Kevin Snow's Blog: Gonzo Journalism According to Kevin "The Snowman" Snow

INTRODUCTION YOUR MOTHER’S LOAD:AN OPEN LETTER TO BILL MAHER

Bill, it’s time.            Retire, please. I’m begging you. Walk away.Don’t you want to retire? Don’t you want to spare us both this introduction?Wouldn’t you rather be spending your golden years turning on, tuning in, and dropping out? Think of the NBA playoff watch parties you could throw. Jesus Christ – the guest lists! The Boomer All-Stars! All the coffee-n-ice-cream you and Babs could fathom! Osteoporosis be damned!Your house would be hotter than the Playboy mansion. Who else is going to fill that hole?We can both tell this is going to lead to jokes about your mother’s vagina, from a lead-in like that. Why do you make me do this?Like this series, I know it’s not about the money. So, what is it? Why won’t you retire? Is it the power?Girl, please. Your mother’s vagina couldn’t flip a district if it bled blue.There’s a little Mid-Eastern-flavored layer in that joke. “Your mother’s vagina” means “fuck you”, in Iran, or so I’ve been told. So…“Your mother’s vagina”…Mmm…turmeric-y…is that yogurt?Not that I know anything about vagina flavors. The last time I was near a vagina was during a cocaine deal in an illegal Sunset Boulevard strip club, back in 2007. The damn thing took one look and spit at me!I KNOW! It surprised the hoe, too. Now, I’ve been forced to drag Sam Harris and Ben Affleck into this introduction.GODDAMNIT.I have to apologize to Ben Affleck for that night at Sterling’s, back in September 2010.#BillMaher #SamHarris #RealTime

The Greedy Lemming
A Russian-Style Fable by Ryan “Mohnkater” Richie(b. Orem, Utah, USA)
Once upon a time, there was Lemming named Maxim. He lived in a very dirty den, in the tundra of the Russian Arctic. His mother was a hoarding House Cat named Helga, and his daddy was a traveling Plumber named Vaughn. Maxim refused to clean his den, and his mother was always angry at him. She beat him with tinsel and yarn balls from her collection, when he wouldn’t clean his room. But Maxim just wanted to hang out with his friends, that’s all. Play video games and watch hockey matches in the den. His friends were Brian, the metrosexual Musk Ox, and Ivan, the rapey Ermine. One day, a Human came by his den and started to take pictures. Maxim bit off his finger, and Ermine raped his stump, while Brain filmed it on his Samsung notebook. It was good fun for everyone.Maybe the outside world wasn’t so bad, Maxim thought. If I can bite off fingers and stick my willy-wong in the meat, maybe I ought to give playing outside a try.Maxim discovered a field of mushrooms, mushrooms of every kind. Big African mushrooms, tiny yellow mushrooms, purple mushrooms that tasted like candy frosting and toothpaste. His curiosity got the best of him, and he sat on a red speckled mushroom, until it reached up his bum, and tickled him in the jolly place.Maxim couldn’t stop after that. He went mushroom to mushroom, squashing them with his bum cheeks, getting his Lemming lovey juices all over the field, even the white-speckled Belgium truffles. And then he chopped them up, and fed them to his friends in a keto-friendly stew.When his friends and momma found out that they had eaten Maxim’s bumming, they were sore furious. Even though the mushrooms relaxed Maxim, and gotten him outside, like his momma told him to, the field was starting to grow barren. None of the other mushrooms wanted to move to the Russian Arctic, and those who survived the bum storm lived in terror each day of Maxim’s return.Maxim’s momma sent him to a therapist named Dr. Jordan Peterson, a janitor-like man with a heart of white gold. Jordan Peterson said he could fix Maxim, and save the mushroom village, if Maxim would just clean his room.With all this cleaning, now, Maxim didn’t have time to stick things up his bum, and his seed started to clog up like ballerinas in a strawberry traffic jam. His prostate got infected. The pain from his rotting seeds could only be relieved by a medical procedure Jordan Peterson recommended, and Maxim had to go once a month to have Jordan Peterson stick his fingers up the Lemming’s bum and caress his sweet sweet seed machine, but only after Maxim had cleaned his room.And then, Maxim got addicted to opium pills because they were healthier.The end.


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DubrovnikA Fantasy by Dzmitry Golovin(b. Pinsk, Belarus)
A day that started in prayer ended with the ashes of burnt flesh billowing in the air, in a miasma of aborted faith.She came to the gates of our City on a red jilki stag, who scratched his horn against ground upon her arrival. Not in at least seven hundred years had a jilki, with a mane so silver and his horn unscathed from poachers’ bullets, been seen in the fields of Spasitelia without it being dragged here illicitly by King’s hunters. The snipers on the walls of the City – the King’s guards – would have shot them both dead, were it not for the crowd of panicking pilgrims that obscured their firing lines.When she refused to return the King’s greeting by making the Holy Sign of the Tree, a reverent few were dispatched to detain her and bring her before the royal Obsidian Court, which presided over matters of criminality and municipality. In an accent that sounded Northern, she screamed at the guards to stop, as they approached the drawbridge. “I am unarmed! I’m not here to cause harm, as long as you respect my jilki. But I cannot allow you to cross that moat, for reasons I must explain to the King. I will surrender willingly, as long as you will take me to him immediately.”The King was not alone in the Obsidian Court that day. He had called his High Quorum, which included the venerable Monk Sova, a delegate from the Cheburashka tribal council, the Sheik Ras-O-Ghalkesh, and Chancellor Neboskiya from our neighboring commonwealth of Skiourosxylo. The Quorum had intended to meet with the King that day to prepare for the fast-approaching Good Solstice Festival, and pilgrims by the thousands had been showing up in caravans at the gates of Spasitelia, with offerings of candles, beeswax, and cotton, to lay at the altar of the Chapel of the Holy Rebirth, at the center of town. The unusually high number of Bishops, and Monks, in attendance at the court was uncommon in Spasitelia, except for during the Solstice season and the accompanying budget negotiations, when their presence was mandatory, if the Pope did not want to lose out on the Church’s yearly dole of precious Obsidian bars and portions of the pilgrims’ spoils.Bishops from each parish in the City halted, impressed upon by the Great Spirit, and convened in the Court’s galley, hoping to catch a glimpse of the stranger on the jilki, while those without clerical or journalistic privileges dropped their Solstice preparations and mobbed together to mouth-breathe in a musky awe while she passed.On the steps of the Court, she clutched at the arm of a guard, while he pulled her from the silver-red jilki, Only then did the crowd see the eyepatch she wore, made from brown Pesarian linen and fashioned against her raven hair with curious steel wires that only a gypsy trader would know how to access. She wore formidable riding boots, made from mammoth skin, still crusted with Northern mud, and a lilac dress, no doubt stolen, and sewn by crafty hands from the piers of the Papal Ocean. She couldn’t have been older than 30. The look of her was so foreign, few outside the clergy’s galley also noticed the nickel chain around her neck, which bore a fine glass ball.“What happened to your eye?” a guard asked.“This one?” she asked, pointing to the milky cloud of cataracts on her right. “Or the good one?” pointing to the patch on her left.The guard laughed. “Without my jilki, I’m useless. Will you please, in the name of your Holy Solstice and the divine Lord you honor during this season, guide me to your King?” The guard smirked, saying, “Only because my mother raised me to be a Saint. Which is more than the lot you’ve been given in life. I’m not doing it just because it’s Solstice. In spite of what you may have heard up North, we’re not murdering savages here. I’d be happy to help.”Some say, they heard her lean towards him, to whisper, “That was your last sermon. I hope it was worth it.”The King had just lit a pipe of Skiourosxyli moss, when the stranger entered. He left her waiting, while he puffed and scanned the eyes of his Quorum. “Have you lost your mind, Madame –"“Dubrovnik,” she answered. “Zarazara Dubrovnik, of East Galindos.”The blood of the Bishops ran white in the galleys. A Galindi in our City, during the holy Festival? What was a savage from the unsettled nomadic valleys, this barbaric pagan, doing here? Didn’t she have a cholera to go catch or a goat to go fuck?“Madame Dubrovnik. You threaten my City, on the eve of Good Solstice, in the name of what trouble?” “On behalf of the Gods you will worship, now and henceforth. Every last one of you. If as much your King’s eyelid falters, by the time I leave your City safely on my jilki, my Gods will leave nothing left of your people to mock them.”Monk Sova broke the silence that followed, chuckling till his tongue drooled on his robe. “What a crock! I’d like to see them try. And by what names do we call your Gods these days? Last I remember, our librarians were a bit confused on that, too, because the Golindi can’t decide what to call their Lords. Why, I believe the whole Golindi pantheon was just replaced with Pesarian jesters from three thousand years ago, with names plucked at random from the dead languages of Tylin scriptures, only a small fraction of which the stoned shamans who picked them actually knew how to pronounce properly. So – Madame Dubrovnik, if I’m even saying that correctly – what should we call your Gods, and for how long can we expect them to keep these names? Or should we just wait for a drunken telegram from the Golindi shaman council every few weeks, until you make up your minds?”