Russkiyes haf at loong last had zair time in sun: In recent games, ve von sirty-sree metals to United States’ tventy-eight. As yoo might say in American trash talk…booyah babushka!
But vaat to do vis meeself now? Olympics haf left Sochi, and vis zem also vent telly cameras. My ministeers must arrange for family of zeremony leaders extra rations, and for man responsible on snowflake ring malfunction swift execution. Ve must steel cure peenkeye zat yoor Bob Costas has spread to haf of prostitutes in Krasnodar Krai.
I fear, zough, zat yoor media veel only vant to talk about von sing: zose dispeecible harpies in zat rock band, Vagina Uproar. I veel get no credit for my restraint zees past veeks. I did not arrest von of American
homosexicles, not even zees loazsome Brian Boitano.
You have one thing other autocrats lack: a striking physique. Simply spend the next few months totally shirtless, and in public. Participate in various athletic competitions (I would love to see you try your hand at chessboxing: good for the mind and the abdomen). Perform myriad household tasks (head to a historical reenactment or the nearest Siberian village and churn up some butter: great for the pectorals). Complete simple acts of personal hygiene (brushing your teeth: does wonders on the biceps).
Western journalists really are that easy. Just think: If only Fidel had been able to sneak a modern workout contraption—say, Mr. T’s Pity Your Abs 700—through the embargo, things might have worked out differently in Havana.
We’ve got to get past these constant showdowns over debt ceilings. Every seven fortnights or so, a baker’s dozen of my caucus revolts, and we come within a cubit of default. It’s ripping the GOP apart. Mike Lee won’t even speak to me anymore, and last week Ted Cruz threw a water balloon at me, but I’m pretty sure it was full of cat pee. At least that’s what he yelled as he jumped into the waiting Trans Am to make his getaway. We need a grand bargain, but how do I get one through?
Speaker of the House
You just haven’t been thinking grand enough. Try this on for size: Republicans agree to raise the debt ceiling by $500 billion, and in exchange, Democrats agree to cut spending by the same amount. Republican leaders promise to corner Ted Cruz in the hallway and collectively give him an atomic wedgie. In exchange, Democrats promise to seize Joe Biden and perform on him the most epic noogie ever inflicted.
You buy the family bar, ban smoking on the premises, even outside, and start serving Zima again. In exchange, Barack Obama takes up smoking—a minimum of twelve per day—and Michelle, on live TV, eats a Wendy’s Baconater Triple, except with jelly-filled glazed donuts for buns.
You admit your deepest, darkest secret: that your complexion is the result of a freak oven accident you experienced as a child while touring an industrial bread bakery, and that you are not so much tanned as burnt. In exchange, Barack Obama will admit his: that on the night of the Benghazi attacks, he was at the Dave & Buster’s in Rockville, trying to beat the high score on Ms. Pac Man.
The lesson is this: To a sufficiently motivated negotiator, nothing is off the table.
It’s time for Americans to transcend petty political labels like “red” versus “blue,” and “left” versus “right.” What do these descriptors even mean? We should not let such subjective and incomprehensible language skew our national debate in this new inclusive age.
Coalition for the Colorblind
Messrs. Brown and Aviva—
I take your point. It must be hard to know who’s winning if the electoral map blurs into a formless monochrome. And it doesn’t quite work to describe oneself on the political spectrum by pointing and saying, “that way.” Henceforth, Republicans shall be represented by a hexagon, and Democrats by a pair of intersecting wavy lines!
CC: NBC, ABC, CBS, CNN, Fox, QVC
For years, the Spectator has referred to me as Jean-François. Mr. Tyrrell did so again in your March issue, mocking me for, of all things, admiring a Renaissance objet d’art, a priceless depiction in egg tempera of some flying naked babies. Jean-François is not my name. This is besmirchious libel, and I demand several thousand corrections.
Yours in Valediction,
John F. (Not François) Kerry
Mon Cher Petit Jean-François—
After investigating, I have determined that this is the fault of the enslaved Francophile gremlins who perform textual revision at our magazine. We will find the Bordeaux-swilling miserable little creature responsible and promptly promote him to chief copyeditor.