Kyiv Poster readers and their sympathizers swell dwindling ranks of Victory Day heroes and revelers
It’s a fantastic May 9 Victory Day here on Kyiv’s Independence Square. The weather is warm, the sky is clear, and the sun is out, shining down joyfully on the defenders of the motherland who defeated the evil fascist scourge (cheerfully replacing it with the equally evil communist scourge) 68 years ago in the worst war humanity has ever seen.
In this respect, Kyiv, which today a people oddly known as Ukrainians call their capital, can consider itself a lucky city with a great deal to tell, for it became the center of horrors between the two depraved powers, which left mass carnage, destruction, and a city reduced to rubble in the wake of their hell.
This year, however, in addition to the old geezers who are happy to recount the good old days that followed the great victory, where, after having killed countless of their countrymen they then advanced to informing on the ones who were left, sending them to Siberia and other certain death and dumping them into unmarked mass graves (over which commemorative monuments were placed, recreational parks laid, or new factories, or even entire towns and cities, built), in the process securing promotions and medals from the party and the privileges for them and their families that went with them, there is a small multitude of crazily jumping and cheering freedom seekers of another sort.
“May 9 is the perfect occasion to celebrate our liberation – from the fascist American predator Bret Boner, the former chief editor of the Kyiv Poster, who was recently ousted from his position. Words cannot describe how happy we are that he’s finally been deposed,” said one reveler.
Another one said, “Never, since the Kyiv Poster was launched almost 20 years ago, have we felt so oppressed by such endless droning think-speak as came out of that scummy editorializing tyrant. ‘Freedom of speech, freedom of speech, freedom of speech, blah, blah, blah…,’ that’s all we’d hear. After five years, it began to have a dulling, brainwashing effect. We were walking around like zombies and didn’t know why – until that piece of shit was fired and the pall was finally lifted; then everything suddenly became clear. How much can a small community who simply wanted to learn some English take?”
“Yeah,” said a third, “and to think that he was a product of America – supposedly the most democratic country in the world. Here we were just wanting to read some decent English for practice, and all we’d get was Boner imposing his totalitarian ideological program on us, his version of our lives here, and we began to believe it – ‘independent journalism, expose corruption, freedom of speech, freedom of speech, freedom of speech, freedom of speech’ – aaaaahhh!!!; just a little more and we would have gone insane – and then, we would have been his. Thank God he got toppled just in time.”
“Next up on our liquidation list,” said a fourth, or maybe the first, “Boss Lard and his sycophantic delusional lapdog protégé Welsh Losser. They’ve also done untold major damage, taking advantage of their underhanded positions of control and influence over the only English-language media outlet in this country, using it to create and then impose their little PR and make-believe writing world on our society and then dancing around in it like they were kings in a fiefdom. As if this city belonged to them, through the manipulated agency of the Kyiv Poster, which was originally entrusted to the community as its common public property, and they’re going to tell us our places in it.”
As this journalist pans the scene, a variety of banners fly, and, walking further into the crowd, he is met by groups losing themselves to abandon, getting wild, perhaps out of control, going berserk, dancing, chanting, and burning Brent Boner in effigy.
Some have stripped off their clothes, putting the F-men protest chicks and their small-tit gimmick to shame. Others have painted themselves in fantastic colors, gyrating, shaking, yelping, whooping cascades of meaningless syllables and jumbles of gibberish into their revel – casting a strange danger over the streets that is ferocious, beautiful, and frightening; both darkly menacing and exhilarating at the same time. The sizzling, crackling effigies are being thrown together with thousands of copies of the Kyiv Poster from the last five years to form gigantic bonfires.
There is a clearing in the midst of the gathering, whirling masses. Coming in closer, it is surely Bryant Boner, reduced to his underwear and socks, with his arms tied behind his back and his mouth gagged. With several sets of desperate bags under his eyes, he has been beaten into the colors of a rainbow, but standing, he still manages to strike out with his feet at his taunting harassers, the pudgy, shapeless flab of his quickly aging body bouncing over the band of his underwear. Already a comic sight, his frantic moves make him all the more ridiculous.
“I can’t believe he actually thought himself attractive enough to get a girl, much less one several times younger – Yuck!” exclaimed with a nauseated expression one such girl, who might once have been a victim of Boner’s amour advances via Facebook.
A deft swift foot imbeds itself in Boner’s crotch, and with muffled agony straining through the gag, he collapses unconscious to the pavement.
Filed by Jack Step, May 9, 2013