Chic Dickie, Diary Entry 6,000
I’m incredibly cunning and I’m incredibly clever – that’s how I’d describe myself, see.
I don’t know how I know, but I keenly sense what I’m writing in my personal diary on an almost daily basis since I came to this stinking country almost 20 years ago is suddenly available to the public, as though through some Internet medium secretly siphoning this information even though I don’t see how they’re doing it.
But I don’t care. Let ‘em read it. I’m incredibly smart. I’m an incredibly astute businessman, incredibly sharp. No one ever pulled anything on me. That’s why I run this magazine with tremendous success, and I don’t even use any journalists to do it: Doing Things for Money Ukraine. No one gets the better of me – no one! Never did, never will. They can try, see, but it’s not going to happen. I’ve got another magazine, Lviv, the Origin of Ancient Europe – also, incredibly popular, incredibly successful.
We see Chic Dickie smack in the middle of a huge room – a room Chic Dickie somehow managed to get in a falling-apart complex of old government buildings of Stalinesque proportions in the center of Kyiv, looming with grim foreboding over the central, trench-like Khreshchatyk Street – easily among the city’s ugliest, with ceiling so high, you can’t even see it.
Chic Dickie, who, as an Englishman, believes his homeland is the origin and center of world democracy, has tried to dignify this monster of Soviet space with a very large mahogany writing table brought in from England, behind which he’s sitting. The centralized heating system is assiduously pumping heat in through the radiators surrounding the room and the pipes, but Chic Dickie still keeps a space heater cranking under the desk, hidden from view. Nevertheless, he’s still shivering a little.
He has also tried to dignify the walls by nailing fake oak wainscoting and paneling over the original fake pinewood-looking wainscoting and paneling and hanging up you know those drawings of red-coated Englishmen in black riding boots and tan breeches on horseback chasing foxes, mottled hounds yelping madly in the fore.
I’ve got this certificate that went along with Brent Boner’s Mississippi Medal for Meritorious Media that certifies he actually got it.
I also have a transcript of the warning letter written by Rob Bobin, an alleged proctologist from the American Deep South – heh, or what’s left of it – to Brent Boner, saying he’d sue Boner’s ass if he ever tries to publicly claim that medal, as Rob Bobin has used it to invent a revolutionary probing device in the medical industry and has got his patents all over it.
Way in the back behind Chic Dickie are huge windows, like from another era, which they, in fact, are. Only very little light is allowed into the enormous space because heavy massive scarlet drapes dating back to the original time of the building block all ingress from outside. Red Soviet banners fixtured at their tops still hang down their sides – old musty and dusty.
Chic Dickie continues talking, but we no longer hear him. It should be mentioned that Chic Dickie, the Kyiv-wide conqueror of many women over the many years he’s been here, has over time grown bloated, coming to look with his large fat head like Humpty Dumpty and Henry VIII. His neck strains to hold up the huge head, which totters on the weak spinal column and wobbles.
A much smaller desk, under one of the large-large windows at the back, which had earlier been a blur, now begins to come into focus, and at the desk we note a long, lanky insignificant-looking man with sharp shoulders and severe-drawn physical limbs and facial features writing something out on a pad by hand. Clearly, we think, this is a secretary or other type of minion of Chic Dickie.
Walking rapidly back and forth in front of the desk, and consequently the man, is a tiny pot-bellied clown the size of a midget or dwarf yet too dissimilar to them to be comfortably considered either. As the man seems to be Chic Dickie’s minion, so the little clown seems to be the man’s.
Chic Dickie keeps talking but we still no longer hear him.
Off in a deep corner (to the left of the small desk with the man and the rapidly pacing clown), as we continue looking past and beyond Chic Dickie, in a giant crib for adults lies the black version of Welsh Losser, despondent-looking and forlorn, no doubt agonizing over his unrequited love for the Black Ferret. The Black Welsh Losser’s marriage to his ugly black wife, as we all know, is just for convenience and for show.
Riotously groping The Black Welsh Losser from behind is a big loveable White Trash, who jerks his head up at the ceiling crazily with a huge smile as he feels and squeezes the parts of Black Welsh Losser’s private sanctum.
Of course, if there was no Big Loveable Negro (with purple toes, whom I find absolutely disgusting) arse-mounting the original Welsh Losser we all know and love from The Commix in a cheap motel room back in Mississippi, there would be no Big White Trash doing the same thing to Welsh Losser’s black version in some insane Stalin-era torture palace inhabited and run by freak lunatic Englishmen in the center of Kyiv.
But there you have it because that’s the way it goes.
Filed March 15, 2015