Within 12 hours of the missile strike on Syria, I—and it appears about half of the rest of the world—got the idea expressed in the conversation that follows. I won’t insist it did take place. But then, I won’t insist it didn’t take place, either—B.C.
P: When you come back, Mishka? We got many new girls you must play with. Vladivostok girls. Crimea girls. Ural Mountain girls. From all over girls. They all train their bladders to hold liters. Liters, Donny! Just for you.
T: Wish I could, pal. I’m so bored I can’t shit. But Vanky tells me it might not be so great to get over there right away. Not until this fake investigation blows over. They’re watching what I do so bigly. The fuggin losers think they got the poop on how you helped me out last year. Sad.
P: I heared what happening has been over there. Our mutual good fellas on your cabinet have keep me informed. I tell you, Donnylivich, I can send some polonium-210 to help out with that Rachel Maddow witch and your Adam Schiff and anyone else who getting is close to truth. All you need do is ask. Trust me, it work good and fast, and all it takes is one little pellet. Like what happen to that Litvinenko shit who thought he could bust my balls.
T: Love it. Love it. Trouble is, Vladdy … for every journalist or loser Democrat who pops up dead, there might be three more that start looking into why. You gotta remember, buddy, we’re not as advanced as you guys. We still have a fuggin free press over here. An a fuggin opposition party.
P: Absolutely, I understand. This is tragedy of free liberal democracy, as you know. But as long as you hold to notion that eliminating enemies is risky business, you still have long ways to go before you match Mother Russia.
T: Tell me about it. I can’t even call a fuggin nuclear strike without someone raising a stink. Sometimes I think that fat Kim Junk Onion fuck over in North Korea has the right idea on how to handle critics. Shoot the fuggers with aircraft guns! Now that’s what I call effective leadership. I could do it in the Rose Garden, and charge people big time to get in and watch.
P: That’s your spirit, Donny. Now listen, you need to fix deal to make the flies biting at your balls forget this thing we have together, you and I. You need to act with iron resolve, like me.
T: How much more can I do, Vlad? I spend all night tweeting insults as it is. And I been signing executive orders ’till my fuggin hand hurts.
P: Not enough for a convincing strong man, Donny friend. You need to flex some muscle. Serious muscle!
T: So maybe if I went out riding a fuggin horse with no shirt on? You think that’d do the trick?
P: Nyet nyet. You’d look like you were torturing horse with crushing weight. I tell you this for your own good, Mishka … if no one ends up laying dead in street, it’s only playing at dictatorship. You need to get some of that Chief-of-Commander mojinski working. Send Navy Seals out to shoot some New Yorker writers in head. Better yet … you must to order air strike on some Arab country. Nobody cares what happens to Arab countries, and it makes you look full of leadership and muscle.
T: Vlad baby, I’m not sure I can do that. I shit you not, I hear one thing from Bannon … like, “Let’s bomb the shit out of Tehran, feuhrer! … and another from that McCain loser … “You need Congressional approval!” I think I gotta have a hugely great reason before I can start a measly fuggin war.
P: Then we find hugely great reason. Just off top of head … which I absolutely definitely do not think of before I call you … what you say some Syrian babies get attacked with nerve gas, and there are pictures of little children all dead and things like that. You would look like international hero if you attack Bahsar Assad after such a thing, would not you?
T: But I heard you promised Obama that you got your buddy Ass-hat to hand over all his nerve gas and bad chemical shit. I heard that somewhere.
P: Yes, we did, but only for time being. We can always hand some bad chemical shit back. Who’s to know if you don’t tell them? And it wouldn’t take a lot of nerve gas, anyhows. Just enough to make good gruesome pictures of many dead babies, you understand? Then you can talk like real he-man about how killing children is outer limits, and how there has to be retaliation. You can talk like you do in your teevee show, yes? … tough and resolute! And believe your friend Vladimir, all the eyes will not be looking at investigation any longer. People will start to like you again and your approval ratings may go back up to 40-percent.
T: So, you’d throw old Ass-hat under the bus just to help me out of a jam?
P: Bashar will understand, Donnykov. He knows how these things work. That’s how he makes such good tyrant. And what are a few dozen more dead babies with so many already crushed under rubble and drowning in Mediterranean? Besides, we tell him ahead of time what is coming, and you shoot a few of those smart missiles at targets all predetermined so that you don’t do any real damage. Then, trust me, by this time next week, you look like hero … I look like hero for not going to war with you for attacking my ally … Assad just goes back to bullets and barrel bombs like before … and Obama looks like weakling pussy girl for not getting U.S. of A. into bottomless quagmire.
T: I like the sound of that, Vlad. Sure do. But what if Ass-hat goes chickenshit and tells you he won’t do it?
P: Donny … Donny … Donny. You forget who has bomber planes there also? You forget who has nerve gas what Assad hand over? We even don’t need Bashar’s help, if squeamish he gets. We do it ourselves. Make it look like Bashar did it. You worry too much, Mishka. And you look tired and grumpy even on Fox News. Let me take care of this problem so you can get back here for fun and party with our beautiful Russian bladder babes. All you need do is seem like you give a shit for Syrian children all of sudden. You can do that, can’t you? … pretend like you care for dead babies? Then order your generals to do the rest.
T: Yeah, sure, I can act like I care for fuggin kids if I have to. Just like I can act presidential when I have to. But what if some loser journalist fugger figures out it’s all a put-up job? Won’t things just get worse for me?
P: Who can prove, Donny? That’s the weakness in your justice there … things have to be proved. Unless you tell them, no one will ever know we talked this plan … uh, excuse me, Donald … where are you right now as we talk this plan?
T: Mar-A-Lago. In the dining room having a steak with some great rich people from Texas. They paid two-hundred grand each just to watch me eat, can you fuggin believe it? I got you on speaker and they’re having a ball.
P: Uh, Mishka, maybe I send you full case of the polonium-210 pellets, just to be on safe side. You can pay me when I see you.
T: Whatever you think best, Pootie. What ever you think best.