Thursday, February 6, 2014

From the Diary of Vladimir Putin

Dear Diary,
Threateningly eying a rainbow at the World Economic Forum (Image)

I can't believe that the Olympics are finally here.  I'm so excited my hand was shaking this morning while I was drinking my glass of breakfast vodka.  My hand shakes like that every morning.  But I'm pretty sure today it was because of the excitement, as opposed to the tremors of nightly alcohol withdrawal which cause it most mornings.

I really hope the Olympics go well.  I know that aside from vodka, the Siberian Tiger, and Mila Kunis there are few perfect things in this world.  However, it is my hope that the Sochi Olympics could rival these things.  I had a dream last night that I shot a rainbow, so I think that's a good sign of things to come.  I hate rainbows.

Intelligence reports have been indicating that there are women in the Olympic Village who might carry out some sort of violent act during the games.  They call themselves Black Widows.  To me that's a pretty stupid name, though.  Anything that needs eight legs for locomotion is an unarguably inferior life form.  If I had eight limbs I'd use two for walking, three for touching breasts, one to hold a glass of vodka, one to jail protesters, and one to hold the high-powered assault laser I'm going to have made so that I can shoot rainbows in real life.  You know what the say, after all: The only way to fight the multicolored refraction of light used to symbolize homosexual pride is to shoot it with a really, really straight beam of light.

I've always kind of wished that I could compete in the Olympics.  While the knowledge that I would undoubtedly win gold in every event I enter does seem enticing, I feel like it's better to let lesser men quarrel over those shiny pieces of metal.  Besides, I'm a guy who likes to fly under the radar.  Standing up there on that podium day after day, medal after medal just seems monotonous, and a waste of valuable time which could be spent drinking vodka.

I am a little bit concerned that the gays will try to make some kind of statement while they visit.  I thought about just revoking the invitation of the entire country of France, but I thought that from a political standpoint I would appear more merciful if I treated them like an actual country instead of what they are: a land full of fairies with stupid hats who stuff their face with phallic bread and fermented grape piss.  I need another glass of vodka.

I need to admit something, Diary.  I'm not a man who is without fault.  There are a few things I've attempted in my life at which I have not been able to succeed yet.  One of these things is complete control of tangible physical objects in nearby outer space.  If I could, I send another near-Earth asteroid like the one which exploded over Chelyabinsk towards the skies over Sochi during the figure skating competition.  To me, the gays are like panes of glass: I look through them as if they aren't there, and I assume that they shatter into a million gay little pieces when hit with the sonic boom from exploding meteors.

Part of me hates that Russia is hosting the Winter Olympics--I just can't relate to any of the events.  I know that it makes sense for me to live in a cold climate due to the way I exude such immense warmth, but deep down I'm really a Summer Olympics kind of guy.  Can I tell you something, Diary?  I'm an incredible president and an undoubtedly impressive person.  But if I were born again in another life, I know that I would devote my life to topless horse ballet.  I know it sounds like a bit of a stretch because of all the things I do in the public eye which are wholly dissimilar to shirtless Dressage, but I really feel like it's something that would just feel right.

Don't you ever tell anyone that, Diary.  I'm fucking watching you, and I have eyes and ears everywhere.  

I'm serious.  Even a peep and I'll throw you in solitary confinement faster than you can say "pussy riot."

Putin out.

Ok, not quite yet.  I need to wait til this erection goes down before I can walk outside.  Thinking about topless horse ballet gets me every time...

Thanks for listening, Diary,

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