Sochi and the “Putin Wants a Penis” Games

After the unexpected PR failure of the first new event, “Puppy Killing”, Putin games organizers nervously roll out the second group of new sports: the Putinathalon!

Welcome to Part Two of The Elegant Bastard’s preview of new sports debuting at Sochi’s Putin Olympiad (also known as the “Putin Wants A Penis” Games).  The first sport, Dog Destroying, failed to garner much public support but organizers have big hopes for the much hyped “Putinathalon” .

Like the decathlon and heptathlon of summer games fame, the Putinathalon is actually a collection of events, the main difference being that any number of separate contests can be added at any point by any on-site Russian president.

The rules for these contests vary but each must involve an identifiable phallic symbol being modelled in public. A phallic symbol is arguably anything that’s penis shaped – in other words, it’s longer than it’s wide – but purists have demanded that only traditionally masculine objects be included. Thus, rolling pins, sharpies and curling irons were not approved for these games. Instead, a competitor must successfully squeeze in his (right) hand any one of the following: an automatic rifle, a fishing rod, a paddle, a large dead fish, skis or a tranquilized tiger. Alternatively he may pose sitting astride what appears to be a very old horse or a photo-shopped bird of prey.

Whatever the phallic object, the subject must grip it tightly long enough for state media to take the appropriate pictures. (Photographers are expected to crouch and angle their cameras upwards, thereby adding height to the subject and length to the object.)

Note: There is no expectation that the competitor will actually use the object. In fact, those standing nearby would prefer that the subject not have the opportunity to let the object go off prematurely.

As we all realize, symbolism is a fragile art and to ensure that the penile does not accidentally become the puerile, certain mandatory exclusions have been imposed. No competitors are permitted from countries or races that allow men to grow taller than is absolutely necessary. In fact, to ensure symbol security, potential competitors must be exactly 5 foot 7 inches and hold a public position equal to but not greater than that of  … well … a Russian president.

All events require competitors to appear bare-chested. Some will also require the wearing of Speedos but a quick glance at similar Putin pictures already posted at Google Images (just enter Putin and “bare”) makes it clear that no one could possibly be offended. (There may, however, be a fair amount of giggling.)

Given the necessary restrictions, no one will be much surprised to learn that current Russian president, Vladimir Putin, is the only competitor and will likely take gold, silver, bronze, tin, lead and silly putty medals in each sport. Please note that the medals for these events will not be circular. A special assortment of ten inch long rods has been commissioned. It is unlikely that Putin will wear them around his neck.

At the conclusion of these new events, Putin is expected to announce that Russia’s current national anthem is to be replaced by that popular ‘70’s songs, “I Wanna Be A Macho Man” by the “Village People”.

You heard it here first! Tell your friends.

Those wishing to hear the original version of the proposed new anthem may find it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AO43p2Wqc08

Puppy Killing and other new sports at the Sochi Winter Olympics (1)

In which the Elegant bastard chronicles the smaller stories that are part of these, the Putin Ego Games

The Elegant Bastard’s Winter Olympic Games Report (1): My task is to provide ongoing analysis of the new sports Russia is introducing to these, the Putin games. The first, Dog Killing, will begin – like a few other sports – prior to the official opening. The unusual feature here is that organizers hope to have the entire competition wrapped up early as well.

This new sport includes three events:  Whole Pack Pumping, the Individual’s Elimination Round and, for younger viewers, Puppy Popping. The first will involve teams armed with light machine guns converging on those Olympic sites where groups of stray dogs gather to sun themselves and beg for scraps. Making every effort not to accidentally strike straight tourists, teams will fire carefully aimed bursts whenever they encounter suitable targets. Official scorers will travel with each team. Points will be awarded for greatest number of targets hit within the allocated time. There will be “only wounded” and “still whimpering” deductions.

The “Individual’s  Elimination Round” will focus on single dogs who enter journalists’ unfinished hotel rooms or who take “unsightly” naps at official venues. Competitors will initially be expected to use only pistols but, if necessary and with permission from any official, machine guns may once again be used. Games volunteers will accompany competitors and will have a supply of plastic bags in which successfully achieved targets will be stored. In those few cases where single small dogs have been taken down with machine guns, it is likely that hoses will be necessary to prepare the field for subsequent events and official visits.

The final sport is arguably the most difficult to master. Puppies are small and unpredictable targets, dashing in all directions in search of food and their mothers (all of whom will likely have been involved in the Individual’s Elimination event.) Competitors will be expected to take down one puppy per shot (officially referred to as a “pop”.) Bonus points will be awarded if one “pop” takes out two or more pups.