“Fuck off, Sova,” Cheburashka sneered, his tail swaying rhythmically. “You know damn well that you pronounced ‘Madame’ correctly. Well done, just like us grown-ups do. It’s not her fault your brain is only good for mopping up what’s on the lunch menu.”“I resent this hostility,” the Chancellor exclaimed. “If Sir Cheburashka had been paying attention at all to this morning’s meeting, he would know quite thoroughly that Monk Sova and his priests have been mopping up a lot more than mere lunch meats lately.”“Good one!” the Cheburashka cackled. “With lines that childish and shitty, maybe the priests’ cocks will start fucking you up the ass, for a change!”“We’re working on that!” the Monk snapped back. “The entire clergy of the Spasitelian Orthodoxy is under a vow of silence this Solstice, or until our contrition has pleased the Lord and the victims have been healed. Whichever happens first.”“Your contrition is the abomination!” the stranger yelled. “How dare you think you can repair, with little more than a time-out and a few songs?” The Sheik, the only one not laughing, waved his hands at his fellowship. “I don’t know why the Cheburashka delegate is acting so sanctimonious. If the Cheburashka religion were as old as the Spasitelian’s, they would certainly have the same problem.”“Or worse,” the Chancellor agreed. “Prophets in the Cheburashka’s religion are easier to come by than a Pesarian harem. All it takes it a few bottles of wine, and suddenly, everyone is speaking in tongues.”The Cheburashka shrugged.“How dare you,” the Sheik scoffed. “For fifty generations, my people have honored Good Solstice, as a token of peace. The only difference between a Pesarian poly-family and a Skiourisxyloan harem are that the Pesarian men still have their full penises. We get it in, and we’re not ashamed of it!”The Cheburashka then said, “Here here. Skiourisyyloan people are the worst. Can’t even enjoy a good tossed salad in the Chancellor’s house. If anyone deserves a war with the Galindi gods, it’s them.”“Jilki-shit. As long as a salad isn’t made with web-footed fowl—”“I wasn’t talking about vegetables, Chancellor.”   “Enough!” the King bellowed. “Why must we all be punished by the Gods you claim, only because our Father is the same? The sins of a few priests are not all of our ours to share.”“Your sins are properties of the commons,” the stranger hissed. “And it’s not contrition or the rapes, or the centuries of Holy Wars upon which this Quorum formed, that you must pay for.”“What is it, then?”“The Sin of Forgiveness.”The galley was neither shocked nor satisfied. The Monk, feeling the Spirit swell in the room, asked: “Forgiveness the sin?” “It is your excuse for every evil your people have ever committed. All of you. You spoil this earth with forgiveness.”The Monk’s voice jumped up an octave, in a boiling rage, “Isn’t that the bloody point?”“No. The point is to do good while you are still alive. But your people will never truly be good, if they always have a parachute to catch them. And you – you so-called leaders of the Four Faiths, you are the worst of it. You’ve enslaved humankind to forgiveness, and it is your doctrine of forgiveness that you use as your crutch. But it is not a crutch, it is a Sword of Death and Destruction! No one is accountable when anyone can be forgiven!”The King had heard enough. “Silence! You will not blaspheme our Savior and Creator, while His imagine lays on the Trees of Redemption across this town! Not during Good Solstice!”“You have no Creator but the dirt you came from!” the stranger shrieked, as quickly as the guards seized upon her. Never had a guest in the court used this tone with his Majesty, especially not on Good Solstice. “How dare you – King of this Damned City – question the nature that birthed you!”“Get rid of this psycho bitch!” the galley laughed.“Keep your hands off me, you murderous brutes. You have no power over my Gods, the Gods of Nature, of the Sky and Stars, the Goddess of the Water and Fire.” We should have seen her good eye fall to the ground, stuck to her skull with a wad of honey.“Is that all of them? HA!”“The Monkeyman whose false idols hang upon your Solstice Trees is a perversion of true faith. His is not a god of Redemption. He is a God of Human Sacrifice! You’re murderers! All of you! Cannibalizing your own kind is the only virtue that keeps this counsel together! And my Gods have come stop your abominations!”“Is she still talking?” the Cheburashka sighed, pouring himself some wine.The King ordered his guards to wait a moment. “If you really think your Gods have any power here, then show us a sign, and I won’t kill you and your jilki!”“After the Festival—” the Chancellor muttered.“—After the Festival!”With her hands newly freed, the stranger unhatched the metal stuck to the side of her raven hair. “Forgive me, people of Spasitelia, if forgiveness is truly what you seek. If not, destroy your idols, and follow me.”Delicately, she unwrapped the patch around left eye. The ball inside was coated in a spidery film.By the Gods of the Ancients -- she wasn't blind, at all! What monster from the Old World had done this? A light, a beam of lava and stardust, burst forth from the hole in her face, pouring across the galley, incinerating the priests and monks therein, until only charred wood and burning silk robes remained.

Kevin Snow at the Pushkin Cafe, Christmas 2012, Putin's third term.

Christmas in the KremlinA Trump Encounter by Zahra Ameir(b. Dodoma, Tanzania)
"If Trump gets his way, it'll be like Christmas in the Kremlin." -Hillary Clinton, March 23, 2016
Christmas in Russia is just like a dreamland. I am one of the lucky ones. Most immigrants are in the factories. But I am working as a maid, cleaning rooms for my madame, Luba. She does not know I am a man. I am able to see the wonders of the city, not stuck behind some walls in the chocolate factory, like my roommate Forozan. Most of the other maids are from Tajikistan, and they are Islamists, not Christians. I am used the Islamists in Tanzania, but these are different. They want to celebrate with me, in my Tanzanian style. Why the Russians cannot simply have the same calendar as the rest of the world, I do not understand. Why do they need their own Christmas? They prefer to celebrate the New Year, not Christmas, but even the New Year is not starting on January 1st. They have their own New Year day. I think, to best understand Russian culture, just think about what is the right thing to do in your home country, and then do the opposite. Even though everything in Moscow feels upside down, I enjoy feeling dizzy. It is very romantic to be in the city. Everything in Moscow looks better covered in snow. I am able to travel around the outside, to see all the sites and the yolka trees. I take pictures and post them up in my bedroom. I think it is sad, Russians do not celebrate Christmas on the 25thof December. Makes me feel lonely to see this. But Forozan will not let me feel alone for very long. She is a true sister to me.In Tanzania, it is a big tradition to buy new clothes. I ask Luba, what is the most traditional clothes in Russia? I only have my clothes from Tanzania.Luba laughs me. “You cannot wear a sarafan in public. People will think you look like a clown. Black woman in a sarafan: Russians do not want to see this.” This is why, I have been in Moscow for three years, and still no new clothes. Forozan says, she will protect me if I will go with her to buy a sarafan. She has never had a Christmas, and she wants to spend it with just me. “No one will laugh at you, while I am around, or I will slap them in the face. Who cares what people think? It is Christmas in Russia, the best time of the year. You must buy a sarafan.”I pick out a purple sarafan, with red embroidery. It takes all of my bonus money to purchase it. The lady at the shop gives me a scarf for my head, for free. It is the most beautiful scarf I have ever seen. It has silver roses and gold horses. She tells me how beautiful I look. She makes me feel like a queen, like I am a true Russian for the first time.And, oh my God, when I bring this sarafan home and put it on, I show Forozan, and I cry and cry. I tell Forozan, now I am truly a Russian. I feel my Christmas present from God, is my new home here in Moscow and my friends Forozan and Ekewnsu, and all my Tajik brothers and sisters from the maid service, my new family. I am truly happy for the first time.  