoochin’

There’s no easy way to ask the leader of your nation why he just kissed your handsome young boy on the stomach, but here’s a try: “Why the crotch did you just lift up my son’s shirt and kiss his supple and exposed stomach?!”

Yes, shown here, we have Vladimir Putin, president of the Russian Federation, who, while greeting some tourists in the Kremlin, squatted down and asked a young boy his name, while holding him tenderly around the waist.

“Nikita,” replied the precious blond boy, his eyelashes batting and lips pursed.

And then, the antecedents of which are shown in the picture, beloved Putin lifts up the young man’s beater and plants a tender one on his stomach, before patting him on the head and walking away.

Needless to say, the tourists were left gaping. Don’t believe me?

Click Here.

I’m not coming to any conclusions, but I can tell you that my girlfriend, born and raised in Russia, has never heard of any custom involving the disrobing and kissing of young boys’ midsections (in public, at least).

Thus, there can only be three possible explanations for this:

1. Putin is spearheading a new political campaign: “Moscow Midsections, St. Petersburg Stomachs: Clean Navels for a Clean Conscience.”

2. The former mid-level KGB agent was inspecting for sub-cutaneous surveillance wires in the small boy using some of the most sensitive nerve endings in the body: those in the mouth.

3. The Russian Chief of State is a dyed-in-the-wool closet pedo, who just took one step too far out of the closet.

At any rate…

Poka vsyo!

Please, I am Being Serious; That Blind Man Stole My Sugar Twin

Hey! Did you just see that? No, just now, like, right just a second ago, right here. I know this may not mean much to you or anything, but I find it disquieting to say the least. Without a word of a lie, I tell you that that blind man just stole my Sugar Twin.

Perhaps the inability to see is coupled with an increased need for sugar or, in this case, calorie-free sugar substitutes. Maybe the sightless gentleman feels that, as someone deprived of sight, it is his privilege to waltz away with others’ beverage sweeteners (if a blind person can be said to waltz). Regardless of the reason, not a minute ago, that very man absconded with two packets of the aforementioned sweetener, hereby making him the boldest person I have ever come across, blind or sighted.

No, I won’t approach him about it, if that’s what you’re thinking, though I am well within my rights to do so. Much as I hate to admit it, by playing the “blind” card, he has already trumped any efforts I might make to discredit him, particularly in the eyes of the liberal caffeine-whores that surround us, my friend. After all, I, with my intact retinas, could easily “see” my way to the counter and acquire another duo of packets myself, could I not?

I suppose I will have to remain satisfied in the knowledge that both he and I are aware what transpired here, and I could easily protest his actions–but I won’t. No, while he benefits from expedient table service because of his disability (not to mention a delightfully sweetened beverage), I will remain here, stoically sipping my bitter tea with dignity, never for one minute visibly bemoaning my loss.

Look at him now.

Striding out of here with his perfect posture and sharp-looking walking stick like nothing happened. Look at him, while I consume this acrid, unsweetened swill. Enjoy your day, sir!

Yes, enjoy your walk down the street, in the darkness of your own mind, appreciating scents and sounds that mere “lookies” like me are no doubt oblivious to. Yes, feel the sugars warm your bowels while decent folk stand up for what’s decent–

Uh, hey man, you wanna just lean over and snatch me two things of Equal from the empty table one over?

I Am Come

My voyages are long over.  I have returned.  Here is a picture of three old met I met on a mountain.  That is all, but not for long…

A Neapolitan Jaunt

Well, as promised, I am giving a valiant effort to communicate with you from the land of wine, mandolins and basil (and other things like cement shoes and shooting someone while they are eating a plate of pasta at restaurant). I spent the day in Napoli with my cousins and my lady, taking in the jungle-like marketplaces and experiencing that most pure of pleasures: a pizza at its very birthplace–the culture-infused streets of Naples.

Since time is always of the essence when one travels, let me choose a particular anecdote. There I was, in a clothing shop when I noticed a curious sign. it was clearly an indication of price, but it was also clearly an upside-down four. It looked like a lower case 'h'. What's a guy to do, but to ask for clarification?

I summoned the sales clerk and asked him in Italian if that particular rack was 4 euros.

HIM: (translated for your convenience) "Yeah, those a four euros as marked."

ME: "But the four's upside down…"

HIM (Eyeing the sign more carefully): "It is?"

ME: "Yes, it looks like an 'h'"

HIM: "But it seems right. Yeah, there's nothing wrong with it. To be an 'h' you'd need another line up here.

ME: "That's if you want an upper-case 'h'. As it stand, this is a lower-case one."

HIM: "Hmm."

At this point I realized that either the gentleman was severely dyslexic, and I was simply cruelly drawing attention to this shortcoming, or I was not in the know about a new trend that was sweeping Italy. I mean, numerals are worldwide…you can't just up and change them to suit your personal style…

We also went to see Herculaneum, Pompei's smaller and better-preserved cousin at the foot of the Vesuvius volcano. Gorgeous. Great-looking bath-houses, still-coloured frescoes, and delightful ancient toilet system that facilitated my urination during one particular time of need when no one was watching and my girlfriend stood lookout for guards or Americans in bermuda shorts.

I totally have to go now…

Nos vemos.

My Dear Ones

My absence as of late has been due in equal parts to laziness and frantic preparations for a trip known simply as: Italy.  That's correct; I am off to the land of my forebears to experience the cool pastoral mountain air on my face and the warmth of Grandma's affections in my heart. 

The place I go to is known simply as Gallo.  It is a small mountain town nestles in a valley 800 metres above sea level.  I go there with a spirit of peace, and it is, as of yet, the most calming place I have yet to visit in my travels.  The pictures you see are none other than some of its fine folk, as sterotypical as from a chef Boyardee commerical (please note: there is no "Y" in the Italian alphabet).

 I will attempt to continue posting from Italy, though, as you may notice, technology is not one of the town's fortés.  Still, hopefully within my two week adventure, I will encounter things that are not only inspiring, but also entertaining enough to seek out means with which to share them with you, my darling readers.  This bring me to the actual purpose of this post.  I've gone on a bit too long without expressing it….and there's really no easy way to say it…..

I love you.