Marquel, TPVs NYTimes Cutting Off Your Nose To Spite Your Face Section correspondent, was brushing up on his cliffnotes about Savinien de Cyrano de Bergerac, when he read, In Reprisal, Russia Imposes Trade Sanctions on the West. Moscow announced a ban on a wide range of food and agricultural products from Europe and the United States, among others, responding to the sanctions Western nations imposed for Russia’s Ukraine policy. Marquel understood that Russia was threatening to starve the Russian people to punish the west. He also understood the relative absence of export restrictions, which he found entertaining, if not strategically important.
Marquel found the latest Russian measures similar if not identical, to a prisoner’s hunger strike. Putin is saying if we don’t give him what he wants, he’ll starve Russia to death. Is it possible to force feed an entire nation? Strangely, there was no mention of vodka in the list of sanctions.
Marquel was tempted to say let them eat caviar, but that made him intensely jealous. Plus Marquel didn’t think Putin knew either any French nor even who Marie Antoinette was.
It was time once again to find all those black leather jackets on the East Side indicating I’d found the Russian Consuls office.
Once there, I asked to see the consul. The black leather jackets thugs were surprisingly cooperative, especially when they learned of my interest.
“My wife won’t be able to buy brie in Moscow, or even Tomme de Savoie. She won’t let me back in the house.”
I had a mission. Convince the Consul this was a stupid idea. Because they were Russians I couldn’t say that. Tell a Russian he’s wrong and he’ll do it more just to teach you a lesson. They only respond to mockery. So that’s what I’d do.
We sat down, the consul and I, and I asked why there were no export sanctions.
“Such as?” He asked.
“Ladas,” I said, purposely laughing.
“You find Ladas funny?” He asked.
“I find the thought of an embargo on them hilarious, don’t you?” I wondered.
“Frankly, yes,” he answered, “unless they’re sold in the naval industry as anchors.”
“Well we’re in agreement there.” I said. What about consumer goods?”
“What did you have in mind?” He asked.
“Nothing actually,” I admitted. “Clothing?”
“You mean our one size fits all trousers?” He asked.
I forced a laugh even though it was sad. “Sure I said. It does save on shopping time.”
“You also don’t have to buy new ones as you grow. You just unroll them a bit every year.” He asserted.
“Well there’s a selling point. What about shirts?” I wondered.
“We have two types of shirts. Embargoing either or both wouldn’t hurt the West at all.” He said.
“Two types?” I asked.
“Yes, we have those with just button holes in both sides or those with buttons on all sides. They never seemed to have gotten it right.”
I guffawed. His face reddened. I felt cruel. “Women’s slacks?” I asked.
“Afraid not. Those are just the men’s trousers turned around. The fly becomes a rear zipper. Russian women have learned to adjust.” He said.
I laughed again. “What about food, corn, wheat, sugar beets?”
“We don’t grow enough.” He said.
“Are you serious? Mother Russia can’t feed itself?” I asked.
“In theory we can, but it all goes to vodka, and we even have to import more because we run out on holidays.” He said.
“Holidays?” I questioned.
“Weekends,” he said.
“Okay, what about Caviar?” I asked.
“Impossible. Putivar is sacrosanct,” he insisted.
“Putivar?” I questioned.
“Yes, it’s called that at home because it’s reserved for the Putin family.”
“All of it?” I asked.
“All to the last measly crushed egg remnant. They consume it all.”
“Shoes, shoes!” I exclaimed. “Russian shoes last forever!”
“Only because we can’t afford new ones and also the taps.”
“Taps?” I asked.
“In 1944, Stalin gave the order to manufacture 400 million combat boots thinking the war would last forever. We’re still buying and wearing those boots. There’s another 200 million left.”
“Why aren’t they selling?” I wondered.
“The taps. Can you imagine a regiment advancing at night wearing tap shoes? As combat boots they’re useless.”
“And I assume there’s no explanation for the taps?” I asked.
“Oh yes, a German spy. For a while when people heard a Russian soldier approach, they could only imagine Bo Jangles.” He asserted.
“What about military equipment?” I asked.
“That we are selling. We wouldn’t dare touch that.” He said.
“So wait,” I remarked, “the one thing you make money out of you’re unwilling to ban, and instead you decide to restrict imports of food. Are you nuts?”
“Yes” he said, “we’re nuts. We’ve got a low level cop as a president and everybody loves him. He’s willing to starve them as long as they love him and they’ll love him as long as the vodka flows.”
“That’s sad, not funny,” I had to admit, “do you think this will work?”
“I really hate to admit it, but yes it will work. You don’t understand Russians. Remember Stalingrad.”
I did remember Stalingrad. The entire world and the Nazi army were astonished that Russia would willingly lose twenty million in a frigid Russian winter just to protect Mother Russia, the land of one size fits all trousers. But they did and what we never admit is that without that sacrifice the Battle of the Bulge would have been the Rout of the Bulge. Russia is Russia. It’s not like you and us.
***
BY MARQUEL: Putin Prepping for His Stalingrad
Perfect pitch!
ditto
ditto2
Oh, Marquel, you are so sadly funny…Loved your piece
Putin is a KGB cop. He behaves like one. With one little difference. He has as much money as the entire KGB.