And then, Forozan give me the best Christmas present I have ever had. She says, “Surprise! We are going to the ballet!” She have two tickets to see the famous Nutcracker. She say, one of her clients give them to her, as her New Year bonus. All I can do is cry. I feel so grateful. I saw, thank you, God. Over and over again. I put on a sarafan, and we take the subway to the Kremlin. A long line of people are waiting to see The Nutcracker. We are standing in line next to a mother and her daughters. We are all dressed in sarafans. She says to me, “When I first see you, I think, Oh God, is this a joke? We laugh when we see you. Never could I imagine I would see a black woman in a sarafan. But we are wrong. You look like a real Russian princess.”I don’t know what Luba was so worried about.It is so cold in line, we have to walk around the whole Kremlin to get inside. Forozan holds me close, she takes my arm in hers, like sisters.I never knew Russia was a religious country. Before we go inside, a guide gives us a tour of the Kremlin, it’s many magnificent rooms. There are brightly colored yolkas, and even a few American-style Christmas trees, covered in red and gold, in every room. Statues of nutcrackers, and smiling Father Christmases everywhere. There are even piles of fake snow on the side of the walking paths, making it look so magical. I can feel myself start to cry again, so I pull Forozan closer. She lies her head on my shoulder.The tour guide explains to us, “As all Russians know, Communism failed in Russian only because Russians cannot live without religion. The US and the Cold War are not the reason the USSR fell. Mother Russia is the mother of Christianity, and Russian people could never live without religion.”I ask Forozan if this is true. She does not know.I can hear some boys laughing at me, when we enter the theater. I am not bothered. We are sitting in the fourth row – so close I can almost touch the red curtains on the stage. So close, I can see the orchestra staring at me and pointing. I think, I may be the first African Russian princess. It is a real moment.And then – oh my God – it cannot be true, but it is. The lights go down, a spotlight comes on, and I hear a man saying, in Russian, “Ladies and gentleman, please stand in honor of our very special guest from United States of America: Mr. Donald Trump!” He walks in with a group of Russian men. They wave at the spotlight. I am standing, trying to look over the shoulders of the people in front of me. He is going to some open seats in the front row. Everyone is trying to shake his hand. My god, he is so handsome. His eyes sparkle like blue diamonds. His teeth are so perfect and white. I think to myself, if you are the only one speaking English, he will definitely see you. So, I wave my hands, and I say. “Mr. Trump! Merry Christmas from Tanzania!” And to my surprise – he actually waved at me! Now, I am a princess for real. To be honored by Donald Trump is such a way, I will never forget the feeling in my chest. The Christmas spirit is everywhere. I am so filled with excitement and love, I cannot pay attention to the show. All of the pleasure makes me so exhausted, I fall asleep almost as soon as the lights go down. It has been a real day to remember.Forozan wakes me up when the show is over. I am so embarrassed, but she says the show was boring. She says, she wants to show me something before we go back to our flat.It is snowing outside when we move through the crowds of people leaving. We walk a few blocks away from the Kremlin, passing by a long line of cars, stopped at a busy intersection. They are all stopped and more cars continue to pile up behind. When we get to the intersection, there is just an empty street. No cars are going by. The police are stopping all the Christmas people from leaving. No one seems to be upset by this.I ask Forozan, what is the crazy thing going on here?She points to a tall apartment building at the intersection, on the river. She says, “You see this building? This is the building where Stalin housed all of his KGB officers.”There must be thousands of apartments in this building. “So many people worked for the KGB. How many people you think are in there?”She just laughs. “This is what I want to show you. It is called, the House on the Embankment. By the time Stalin died, he had murdered every single person in the building, five times. By the time Stalin died, it was all new people living there, five times. This is real Russian religion – you understand?”I cannot believe her. I think she is playing some kind of joke on me. Just then, we see a long line of black cars approaching with sirens on top. Only one line of cars for eight lanes of traffic. Who can be in this line that is so important, that everyone from the ballet has to wait for them to pass?And there – in the black car – it is Mr. Trump! I saw him with my own two eyes. I wave, but he does not see me. My God, now I understand. I can feel the Christmas spirit leave. All of these people in line must wait, so that Mr. Trump can leave first. I say to Forozan, “Do you think there are more people in the line of cars or are there more people in the apartments?”Forozan just smiles and asks me, “Do you still want to be Russian?”

Kevin Snow in Leningrad, circa Perestroika.
"Kams"A Troll’s Confession by Kaspar Belinsky(b. Tallinn, Estonia) **TRIGGER WARNING: CYBER-BULLYING, MISOGYNY, ANTI-LGBT, RACISM, VIOLENCE.**Trust me: you’ll never want to hear this story again.Hear it once, and let it die. And definitely don’t go searching on the Internet to find the real story. You don’t want to dive that deep.Stay on the surface, where you belong, with your Facebook and your Instagram. There are many parts of the Internet, you don’t even want to know.What you will find will scar you.The scars will turn you into a savage, a monster. Like me.But it’s there, and if you are not careful, the same truths will come for you, your family, everyone you love. There are many more monsters where I come from, hiding in your wires and wifi.I can’t take all the blame for it. Only my part.This is the story of a man, a saga, named Gee Zuss.I first heard about Gee Zuss from the chan websites. I was working as a video camera technician in the gas station a few blocks from the home where I grew up. I was almost turning 23 years old. As a child, the gas station was abandoned when the Soviet troops left Estonia. No one knew who the gas station belonged to, even though there was still gas to be pumped. I went there, starting at around age 7 or so, just to sit in the empty booth and take money from anyone who was stupid enough to try to pump gas. Eventually, people began to think the gas station was mine, all the way up until I was in my twenties.When the gas dried up, we used the bathroom to trap tourists looking for gay sex. Whatever we could do to make money. Back then, we only used US Dollars, and American tourists were the only people with this currency. I convinced a school friend to find the tourists, he took them to the bathroom, told them to wait inside the stall and to get horny. He told them, he will be right back. He never comes. I am already there, waiting with my cam. I filmed them, one after another, and we sold these videos on the Usenet forums. I was only 13 when I started.When the Grindr and the Tinder and the gay dating apps come along, we are really making very big business from the chan websites, and the tube websites. We bought many domains: Gayrussiansexcams.comBathroombusinesscam.comGaybathroomsextube.comThe chan users were our biggest customers. We advertised on 4chan, 9chan, 11chan. Thousands of cocks. All of them amateur jack off. Hundreds of cum shots. Our customers were not even gay. They just liked to see us humiliate these tourists for cash.We were geniuses at it.One day, a poster on 4chan put up a picture of a cartoon called “Mariopuff.” It is a combination of Super Mario and Jigglypuff the Pokémon. He looked like a bloated, pink imbecile with a mustache. He had a quotation bubble above his head that said:“Where have all the boyfriend-free princesses gone? They are not here. She is in another castle. I must find her and complete my quest of becoming the man of my dreams.”The drawing quality was abhorrent, like a toddler’s fever dream. Even though my English was poor, I knew whoever wrote this must either be a troll or on drugs. Only a fucking retard would think of something this dumb and put it out for the world to see. It had to be a joke, right?None of us knew what autism was, but it wouldn’t have made a difference. Maybe, if Gee Zuss were retarded, instead of just autistic, none of this would have happened. Maybe not. I am not just saying this so that I make myself look better. I gave up feeling guilty a long time ago.Maybe, most of all, if I hadn’t spent so many years without any other way to make money, I would have not grown so cynical and full of loathing for the world, and that would have stopped me from doing this. I cannot speak for the other culprits, but I speak for myself, when I say, I always dreamed I would be a physician, not a lowlife cam hustler. It only took a matter of hours for 4chan to discover the author of the Mariopuff cartoon, Gee. Gee was far from a child, he was a high school student in the US. His blog had hundreds of these Mariopuff cartoons, dating back several years. Each one worse than the next. They all roughly followed the same story line, about Mariopuff searching for a boyfriend-free Super Gal to be his long-term girlfriend, “for outings, and dates, and kisses, and dances, and maybe some video games if she is not a total loser” so he claimed. We began to contact him, all of the chan users, and we flooded his inbox with requests for cartoons. It was only a couple dozen of us to begin with. He had no idea we were trolling, probably wasn’t capable of discerning this, due to his mental illness. Our requests became more and more graphic. Maybe Mariopuff could practice sex on his mother before he finds a Super Gal of His Dreams. Maybe he can have sex with a dog.Gee spent a lot of time responding to each individual request, very sincerely. The more he took us seriously, the more we wanted to see him hurt. That is when we first got a glimpse of Gee. He uploaded a flaming