Vladimir Putin’s ban on Western foods continues, with gaggles of skinny-jeans wearing supermodels stalking around supermarkets, slapping “NYET!” stickers over imported smallgoods. Which is easy for them, the bitches, because they don’t eat anything anyway. Spare a thought for poor Ivana Hamburgerov, though, restricted to a diet of black rye butterbrots, boiled eggs and kvass. No wonder they invented vodka. Back in the 80’s all the Russkies wanted was a pair of Levi’s, now a sniff of democracy has them marching down the street in their 501’s demanding more happy meals. All I know is that I wouldn’t want to f*ck with him. He has a tiger. And lasers for eyes. He may also have a point.
Putin is not just giving burger-lovin’ Obama the sturdy middle digit, he is attempting something that every country on Earth should want, and that’s food self sufficiency (followed closely by a ban on anything Kardashian). Putting aside all of his many (many) flaws for a second, isn’t this a great idea? If you’ve got the land, why not grow your own food? People have, literally, become too soft to catch and kill (and grow) their own. But nyet Mr Putin. His bare-chested antics ostensibly make him the laughing stock of the century, but this man is canny. He knows Russians admire strength.
To this day, I wish our own pea-hearted Prime Minister had carried through with his threat to “shirt-front” the Putinator. Vlad would have impaled the elephant-eared loser. Never forget: not only is the man a master of the fighting arts, wrestles bears before breakfast, and barebacks the wild brumbies of the Russian steppe, he was raised on a diet of Cold War cornflakes. 
But I digress. We live in a world where obesity is a plague, where overeating if the norm, and where the axiom “you are what you eat” has become both prophecy and curse. I am sick of being told what to eat, yet the ability to do something about it has all but vanished. I have enough space in my backyard to grow a single head of lettuce and maybe three carrots (if the nice people at M-O-N-S-A-N-T-O let me). Which brings me back to Vladimir. The man is a genius. An evil, ruthless genius, but the guy’s a 32″ waist! Am I right? In any case, did I mention he owns a tiger? Mrowwwrrrr! Food for thought. I’m off to make a high fructose corn syrup relish on fermented frankenmeatloaf GMO-rye sandwich. I’ll post more often once the typing speed picks up on account of the extra fingers I’ll be growing.
