Presidential address on the Russian menace

Gentlemen, please. Please. We are here for a reason, let us get to it. Please, sit. There will be plenty of opportunity for your inane jabbering to continue, once I am finished.

Please, make an attempt to focus your muddled, buffoon gaze onto the man at the center of the stage, for a few fleeting moments. I am well aware it’s a difficult, almost unfair task to ask the profoundly nitwitted, but please try, it will be in your best interests to muster the strength, I assure you.

I have some words, and as unpleasant as some might be, I request that you afford them as much attention as your pea brains are currently able, as they deal with fundamental matters of civilization, society, life and death. Yours, as well as mine. I speak of a threat to humanity itself, the savage, naked enemy which looms hungrily over it, teeth bared, roiling with a blood lust foreign to all but the most twisted, feral, vengeance beasts of ancient mythology.

There is indeed a menace, frothing mad, which threatens all that is good and decent in this increasingly glass-fragile world and it’s shadow creeps over us, inch by inch, at this very hour. Inaction, delay in confronting on these matters will bring about our complete and irretrievable downfall, I make this promise to each of you this with the rock solid clarity of a biblical prophet.The end of all of this, all of YOU, wiped away, like errant feces, tossed into the toilet of history. The flag of this great nation, it’s greatest monuments, all replaced with a single bloody paw print on the forehead of a screaming infant.

Russians.

I speak of Russians.

If the Earth were a living mass, Russia would be a raw, festering tumor on it’s backside.

The Russian animal, barely human at it’s absolute peak. Their cities a barren moonscape of death and sickness, their every pore saturated with buzzing radioactivity, a thick chemical slurry of every harmful sort pulsing through their veins.

Mutations. Bubbling, smoking, perverted nature. Miles of landscape, grey, crusted with illness.

I speak of literal monsters alive in this world, today. Breathing the same air as you and I. Exhaling great plumes of poison and rot.

Their vast numbers left feral, unculled. A shuffling, blood red horde, undirected by civilized hands, uncounseled by anything remotely approaching wisdom or foresight, for generations now. Stalking and mounting one another, breeding and killing, this very second, as I stand before you a world away and plead my case. Smothering their own young, eating their own waste, they literally do not know any better, any other way.

Torture, torment, the dull, putrid stench of rot. Sharp, burning, nauseating. Despair.

The bulk of the Russian’s short, wretched existence is spent causing nothing but fright, misery and pain, all of an amperage that dare not be spoken of by decent minded men, in any company but the most viciously hardened, numb, prepared. Heartless, blood thirsting, vicious monsters that the civilized world should be ashamed for allowing to exist, to propagate, for not nuking into terrible history when every opportunity was presented. Like a virus that we could have easily eradicated, but we balked at our duty, a virus which has now spread across the face of the entire world, claiming countless victims.

Literally ALL Russians do is harm one another continually and without end. Their depravity is relentless.

Every awful thing one living being could do to another, violently, sexually, sadistically.This is a painful task, but I must ask that in your mind’s eye, you imagine these things, right now. Imagine them happening to a person. Now magnify those thoughts by a full one hundred percent beyond.

These are the thoughts pulsing through the Russian brain non-stop, twenty four hours a day, seven days a week.

Tendons snapping, blood congealing in sinks, onto filthy mattresses. Purple and red chunks of steaming flesh thrown onto walls, crude words and symbols carved into living skin. Urine and feces caught in bags and jars, piled in corners, to be examined and picked through late at night, when boredom sets in and a fresh victim cannot be readily found. Screams of terror and hopeless cries of victim only wishing for a quick death.

These thoughts bring about the same emotions within a Russian mind as say, the thought of Christmas morning or a pleasant walk with one’s spouse would in the undepraved Western psyche.

No Russian has ever been raised in a loving home. Not one. This is a statement which seems like it could not possibly be true, yet it is. The Russian animal would have not the faintest clue as to even basic accepted child rearing practices. The cobra, the rattlesnake, the giant bacteria frothing komodo dragon would all be in line for some sort of humanitarian award if judged next to even the most ‘conscientiousness’ Russian ‘mother’ on child care skills, or personal sexual hygiene, for that matter, but I do not intend to sicken my audience with any further discussion of THAT uncommon putricity.

-pause for laughter-

We laugh, but it is no laughing matter.