response video to our vulgar graphics. In the video, he is standing in front of his house, wearing a necklace with a pendant he has made of Mariopuff, glasses, and a suit jacket that is several sizes too big. His hair is brown and thinning, He is pudgy and awkward. His speech was instantly impressionable. He said:“Hello Ladies and Gentleman, Boys and Girls. And dudes of all teen-ages, As well as the Super Gals. My name is Gee Zuss. I am here and you are there. This message is for everyone her on earth now, and for everyone in the future, starting from this date, my birthday, my 17thbirthday…“I am high functioning autistic, and in my 17 years, I have seen a lot of things. Today, I am moved to share with you some of my life lessons. I hope you will take my words to heart, and I hope you will do good with them in the future…“First off, remember that going to school is not a torture, it is a place of learning, a place of growing, a place where you can form your personality, and your feelings. Learn everything you can, so you can seize your dreams in the future… “Now, you should also try something for yourself before you talk bad about it. As long as it does not take any time off your life or hurt any other people, it’s totally cool, dudes. What is not totally cool, though, is thinking or doing these things that are bad for you, and will gross out people around. I have done then, and I am not proud. You should not smoke, or drink, or take drugs that are not prescribed to you, or similar icky dangerous stuff… “And also, smoking will cause cancer. You can get sick and get viruses. They don’t call them cancer sticks for nothing. If I could, I would take every last ounce of tobacky, and put it on a rocket ship and send ‘em to the moon!... “And also, for uh alcohol, that causes liver function, and kidney failures, and bar fights, so that can be a real problem. And I haven’t done any of them, and look at me now: I’m fit as a fiddle, I’m 17, and I’m planning of living to be 80 to a hundred, And I hope ya’ll can live to be that ripe old age as well… “Now, among the better things you should try before despising yourself, are the hobbies of those of the opposite gender. Like for example, if you are a young gentleman, I recommend buying yourself a My Little Pony of your favorite color. Like this one I have hair. Stroking the hair of the pony or rubbing it against your face like this can be very therapeutic. “And also, you can imagine that your Pony is that boyfriend-free Super Gal you want to take out. And you can talk to the pony the way you would talk to a girl. I named my pony Diana after my lab partner from chemistry class, who is as of right now a boyfriend-free Super Gal I will take to the prom. I just haven’t asked her yet…“Now, for the ladies, I recommend a good old Transformer bot. You guys, you can learn how to examine the variations and the mechanics, so you can learn to see things how a man work, and it will give you confidence to talk to the guy you are flirting with. All you have to do is say hello. It’s not hard. Just walk up and be like, hello, and then you can take it from there… “And also, with the bots, you can drive down that imaginary fast lane…“In any case, people may ridicule you, but you don’t have to worry about it. As many people will be okay with it, because it won’t matter. It won’t matter because…If you’re enjoying it, that’s totally cool. people will let you enjoy it. Just do it. Don’t worry about people’s opinions. Because, compared to the people at the other schools, those people are just peanuts. And I’m not talking about Charlie Brown. I’m not talking about the baseball game…A real peanut gallery…“And also, while you’re playing with these things, you should keep in mind what your real gender is. Because it’s like, you learn about that girl you want to take on a date, young man. Or, likewise, you learn to talk to that guy you’ve been flirting with, young lady. And hopefully each and every one of you will stay straight. You know, like boy for girl, girl for boy. Everyone is bisexual, said doctor Kinsey. That may be okay for him, but not for the big man upstairs. And not for your family. You should stay on the straight path for the sake of the future. For your children and your children’s children. Of the world and the human race… “And also, ladies, don’t just go kaka over the rich boys. Because they might turn out to be distasteful in their personalities. You should take time to get to know the guys who may be equally attractive or even more. Because they likely have a better personality and brighter future. Like me, I live in this house. I’m shooting this movie for a DVD. I hope maybe it can be shown in a couple schools. If you would like to show this video in your school, just ask for my permission. And I will give you a good price for it…“And also, once you get to know the other gender, you should always remember when you were most attracted to one another, because it’s not always going to be strawberry shortcakes…“In conclusion, I will leave you with the lessons you should have learned in this video: always stay in school, learn as you much, and try before you despise, never smoke, never drink, never worry about what people think of you when you play with something that is not you, and don’t be afraid to speak to the other gender…“And also, please, always stay straight…“I leave you with these things. I am Geebus Wilbur Sturzuss, and I am the author of Mariopuff. I want to say to all my readers: always remember: live long and shine on, because you are special in your own unique way… “And also, war is never the answer. Peace to everyone. Never fight. Compliments will get you fuzzy wuzzies. Bullying gets you prickly wicklies. As well as punching people, that will get you some of those, too…“Thank you very much for reading Mariopuff. Have a wonderful day and future life.”Those nine minutes of video were barely the chum in the bucket, for what would be a decade of trolling cyber-bullying. This was just year one.We had to find out if this Diana was real.
When he denied our requests for comics, pics or didn’t happen, we made the comics ourselves, and posted them into the comments section of his website. We drew Mariopuff raping this “Diana” in every way possible. That wasn’t even what Diana looked like, he wrote, and even if it did, he knew she wouldn’t be into that.Just to prove it, he made Diana take a picture with him in chemistry class. This poor libtard girl, obviously thinking everyone is worth a chance, she is standing in the photo, her shoulders are up to her ears. Gee is leaning towards her, but she is pulling away with a scared look on her face, as if to say, don’t touch me.All of this is still online, if you know where to find it.Now that we had a picture of Diana, we could draw her rape tortures with Mariopuff more accurately.Gee responded, “I think she would be more into some fingering, maybe I can blow on her vagina sometime. She would be more into soft touches on the breasts and nipples. She’s not a rough and tumble Super Gal. She needs a real man with a soft touch who listens to her needs. Let me show you what I mean.”Gee proceeded to illustrate his fantasies for Diana in vivid detail, using Mariopuff as his conduit. We never encouraged him to act out his fantasies. Gee detailed how he kept trying to put his monkey paws on her tits in class, and how she had to keep getting more and more aggressive in stopping him. The sexual harassment continued for most of the first year, with each encounter logged onto the chan’s servers for anyone to see.In a blog post Diana never saw, Gee detailed his conquests: “For every day in the past and in my 17 years, I have Felt So Lonely and Unfinished. But I will never STOP! In the Holy Name of Love, and the face there had to be a Boyfriend-Free Super Gal there, somewhere, for me to get to know, to develop a deep relationship with, and to make into a Sweetheart for Eternity from the soil to the top of her leaves, so in the future, after the inevitability of my parents leaving me, I WON’T DIE ALONE. And I can eventually realize my dream of being the world’s best husband and father to a pretty girl named Misty. Eventually, a light on a magical lighthouse that cast its healing lights upon my Tortured and Torn Soul, one Super Gal walked into my life, like a Princess Peach having just defeated the Mighty Bowser in the Castle of my Heart. I notice every one of her shining perfect hairs, like diamonds on her head, and a hearty, loving personality. I can do no more than follow her for the rest of my life. But these feelings come with a couple of road blocks. Even though I don’t want to force her, for heaven’s sake I would never dare to force her to do anything she didn’t want to do, but she keeps reminds me that she isn’t ready for Love beyond Friendship. I respect her choice as a woman. But even though she doesn’t say it back, I LOVE HER. And sometimes I just want to touch her and I can’t stop myself. I keep my hormones in check at least twice a week while I am in the shower thinking about her.”When Diana found the pictures, she had to change schools, but not before she came on the chans herself and told Gee off. She was angrier at him than us, understandably. We were trolls, total strangers. She had no reason to blame us. She laid it on cold, how she was just trying to be nice to him, how big of a freak he is, how nobody wants to be his friend. Now without a poor high school girl to pull into his nightmare every day at school, Gee began to try alternative methods to find his “boyfriend-free