Russian President Vladimir Putin, the oft-shirtless enemy of journalists, has taken to the op-ed pages of The New York Times to troll America’s eminently trollable policymakers on the matter of Syrian diplomacy. There is a staggering lack of seriousness and/or honesty behind his words, as an expert fisker is more than capable of pointing out.
But it’s in his final paragraph that Putin attempts his mic drop, riffing on the concept of “American exceptionalism.”
My working and personal relationship with President Obama is marked by growing trust. I appreciate this. I carefully studied his address to the nation on Tuesday. And I would rather disagree with a case he made on American exceptionalism, stating that the United States’ policy is “what makes America different. It’s what makes us exceptional.” It is extremely dangerous to encourage people to see themselves as exceptional, whatever the motivation.
Yes, that’s from Vladimir “We are a victorious people! It is in our genes, in our genetic code!” Putin, precious bodily fluid worshipper.
Now, there are a lot of people who are inclined to jump up and freak out about this, including many who really need to simmer down and stay focused on serious matters of state. So I got this.
You want American exceptionalism, Vlad? Click this link.
What you see before you, Vlad, is something called “The Fuck’it Bucket.” It is sold, to exceptional Americans, by the Kangaroo Boxing Club, a restaurant here in Washington, D.C. Look at that thing! What is it? People eat that? Aye, verily. Per the Washington City Paper’s Mary Kong-DeVito:
“A bowl full of awesome,” according to the vague yet accurate menu description. “It’s a creative channel for whoever’s in the kitchen with all our menu items at their disposal,” says co-owner Trent Allen. The dish always includes fries, and may contain some combination of quesadillas, bacon, brisket, chicken, pulled pork, grilled cheese sandwiches, pizza, cheese sauce, peach pie, or blueberry pie — everything but the kitchen sink.
Most people would die if they ate this. Not us. Sure, there aren’t enough mountaintop removal experts alive to blast the lipids out of our gullet once we consume this thing, but the point is that we persist all the same. Also can you be sure that this isn’t literally a kangaroo boxing club? You can’t.
Oh, whatchoogot there, son? Bowl of cold borscht again? Adorable.
You know, here’s something else. I’ve been watching a lot of videos from Russian dashboard cameras — which are, according to Mashable, a necessity in a country where the streets are “perilous” and “psychopaths are abundant” and “the Russian Highway patrol is known throughout their land for brutality, corruption, extortion and making an income on bribes.”
The most striking thing I’ve learned about contemporary Russian culture from these videos — aside from the fact that no one in Russia is capable of making a trip to the store without crashing spectacularly — is that the pop music that is always, always playing in the background is terrible. A non-stop aural shame shower on the radio dial.
How does it feel, Vlad, to be in charge of a country whose pop music peaked with Boris Grebenshchikov? I hope it feels good. Even when our pop stars are as universally reviled as Miley Cyrus at the VMAs, it still sounds like the Beatles’ white album compared to that dreck.
Now I’m going to put on a DVD of the “Miracle on Ice” and then head out later to celebrate the wedding of some gay friends of mine.
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