There is no fun in the knowledge that, If somehow forced to acknowledge or witness a civilized woman lovingly, say, changing her newborn’s diaper or comforting an older child in a time of great fear or stress, the Russian female would likely become enraged and/or erupt into a wild, murderous fury. The mere hint of comfort, of a tender word, of something not sharp, cold or concrete confuses and angers the Russian mind to such an extent that some have been observed to claw and tear their own eyeballs out, rather than attempt to mindfully process such information. Imagine the roiling inner turmoil of such a venomous and dangerous creature, for it to be repelled to this extreme, stomach turning extent by the very notion of basic care for one’s own offspring!

It boggles the mind how nature could make such a terrible error, but the proof is right in front of us. It cannot be denied. The concept of an ‘intelligent’ creator must be questioned, in and of itself, upon learning even the slightest bit about the Russian synapses and how they seem to fire. Indeed, no ‘God’ of anything other than cruel or wanton intentions would have any use for such a creation.

Wake up, pulled soiled pants over boney, scabbed body, fill belly with alcohol, stomp someone, beat someone else, stab a random woman, shoot a stranger, steal food, drink rubbing alcohol, run over a child in a car, set a house of the elderly on fire, throw a firebomb in a disco, tear a dog’s ears off, beat a friend to death with a hammer, smoke powdered drugs, shoot powdered drugs, pass out, do it again. This is the day to day for the average Russian.

These acts are repeated endlessly on loop until he himself falls victim to a larger or more sinister neighbor of his. Like insects with a fungus growing on their receptors, burrowing into the brain stem, driving them to froth and spit and attack one another viciously until there are no victims left within easy grasp, at which point the madness whirls inward, running them headlong into a brick wall or up a radio tower to giddily leap off.

The planet Earth’s towering fault has not been allowing this festering open maggot wound to suppurate unchecked, as it might seem at first glance, instead, it is that the likes of Russia was even allowed to Spawn life in the first place, for this is not a people who have simply lost their way, or who have been perverted and ruined by some force out of their control, this is an abomination at a cellular level, stamped ‘ERRATUM’, in big block letters, across it’s blistered, syphilitic face, too late to be recalled, highly valued by collectors of the macabre and unsound.

It is truly a shame that every single Russian, young and old alike, is not addicted to the terrible new drug, Krokodil.

I read scientific articles detailing the havoc it causes inside the body and mind, how quickly it withers it’s user to nothing, and I see not a problem, but a solution. If anything gives me reassurance that the universe, left unattended, will eventually right it’s own mistakes, it is hearing of the growing popularity of the drug within Russia’s ballooning borders.

Yes, I welcome this new Krokodil drug onto it’s streets. In fact, if I were a wealthy man, a Titan of industry, I’d get into the business of directly supplying this new poison to them. I’d air-drop pallets of the life-sapping crocodile drug into town squares, roll trains, cars heavy with the powder into their depots, open wide the doors and call them to feast. Like roaches crawling on top of one another to enter the trap they’d swarm over them and pick them clean. Yes, drink, smoke, snort up, satiate yourself, It won’t be long now.

I only wish for a foot large enough to crush every one of these foul bugs, all in one swoop. Scrape the remnants into the trash bin of history and turn my attention to more worthy pursuits.

Even now, fat and comfortable, nestled in the bosom of America, you should be concerned. A Russian can sometimes stalk his prey for YEARS before striking. Now, as we all know, past administrations have had neither backbone or, frankly, ball sack to deal with these threats directly, so we find ourselves inundated, our urban nerve centers completely overloaded, crowded the with stumbling, swinish beasts.

Just this morning, in fact, I was reading a story in the newspaper about a young boy who, unschooled in the treacherous ways of the more, we’ll say ‘downwardly mobile’ members of our great society, was foolish enough to allow himself to be befriended by what turned out to be a Russian immigrant who resided in the basement of his apartment building in New York, paying his way, in part by acting, as many immigrants of decent blood do, as janitor, or handyman for the building.

The man, known to neighbors as ‘Yuri’ (a word, which, in the Russian ‘language’, unbeknownst to them at the time, translates most closely as ‘Devil’ or ‘Demon’ in English) bode his time, slowly ingratiating himself with the family of the boy over the course of a year and one half. The parents cannot be fully blamed, for the man made no mention of his true birthplace or ancestral history, claiming deceitfully to be a harmless Spaniard of common faculties, even appearing to possess the slightly lazy and aloof temperament which is common amongst their people.