Super Gal”. Encouraged by us, he posted signs up all over the halls of his school, reading:“WANTED! A BOYFRIEND-FREE SUPER GAL BETWEEN AGES 18-24. AVERAGE OR SLIM BUILD ONLY. NO DARKIES NO DRINKERS NO SMOKERS. HELP ME IN MY LOVEQUEST! VIRGINS WITH D-CUPS TO THE FRONT OF THE LINE! IF ANY MEN SEE THIS SIGN, MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS. I AM NOT OKAY WITH GAY AND NEITHER SHOULD YOU.”Gee was swiftly kicked out of school.About this time, one of the trolls, I’m not sure which, bought a domain called “Geepedia.com”. Through relentless trolling, posing as female suitors and fans of his comic strips, we started to pick away at this strange Creature of the Internet. What would be friendly chats, in any other circumstance, were veiled attempts to gain every piece of personal information possible about Gee, from his very first memories to the current day. All of it – every morsel of intel we could gather from our trolling – went into the website. We made a page that listed his Christmas presents. His favorite women to masturbate to. We made a timeline of every time he masturbated, from his very first wank, down to the two a week he used to keep his hormones in check. We wrote what he was thinking about, what made him cum.We got him to reveal the details of his family. He lived with his mother and father, an only child. We got the names of all his living relatives and created pages, detailing his disdain and love for them in Chris’ own words.We created an extensive list of his likes and dislikes. We even catalogued his wardrobe and made pages detailing the history of each item of clothing, from where he bought it to what day he wore each outfit. In short, we made a fucking encyclopedia of his life, that would go on to generate over 800,000 entries over the next decade, each one pushing him closer to insanity. Nothing in his life was sacred to us. His fluid opinions on God, his Anti-Semitism, his homophobia, his self-loathing. We even made a page for each of his birthdays, who was there, what they gave him. Everything. With photos. His seventeenth birthday would be the last he would have.We also documented his bullying, starting from a young age, onto the current day. Gee had to change several schools as a child, floating in and out of home schooling, before he was given his autism diagnosis, with each school being more brutal than the last.Gee would be lured, quite easily, into cam-chatting with us, while we pretending to be female fans. Each video was saved, parsed for information for the Gee-Encyclopedia, and disseminating among is ever-growing fan/hater base on the chan websites. I thought it went too far when he started sending up copies of his baby pictures and his family photos, all of which are still on the Internet, if you know where to find them.In a surreal twist, we discovered Gee was the grand prize winner of a Toys-R-Us shopping spree at age 9. The contest required kids to watch the Super Mario Brothers cartoon and to write down a secret message at the end of each episode. Those who wrote down all the messages correctly, and mailed them into the Toys-R-Us headquarters were entered into the sweepstakes. We even found footage of Gee from the local news at the time of his win. He won $10,000, all of which he spent on video games, toys, and memorabilia. This was an important event in Gee’s life, one that would go on to define everything about him during his formative high school years. His brief celebrity at such a young age no doubt contributed to the inspiration for Mariopuff.Around the start of year two, someone posing as a girl who wanted to meet up got ahold of his address. This troll drove by on several occasions, taking photos of the house, doxing him, sharing the license plates of his parents’ cars. After standing him up for a first date at his home, the troll even invited him on a date at a local Wendy’s, and there, he snapped our first photo of Gee in the wild.None of this would stop Gee in his self-proclaimed "Lovequest", as we would bait him into entering an obscure Internet rapping contest, in order to win back Diana’s heart. The contest was run by the makers of an obscure Japanese video game, and Gee surprisingly placed in the top five, due mainly to the fact that very few people entered. When he lost, Gee posted videos of himself with an air rifle, shooting pictures of the winner and accidentally shooting his mother.About that time, Gee discovered Geepedia. At first, he tried to reason with us, in another video:“It has come to my attention that a lot people may have come on the wrong theories of my person. I do not want to quote from any hate sites, but it has come to my attention that some people see me as a sleazy, badass troll, whatever adjectives, good or explicit, you may feel about me. Please understand, I am a high functioning autistic male, with a simple peaceful Lovequest dream, of becoming the world’s best father, to a sweet, princess girl named Misty. It has a nice ring to it. So to all those people listening, please take them down. Please take down the Geepedia site. I know this is just some kind of misunderstanding. Just, please, be kind and take down your webpages. I feel so bad for Diana, having all her pictures and personal information out there. It’s not fair to her.  I would be okay if you would positively reflect my real feelings as an individual, as a person. Thank you very much for you time, and for listening, and for reading my Mariopuff comics. I have more on the way. Please remember, I am an innocent person, and War is never the answer.”Oh, boy…Disguised as yet another female suitor named Betty, a still unknown troll pushed Gee to take several revealing photographs of Gee in his mother’s underwear, always wearing his Mariopuff pendant. The most popular photo “Betty” obtained was the first of several hundred penis pics that Gee would send to trolls over the next decade. The penis pics were notable for the abnormal bend in his penis, which, to most, looked a lot like the head of the Loch Ness monster. His penis became a viral meme almost instantaneously on the chan boards and the darker parts of the web. All of these photos, they’re still out there.Betty convinced Gee to mail her his signature Mariopuff pendant, and Betty went through every means of desecrating the prized artwork, catching it all on cam. At first, Betty made several cuts in it, but not enough to break it. She poked at Mariopuff’s eyes, torturing his face, poking hundreds of furious holes into it with the knife. After scaring Mariopuff’s face, Betty submerged him in a bucket of human feces, then a jar of pickles, forcing Mariopuff to fellate the pickles with the now gaping wound where his mouth should have been. She smashed it with a hammer. She put it in a mousetrap. Finally, she doused it in lighter fluid and put Mariopuff out of his misery.In the midst of the Betty saga, I contacted Gee, pretending to be a wealthy business man named Jim Jackalope from overseas who was making a fortune selling counterfeit Mariopuff memorabilia and comic books. Of course, this enraged Gee, and he posted several videos asking, then threatening me with his air rifle, to stop stealing his work.A third troll posed as “the real Gee Zuss” himself, dressing with the same multi-colored polo and even wearing a Maripuff pendant, and posted a video granting me permission to use Mariopuff. A fourth troll, claiming he was the real Gee Zuss, refuted the third troll, and said only he could give permission for the licensing of the beloved Mariopuff cartoons.A fifth troll, claiming to be both a female fan named Unicornkisses and an alpha male named Chad, began to contact Chris. Only days after he posted a video, reacting to the destruction of his Mariopuff pendant and threatening to commit suicide, he declared his love for Unicornkisses on his Mariopuff cartoon page. Unicornkisses was not like the other trolls; she made it her mission to degrade and insult Gee in their chats as much as possible, uploading all of their conversations to Geepedia. When Chad told Gee that he had raped Unicornkissses, Gee didn’t seem to mind, and Unicornkisses died in a brush fire, or some bullshit, shortly after.Some say, Chad continues to troll Gee to this day.Somewhere around the third year, I posed as a Nintendo employee and asked Gee if he would be interested in selling the Mariopuff website to me, just to prove how fucking gullible this homophobic piece of shit was. I told Gee that the Nintendo employee was actually Jim Jackalope in disguise, and he was now holding the Mariopuff website ransom, unless Gee posted a video proclaiming to the world that he was gay.This would be the catalyst for getting the most horrible, unforgivable videos of Gee to date. A couple of 13-year-olds posed as a girl named Cindy, or Cindaaaaay, as Gee would say her name. Cindaaay was so bold as to call Gee at his home, speaking in an effeminate falsetto voice, taunting him to prove his manhood by sending them several sexually explicit videos.The most popular of these videos involves Gee penetrating a blow-up doll, with his already infamous Loch Ness monster penis, while shouting, “Cindaaaaay, Cindaaaaaaaayyy,” until climax.This video has around 2 million views and is still a staple of every dark web humor board.Another series of videos, less popular, show Gee inserting an increasing number of crayons and magic markers into his rectum and masturbating for these 13-year-olds pretending to be Cindy.Gee fell for it, all of it.And that was when things really started to get weird. 

