Belvedere Jehosophat - Tuesday, January 24, 2012
‘Course, you couldn’t trust a word he said. Proof of that was in his junkie strut and how he kept his mistresses in grimy tracksuits. “The man’s a respected member of the Politburo,” said exasperated bystander #1. Once, he was asked whether a situation was expected to be “затяжной,” and he turned to them with a разгибательная мышца.
иисус!
The combination of the stroke and having one arm draped over the side of the settee as if he was Marcus Antonius waiting for grapes to be placed delicately in his mouth left him slightly brain-damaged and divorced of the use of his left arm. They realised something was wrong when they saw that his fingertips had puffed up into little red nubs like little lost chilblains.
“Who's going to buy this shit, minister?” screamed Brezhnev, “We’re broke!”
[Archival footage shows Brezhnev brandishing a shoe.]
“Communism is dead,” replied the pelmeni, “Long live communism!”
[Brezhnev again, now banging the shoe on the table.]
And what was apparent to even the most sinfully corrupt kangaroo court was that there was no mens rea here, the man was just a fucking imbecile.
In the good ol’ days, the Stalin days, pelmeni like him were shipped off to Siberia, and if they were disastrous – and he was disastrous – they were shipped off with gunpowder in a shoe and a matchstick time-delay fuse, but Brezhnev was no Stalin.
He wasn’t even a Khrushchev.