Giving the parents previously no reason to suspect his motivations, in regard to his interest in socializing with the boy, which he claimed helped him to learn conversational English, to make a better life for himself, they allowed the relationship to continue, unabated, eventually completely unmonitored. This is when he struck.

One afternoon, ‘Yuri’ appears at their door and politely asks the parents if it would be ok to take the boy with him on what was to be a simple afternoon trip to the ballpark. He would treat the boy to a baseball game as thanks for his part in helping the man assimilate into his adopted culture.

This seeming like a perfectly valid request, they agreed, packed the boy a light lunch, waved and sent them on their way. That Yuri, what a nice fellow, we suspect he will do quite well in this country.

What happened next is a terrible story, almost too much to comprehend. The man pounced upon the boy almost immediately upon finding themselves alone, not half a block from their building. Details have never fully come to light, as the man bit and tore out his own tongue upon his arrest, and refuses to recount his crimes on paper, but what is known is that the boy was dismembered with a crude hacksaw tool favored by Siberian tribesmen, fashioned from animal bones and scraps of discarded metal he had come across in his wanderings. Parts of the boy were stuffed into a sewer grate and the rest, mainly, the head, feet and hands, were then taken in a dufflebag, to the baseball stadium. Other attendees of the game recall seeing the man holding the bag, resting it on the empty seat next to him and not thinking much of it. This was during a time when fans would sometimes bring various noisemakers and good luck charms top the games during the playoffs, sometimes quite elaborate displays. His seatmates suspected nothing. The game was unremarkable until the bottom of the 9th inning. There were two strikes and three balls, a full count. The crowd was silent awaiting the next pitch, on edge. Suddenly ‘Yuri’ leaps to his feet, unzips the bag, yells out a terrible, piercing  war cry in that most primitive, guttural Russian tongue and hurls the boy’s head onto the field. The players thought it was a beach ball or some sort of melon possibly until one went over to examine it closer, kicked it over with his foot and saw the boy’s eyes staring back at him. Terrible, terrible story. Three fans who attempted to subdue him were maimed severely, one blinded for life and one, gruesomely, having his testicles torn completely off his body and swallowed by the madman before he could be brought under control.

I’d not be so arrogant as to assume you yourself do not have a ‘Yuri’ in your life right now, this second. The baker you buy pies from? The barber who shaves you? The milkman? Do you REALLY know where these people come from? He may claim normal ‘European’ ancestry, but can you be sure? For all his base brutishness, the Russian is highly adept at subterfuge, he is like the chameleon when it is in his interests to be. The Russian has a habit of showing his true face  when you least suspect him to.

If you somehow interacted with, then parted with a Russian on good terms, you are not finished with him, I assure you. He will be back. There is no Russian word for ‘friend’ after all, and over 300 for ‘prey’.

Now, being passed among you, is a set of papers describing my plan for no less than the hunt and capture of every single ‘human’ of Russian blood, currently residing in this country. What is done with them after is none of your concern. I am ordering the full weight of both the government and military of this Great nation to focus squarely on this task from this moment forward.

There will be no vote, no discussion or debate. You are ineffectual oafs, barely able to clean your own backsides, for the most part and being fully aware of these shortcomings, I should hope, the fact I am not asking for your input or ‘permission’ should not shock or even surprise you. The people of this nation have seen fit to install me in this position and I do not intend to squander the opportunity.

Before you work yourselves into a drooling lather over any of this, let me declare, here and now, that I DARE any of you, or combination of you, to make an attempt to stop me from carrying out this plan, it is my greatest wish, I assure you. You all know where I reside and the hours I keep. I am rarely armed with anything more than a single pistol. Gather in secret, scheme, plan and plot, move against me, I welcome it.

Give me a reason to deal with you and I will, without hesitation. Give me reason to ignore the fact you exist and I will. Your choice. You people mean only a hair more to me than the Russians of which I speak and I’d just as soon allow you to suckle the public teat in perpetuity as I would feed your innards to my hounds. You are, quite literally, the least of my concerns.

This begins now. Please, Sargent at arms, lock the doors.

In my hands, I have a list of names. When I call a name, please, stand up, show yourself. If someone who’s name is read does not stand, those around him are to point him out immediately, or they will be treated as if their name has been called, themselves, regardless rank, of who it is.

© Jonah Stabone, 2014. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Jonah Winnick and Jonah Stabone with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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