Kevin Snow at Lenin's tomb/the Kremlin circa 2009Little Odessa, CAA Gonzo Tale by “Not Dr. Alex” Palahniuk
(b. Leningrad, USSR)
VALENTINE’S DAY 2009
“Catch a look at this fag,” Dima says.I look over his shoulder at the security TV. I’m positive I’ve seen this guy before. But it’s hard to know for sure. He has his hoodie pulled over his face and a large red backpack that looks like a soup can. I can see his ear gauges peeking out from his red hood, but I need to be certain. “Did he convert to Islam or some bullshit? Don’t buzz him in until we get a good look at his face.”Dima presses the speaker button. “Show your face.”The man on the TV, so angry. He pulls it back. It’s him. “Jesus Christ.”“You know this guy?”“Yes. He was a regular but he stopped coming in about six months ago. Bullshit customer. Never has any money. I thought he must have finally run out and moved back to whatever Orange County shithole he crawled out of. If he doesn’t buy at least an eighth, overcharge him.”“Holy shit,” Dima laughs, slapping me on the back. “I remember him. That’s your girl’s boy!” He buzzes the fag in.I want to cuss Dima out. Fucking Asshole. Dima checks his ID at the security booth before letting him into the dispensary. Dima makes sure to say, very loud, “Your name is Lukas. Lukas Vecindario. My friend, Lukas Vecindario. Why you have, how do you say… the two dots…in your name?”“An umlaut?”“Ah, yes. Your name has an umlaut? Yes? You are German?”“It’s not German.”“Good. I fucking hate Germans. They’re no fun. But you, fun boy. You have Mexican last name?”“I’m not Mexican, man. I’m just a white American.” His laugh sounds rehearsed and nervous.“I see, my friend. So, how’s it going, Lükas? Are you looking to get high today?”Lükas barely shows his face to the security cameras in the lobby, seems to be avoiding them. Weird, he never did this before. “I’m looking to sell. You guys buying?”“Claro! Always! Let me have the bag and I’ll let you back. Oh wait – you’re still talking about weed, right?”“Yeah.”“Just checking. Let me take this back and show Alex.”“Is that his real name?” Dima knows, it’s not. “Is Lükas Vecindario your real name or did the cartels give you this fake ID?”“It’s my real name.”“That’s good. Because we hate the fucking cartels. And if you are fucking lying to me, we will just have to burn down your house while you sleep. I’m kidding. Is this still your address? I’m kidding. You are so uptight. Come on back, Lükas Vecindario.”I open his bag, so fucking annoyed. I can’t look at his stupid face. “What strain is this?”“Third Eye. I’ve got two more pounds of it. How much are you buying for?”I look down in his bag, and it’s a hot mess. “You call this Third Eye? No. I know Third Eye. You grow this yourself?”“Yeah.”“First time grower.”“No. No. Not first time. Not even close”“It looks like to me you harvested this crop about a month early. These buds aren’t fully developed. And you didn’t cure them.”“Look, I don’t know how to say this, but you should remember me. I’m a good customer. I came in here for a whole year, never complained. Do you know how many other dispensaries I could have gone to?”Dima takes the bag to have a look. “Who cares what strain it is. I just care if it gets me high. Customers don’t know the difference. Just slap whatever bullshit name on it and put it on the shelf. No one gives a shit what the name of the strain is. It’s all bullshit anyway. Does this shit get you high?”“Fuck yeah, it does,” Lükas says. I don’t believe him. I don’t see any color, no yellows or purples. Third Eye should have at least a little yellow in the public hair. “I’ll give you $90 an ounce.”“It’s legit hydro.” He exhales. “The going rate for an ounce is minimum $350.”“I’ll give you $150. But I’m only buying what you’ve got here. Go to one of your cartel bullshit dispensaries to sell the rest.”“Fine. 150.”Dima looks him over while I get the cash. “Where is your friend?”“Excuse me?”“Your blond friend, you always come in here with. The one who always pays for your weed.”“Well, I can’t really talk about that. We’re not friends. And, for the record, I was just borrowing the weed. I paid back.”This is the best news ever. I can’t ask, but Dima asks for me. “Did you break up?”“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”Dima scoffs. “You is telling me, you moved to West Hollywood for what? The rent prices? Come on, my friend. Everybody knows that you move to West Hollywood for the gay sex and the drugs. Isn’t that right, Alex? Why else would you be in West Hollywood?”I’m not out to Dima; he’s just teasing me because he thinks I’m straight. I don’t think he can see the irony, regardless, from his point of view. He hasn’t fucked a woman since he got here, at least since Putin was President. We both stare at Lükas, at the veins bulging in his forehead. “Can you just give me my money so I can get out of here?”I take my time and let Dima work him over some more. Dima says, “You didn’t park in the Ralphs, did you? Lots of security cameras over there. And you can’t leave with an empty bag, right? What if the police decide to shut us down, and the confiscate our security footage? They will see you leaving with an empty bag. They will know you sold weed here illegally.”“So delete the footage.”“I don’t know how to do this. Alex, do you know? No, you see. Alex does not know how to do this.”The truth is, the LAPD were shutting down dispensaries across LA County, like dominoes. Not just in West Hollywood. Hundreds had already been wiped out for dealing with the cartels. Mostly, they didn’t know. They just bought weed from the wrong grower. Not all of it was clean, and some of the customers in the other dispensaries were testing positive for PCP, meth. Gave the LAPD a good excuse to deport a big chunk of Little Odessa. It was only a matter of time before they found an excuse to target us.“Ain’t you guys gang related, too?” he asks. “Like Chechen mafia or some shit?”“Do we look fucking Muslim to you, or some shit?” I say, zipping up Lükas’ bag, with his cash. “We’re just small Russian business owners, here to live our American dream. Right, Dima?”“Why would you think we are gang related?”Lükas has had enough. “Right. Aren’t you going to give me a receipt, then, like real small business owners?”I don’t need this shit. I don’t even need to buy his weed. I have enough money to probably buy his motorcycle and everything else he owns, if I really wanted to. But this is the really fun part of my job. I take my time to respond. No need to rush perfection. I light the hash joint I have tucked behind my ear, and I make sure to blow it all over his face. “How about this for a receipt: you take your bag, and your bullshit drugs, and whatever problems you are running away from in such a sloppy fucking hurry, and you leave Little Odessa, and if I ever see you here, or at any Russian dispensaries in Weho, I cut your dick off. How’s that?” I throw the bag at his face. He tucks himself back into his red hood. Leaves like a little bitch.About an hour later, Dima can’t believe his eyes. “Your girl is here now. She looking for her man, maybe.”He doesn’t mean actually a girl. He’s just being an asshole. “Well, let him in, mudak.”The last time I saw Kevin was also six months ago, same time. I wonder if he remembers me. I go to the booth, to check ID. He smiles, and I try not to smile back. I can’t help it, because he just looks at me like he’s leading me on, all the times he comes in. If you doesn’t want my dick, don’t look at me like that. Plain and simple. He totally doesn’t recognize me. He must be a huge slut or something. Only the sluts don’t remember people. He just smiles. His lips are like a woman’s. He doesn’t say anything, and when he does, he sounds like a valley girl or some shit. Just another faggot here to walk all over me, take my drugs, as usual. What did I get all worked up for?“Can I ask you something, actually?” he asks, after I buzz him back to the dispensary.“Anything.”God damnit, I shouldn’t have used innuendo. His voice goes higher. “Did you just get a pound of Third Eye in? I totally need to buy, like, the whole thing. Whatever he sold you.”“Who?”“My ex… Oh shit, you don’t recognize me, do you?”Without saying a word, my body moves, almost like I am not controlling it. I get the bags of shit that Lükas just sold me. “Why you want this pile of garbage weed? We have much better weed. I might be able to give you a discount.”“How much is it?”“You want to try it first?”“I’m not here because I want to get high. I just need to get that pound off the street. Pronto. How much?”“Nothing. I’ll take care of it.”“Don’t do that. Let me pay you.”I can do a lot with this, if he is in debt to me. “It will cost you. You have to smoke a bowl with me. Wait, no. Three bowls. Right? That’s what you smoke, yes? Three bowls of Third Eye.”He looks at me in disbelief, and I continue to ramble, just trying to get a “yes”. He throws his head back and yells out a few laughs. Then, just totally bipolar-like, he drops his head and starts sobbing. “Really?” he asks. His voice is low now, more like a man’s. Like he just became a different person. “You might be literally saving my life right now. And here, I thought I was going to at least have to blow you for it.”Dima says, “You can blow me for it, if you want.”I say to Dima, I say: “Ты прекратишь. Прямо сейчас. Быть почтительным. Он долгосрочный клиент. Вы видите, насколько его бизнес означает для нас. Вы заставляете его чувствовать себя некомфортно. И перестань называть его своей девушкой. Очень неуважительно.”Kevin says, “Devushka? Who’s got a devushka?”

Can't we all just agree that pelmeni is really just shuijiao with different condiments?
FEAR AND LOATHING ON TIANANMEN SQUAREA Gonzo Tale by Burshtyn Smirnov & 小屄
Any picture you post is going to get back to your clients. The important thing is to look too busy to be at work. Face is everything, if you want to stay out of prison. China is a love-deprived culture. Nobody in China actually wants to think they’re fucking a hooker. It’s more about the girlfriend experience.Burshtyn’s limit is seven johns a day. She prefers the Chinese men to the Russians. They drink and weigh much less. Fucking Chinese cock is much easier on the hips.Bibi can do twice that much, and still stay tight as a needle’s eye. “At least, it’s not like during the Olympics,” Bibi says. “We were lucky to only have fourteen a day.”This time, this trip, Bibi made sure to “anpai”The women struggled to understand the man’s pesky Pekingese accent, but amid his elementary-grade Russian and the little English they had picked up on TV, they eventually got around to understanding what was happening. “We tell man downstairs – no dates today. Day off.”“I’m not interested in that.”“Then, what you doing here, gui-lou?This puppy here be the last preview of volume 6 Fear, Misery, and Loathing in Putin's Russia until next week. Til then - happy trails and thank you for reading! 
arrange Fried dumplings Fucking awesome FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU Cracker ass honky zhaopiarrr Mira! Los pendejos gringos! Bitches

BikesA Gonzo Tale by Kib Askeladdenson (b. Stavanger, Norway)
It was a dark and rainy day on the cliffs of the North Sea. The late 1980’s. My piano lessons at Miss Nakamura’s had just finished. She always spoke in English, but today she was slipping back into Japanese, mumbling to herself, while my stiff fingers plunked through Chopin’s Prelude in E Minor, the competition piece for upcoming Stavanger regional piano competition, the first of several leading to a national Norwegian title. I wouldn’t make it past the first round, but Miss Nakamura patiently tried to relax my knuckles, like I was poised to be the champion. “You must loosen your fingers,” she explained softly. “You do so well in the sight reading. If you loosen up, you would get a perfect ten.”We were sitting in her living room, as was never customary, waiting for the metallic sheets of rain outside to let up enough for me to be able to see my way to the goddamn bus stop. We never had any conversations outside of the piano, up until this dark and rainy day. But now, we were stuck with each other, hostage to Thor’s violent piss outside. Miss Nakamura asked me when the last time my parents had tuned our piano. My parents only purchased our seven-octave upright black Yamaha, which they donated to the church, while they were under the violent delusion of religious revelation. It was their prayer that someday, their son Kib would be able to take over the role of church pianist. Sister Grimsrud, if she didn’t die at the ivories this winter, would likely be forced into retirement by the irritation of the congregants. Miss Nakamura was the third or fourth of several piano teachers I had, while my parents forced this answer to their prayer upon me, a few times a week, in between trips to the church building to practice. She was, by far, the nicest of them. She recommended we get the Yamaha serviced before the competition, and gave me a card of a tuner who would give my parents a reasonable rate.A national fucking competition was a bit much to push on me, a kid who was already showing signs of severely deviant behavior on the schoolyard: Satanic graffiti, mainly, and fighting, on the rare occasion I was caught.“Do you believe in God?” she asked, out of nowhere.“My parents are Mormon,” I said.“That’s not what I mean. Of course, you don’t believe in Mormon. There are so many contradictions in Mormon.”I had never heard an adult say this out loud, even thought I had thought it most of my life. Prayer was the greatest contradiction, to me. What a crock of shit, that prayer business. She meant, there were contradictions doctrinally. And what she was asking was far deeper than anything my young mind had dared entertain: “I am not asking about your parents. Do you believe in God?”“I don’t know.” I had thought about existence existentially before. I had lied awake at night, asking myself, what is life like if you are not alive? The thought had always tickled me, the sheer impossibility of the mind to understand. But I had never thought about this little game I played in my head in terms of God.She leaned her head back. “I think, there is maybe a god. But I don’t know. Sometimes, I do not think so.” She stared at the rain, while I let this confession soak in. She continued: “I have heard, there is a woman in the Philippines, who says she is Jesus come back. I read about her miracles, and I think to myself, it would be good to see Jesus come back. Maybe she is Jesus. Maybe it doesn’t matter. But I think I would like to know.”My body was probably in a state of full sweats. There was such a desperation in her voice, a searching for something true in her life, like I had never heard any adult express to me. It terrified me, mostly because I was acutely aware that she was expecting me, a fucking child, to weigh in on this issue. And with piano regionals, right around the corner!The rain let up almost immediately after, and we never spoke of the incident again. I never saw her again, after the competition.I rode the bus back to my childhood home, on the cliffs of Randaberg. The bus let me off at the Coop Prix, the local market. On the way home, I always passed the playground, the sandbox, and a fence, which caged a dead Nazi missile, up until it was removed in the late 90’s. Shame about that. There was no better reminder to me, as a child, of who’s side you were on. The Nazi missile, along with the bunkers in the cliffs, scrawled with “Nazis Fuck Off” graffiti, were all parents needed, to point out their window and say: “Don’t ever be a Nazi. You’re a Norwegian.” A real pity kids these days aren’t getting the same education.I don’t know if anyone was home; it didn’t matter. I went right from piano to that godforsaken American baseball practice. My parents had signed me up for the local expatriate league. There were no Norwegian leagues, for obvious reasons. I was enlisted in American baseball, that mild hallucination of a real sport, as punishment for fighting with some Dutch asshole on our schoolyard, some real psycho kraut named Lorin DiRotter, who threatened to cut off my hoodie for calling Queen’s first album lame. If I remember, I choked him with his own hoodie, but I never remember blacking his eyes like they said I did.My punishment was to go out for an hour every day after school and slam the bat against a pile of my father’s discarded car tires. I was getting pretty fucking strong. Didn’t help my accuracy for anything, but I got really good at fucking shit up with that bat.The bat would often prove helpful, I learned, when I would be out playing with my baseball teammate, Andy Shriver. Andy, who I have known since practically the womb, was the only chav in the neighborhood, having inherited his expatriate parents’ heavy Hull East Yorkshire accent, and the only Jewish kid in the neighborhood, as well. You’d be surprised at how conspicuously, in that regard, the devastation of the Holocaust still materializes in Scandinavia, even without the Nazi missile duds on your childhood playground to constantly remind you, in every frame of your earliest memories. But, don’t let the Antifa graffiti in the bunkers at our doorsteps fool you. There were real Neo-Nazi’s in this neighborhood, and they all had bikes.Andy and I only had our bats.When my parents caught wind that Andy wanted his parents to buy us bikes, the bastard stroke of Jesus revelation hit them again. “What a brilliant idea. He needs to get ready for his mission, anyhow. Let’s get him a bike and teach him to ride.” I just saw it as another chore for my schedule. It was a little early to be committing my myself to a mission. I was still in fucking elementary school.Our baseball game against the Sandnes team from across town was on a much clearer night. We met to battle on the only baseball fields in all of fucking southern Norway, in the back of the International school for expatriate and NATO children. Several games had been scheduled, on this irregularly clear night, so as to pack the three diamonds with as many boisterous, beer-guzzling Americans as possible. The mix was about 60% oil brats and 40% NATO bellends. A close-knit community, so it was odd on my way to the hot dog stand, during a break, that I did not recognize the fat white woman, dressed all in denim, with a shoulder-length perm and a midwestern American accent.“Hey you,” she said, her voice covered by the fanfare of the games, “can you give me a hand?” She pointed to a stray baseball about 100 feet away, in a thicket of trees, behind a 15-foot tall chain-linked fence. “We lost our baseball, and we need somebody to climb over and grab it for us. I can’t do it. Can you climb this thing?”I knew my fat Viking ass wouldn’t be able to scale anything that high, but I showed her how horrible I was at climbing the fence, because she was an adult, and I thought as much was expected.A man with a mustache and a mullet got angry at her when she let me walk away. “What the fuck?”She scoffed back at him. “He’s too big to carry off, anyway.”I will never forget how cold and curious those words sounded.I heard the news at school from the Haddad twins. “Some stupid fucking NATO kid got tricked into climbing over the fence behind the baseball fields, after your game” Georgie said, eyes wide. “And when he got there, a man on a motorcycle was waiting to snatch him up. Nobody could do anything but stand there. There was a fucking fence in the way. What could they do?”His twin Mark interjected. “I heard, they turned themselves in to the police, once they’d realized they’d snatched up a NATO kid. Because, everybody knows, NATO parents don’t have any money.”The culprits were a small band of laid-off Chevron employees and their wives. They were arrested in a police stand-off, after holding the child hostage overnight. I never told anyone, and we never heard from the hostage child again.That Saturday, I took a bus down to my parent’s church in Stavanger, to meet with the pianotuner. He’s as old as the Oseberg ship, skinny and gaunt, with suspenders, and a khaki overcoat. His name is Liam. “Your parents just let you take the bus around the city by yourself?” he laughed, when I arrived with the keys to the building. I noticed his Norwegian had a funny accent. Sounded Dutch.“Why not?”“Because it is dangerous, and you are just a child. Helt klart.”I studied him intensely, while he laid out his tuning rods and opened the black Yamaha in the chapel. He asked about school, about my friends, about baseball. “You enjoy piano?”“No. My parents make me play, just so I can play in church.”“I see. Well, there are all kinds of things that you can learn in piano. You can learn math. You can learn theatre. For me, I never learned to play. I only tune. I learned during the war because my family needed the piano wires to fight the Nazis. And I had to steal them. I never gave a shit about pianos or music. It was all about the wires.”Dare I ask?He laughs. “When we were boys, we would take the wires out to where the Nazis would ride their bikes, and we would string them up in between the trees. Invisible, like spider webs. All through the trees where the Nazis liked to get drunk and ride their bikes at night. It was such a nuisance. And then we would sit and wait. Until…vroom vroom…we hear the motorbikes. We smell the gasoline, and we hear them yelling in German. They get louder and louder, until: pop! Their heads come off! One after the other, maybe three or four, before they could stop. My god, I never know how I kept so much laughter in. And I never know why, they keep coming back!”He has started wiping away sweat and tears from his eyes, brought on by spasms of laughter and not from hard work or some deeply buried guilt.“How many Nazis did you kill?” I asked.He could barely answer. “So many! I preferred to poison them or blow them up, but my friend Jack, he is the one who came up with the idea to use the piano wires.” He went back to his hammers and tuners, looking up once with a grin. “I think, Jack just liked to see the surprised looks on their dead Nazi faces. That is what I learned from the piano.”We only tried it once, I swear.

Kevin Snow in Moscow, circa 2005.
Volume 6 of my gonzo journalism series is loosely based on my experiences in, and stories I heard while in, Putin's Russia.
Volume 6 tells the fictional tale of a motley crew of queer people, from across the former Soviet empire, who stumble upon a powerful quantum computer, capable of calculating true Communism.
As they fight and debate over what to do with this terrifyingly powerful new computer, they share stories.
Broken up in the novel are several of these stories, told in the voices of the queer characters in the novel.
Here is a the first of these stories. I hope you enjoy these twisted, terrifying tales, from the dark heart of Putin's Russia. Look for more in the coming weeks and, hopefully, a full novel by the end of October.
Vash Babushka A Parable by Okropir Rapava(b. Tbilisi, Georgia)
There once was a Babushka from Georgia.She had a Son whose Wife was very gorgeous.One day, the Wife received -- leaving her Babushka much aggrieved -- a letter inviting them all to America.The Son was relieved: “I have always dreamed, but I would have never believed, to raise my children in America. It must be God’s will that we have not previously conceived.”The Babushka disagreed and refused to leave: “After all I have survived, after all that I have grieved, after all my tired eyes have perceived, I can’t start my life over again, all the way across the Ocean’s green. Surely, your Wife must be deceived. There can’t be a visa to America for me.”But there was a visa for the Babushka, indeed, and the Babushka’s response made the Wife very displeased. She teased the Son: “If your Babushka won’t come with us to America, we have no choice but to secede. Why did we not just mislead her? It’s your choice: it’s either her, or it’s me.”The Babushka did not want them to flee. So, she said good-bye to her friends, the home she once had to defend, the oak trees, the fields, the Kura River’s bends, the borscht, the pelmeni, the Soviet duendes, the smells and sites upon which she had learned to depend, all the realities she could heretofore comprehend. She left no loose end, and by the time the summer began to descend, they were all in their new home Aspen, Colorado.When autumn’s colors did commend, the Son and his Wife were gone. It had all been a big con. The Wife had used the Babushka as her pawn. It had never dawned on the Wife that the Babushka would come to America, where they would still have to keep an eye on her.The Son bought a second home, down the mountains, far from the Babushka’s lonely cries. He visited when he could, but soon, she became another bygone, another burden, to no one’s surprise.The Babushka’s mind and her memory were swiftly foregone; the dementia and dizziness, the altitude, and her memories were her only company during the first winter set on.But, there was also a Church in Aspen, where there was a Mormon Grandma with an empty nest. The Grandma dressed her best, every Sunday without rest, and was devoted to serve wherever God might suggest.The Babushka wandered into the Church, one snow-covered afternoon, where she was greeted by the Grandma in English.“Are you Russian?” the Grandma asked. “My Daughter served a mission in Russia. Can I ask your name?”“I’m Georgian,” the weepy Babushka tried to explain.The Grandma felt her heart burn. Where did this Babushka come from? God must have sent her here to learn!For the next year and weeks, the Grandma used all her techniques to try and convert the Babushka to be Mormon. Her Daughter taught the Grandma some Russian sayings, the Grandma taught the Babushka Mormon prayings. She cleaned the Babushka’s moldy refrigerator and restocked it with All-American cravings.But the Babushka could not stop weeping. The Grandma could not take the tears in Babushka’s eyes, the way she would agonize. So, the Grandma suggested it would be wise to help her galvanize with Zion.” The Church’s Bishop was ambivalent: “We think the Babushka is magnificent, but we cannot be the instrument to convert her to our faith. Her mind is impotent, her soul is innocent, and heaven for her is imminent. We cannot in good conscience allow her to baptize.”And the Babushka could not stop weeping, not even to fake it. She wept so insatiably, at every single visit, that the Grandma could no longer take it.She mused: “If the Son has so abused, and the Wife so misused, and God so recused, this poor Babushka, then I don’t think I can help her. It’s best we find, for the health of her mind, some long-term company for her, from the humane shelter.”The Babushka flailed her arms and screamed, when she arrived at the scene: “You’ve tricked me into buying a monster!”“They’re just puppies and kittens,” the Grandma pondered. “You’re overreacting. How about a tabby or some Dalmatians?”But when the dogs were released, for their first meet-and-greets, the Babushka fell to the floor in horror, no matter the puppies’ dispositions.The Grandma could not comprehend. “I’m just trying to help! Don’t you see that I’m your friend? Don’t you see that this is a Godsend? Please, they have Blue Russian kitty. Don’t make me leave you to die in that house, to meet such a horrible, lonely end!”The Babushka refused, hysterical and overextended. “Please understand me,” she excused, “I cannot because I am Georgian. You Americans and your pets, it’s all very sentimental, but you would never forgive yourself if something happened to me alone with that beast. Who would help me then -- you? Or are you just going to leave me like everyone else? I would rather die alone, in this terrible country, than with one of those godforsaken animals.”The Grandma acquiesced, and as the followed Sabbath progressed, God blessed the Grandma for her Christian charity. The Mormon Bishop, that day, expressed: “Congratulations, Grandma. You’ve been called to serve a mission. In Russia.”She was thrilled, to say the least, and flew out East, after her formal missionary training.She moved to Voykovskiy, in Moscow, at the Mormon Church’s command, and found a lovely loft on Park Pokroskiy. The sites and the sounds, in this strange new Land, she tried not to think of as scary.She visited the Gum, the Kremlin, St. Basil’s, Red Square. She bought matryoshkas and icons from Kapitoliy and the Izmailova Fair. She sent home postcards and scriptures, testimonies and pictures. She scoffed at adding sour cream and dill to all her supper dishes.She wandered and explored. She knocked on doors. She smiled, politely and Americanly, when she realized that Mormonism made Russians bored.She said, every day: “They look just like Americans. If they weren’t speaking Russian, I wouldn’t be able to spot a difference. I would just fail.”She kept on like this, proselytizing and growing in her bliss, until she met her match on a Pokroskiy trail, in the most unexpected twist. Seven to nine dogs, feral from birth, had picked up her scent, her daily routine, and tasted something foreign, something tempting. Something too enticing to resist.They chased without barking, at first, and the Grandma did not notice the pursing bustle. She didn’t even think to run until they had bitten off her left calf muscle. By then, it was too late. The calf was not enough meat. The smaller breeds nipped at her feet and Achilles tendons, while the larger dogs launched at her shoulder, until one pulled her down to her knees and hands.It clamped to her wrist as she threw an earnest punch. Luckily for the Grandma, she was too much meat for lunch.The dogs ate her ear lobes and tore flesh from her breasts and side. Her arms were able to hide her eyes and face from most of the gnashing. When their teeth reached her insides, the blood sprayed up her throat, splashing.She heard her fingers crunching, their paws incessantly smashing, so loudly that she did not realize until those moments before she bled out: it was her who was screaming.