In keeping with the IOC’s expectations that Olympic sites and materials be recycled wherever possible, all weapons used in the three events will be sent to the Syrian government at the conclusion of the games.

As is expected to be true in all judged events, Russia will likely sweep the medals board.

http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/europe/sochi-killing-stray-dogs-in-preparation-for-the-winter-olympics-9105046.html

(While the Original Elegant Bastard attends to the games, apprentices will post the regular pieces. Later today, a new way to deal with fitted bed sheets will be posted here.)

Sticks Up The Bum, mr. putin!

A word of explanation: the Elegant Bastard acknowledges that this is the second consecutive post involving foreign objects being inserted in various body parts. This should not be regarded as a trend. The “fly up the nose” of the previous post was a committee decision, one made after more than one bottle of a good Ripasso. As for “Sticks up the bum”, that phrase came (as does so much that is wise) directly from the mouths of babes.

Oh mr. putin, mr. putin, mr. putin. What are we to make of you, eh? Here it was, a lovely Friday morning, one so sunny and so mild that here in Toronto we could all sit back with our morning beverage, gaze at the whimsical flurries of snow  and imagine a ford-free future.

And then you had to spoil it all by saying something stupid like, “Gay people will be safe at Olympics if they ‘leave kids alone’.

Now really, mr. putin, what was that all about? Did you grin at the image of outraged crowds rushing to all available microphones, ranting and raving about homophobia, your own abuse of children and your latest insult to the Olympic spirit? Did you smile and envision hordes of commentators spluttering in fury and waving the reports that completely invalidate your scummy accusation? Did you giggle in anticipation of the storm?

Look around, vlad. Listen carefully. It’s only one day later and – guess what – no storm. Where are the offended masses?

They’re walking dogs, vlad, or they’re watching football, or studying, or, in my case, prepping an upcoming post about some recently encountered white wines.  And why not? You’re the boy we’ve called “goof” once too often for there to be any chance we would take you seriously. Oh, there might be some minimal “analysis” or “commentary”. It’s a Saturday, typically a slow news day and something’s got to keep the ratings up. But most of us will, I think, just shrug our shoulders and see it as yet another bad vlad day. That’s how irrelevant you’ve become.

And in any case, mr. putin, we know you were not posing an argument. You were performing. For you as for Iran’s ahmadinejad, North Korea’s un (and recently its rodman), Syria’s assad, Toronto’s ford, and all the other piggy-eyed little chinless wonders who periodically find themselves on the world stage, it’s not about the content, is it? It’s about the noise. You are there to make noise and any noise at all will do. What’s fascinating is the motive, this question of what makes putin “tick”?

Just who are you, mr. putin? At first I saw you as a modern day Iago, that great villain from Shakespeare’s Othello. For readers who have yet to experience the play, here’s a brutally brief synopsis of Act Three, scene one. Othello, a Moor (and therefore non-white) has married Desdemona (quite white), the young daughter of a Venetian nobleman (very, very White!) All the affected and offended parties (largely white) storm into the palace to see who (or how many) will end up headless. Every Grand and not-so-grand Poobah is there. So is Iago (kind of pale grey or off-white). He is Othello’s servant and a truly nasty little man.

In the next few minutes, everyone – except Iago – gets to speak: the ruler of Venice, the Moor, some senators and even a teenage girl! Iago clearly feels this is an insult because as soon as the stage is empty, he struts, frets, threatens, pronounces, fumes, cackles and even adds an occasional mwahahaha to show himself what a big bad boy he is. He basically behaves like a poster boy for erectile dysfunction.

That’s more or less how I saw putin – Iago without the cool iambics. In short, he seemed to be the classic little man. Throw in a big case of penis-envy and you’ve got someone the NRA would love to get to know.

But that idea didn’t work. Oh it explained the most recent anti-gay slur and his unsubtle bullying of the Ukraine. But these acts were obvious and clumsy, akin to our ford’s attempt to toss a football or run a lap in the council chamber. The original Iago could be subtle when necessary, and putin doesn’t do subtle.

I next imagined him as a little boy wearing his daddy’s shoes and demanding to be allowed to sit with the grown-ups. His manners are so terrible, however, that he is banished to the children’s table in the pantry. Here, instead of throwing potatoes at his sister, he sells arms to Syria.

Whether little man or little boy, the key word here is “little”. It’s clear that putin, like our ford, feels his smallness. In one famous television scene, he and America’s Obama are sitting beside each other on a stage.  putin gets to his feet. Then Obama stands up – and up – and up, up, up. The look of absolute hatred on putin’s face is almost shocking. Rumour has it that putin’s photo shoots are arranged to ensure that no one taller than he is included in the scene. (Apparently this makes it difficult to assemble much of a crowd.)

Yet there was something about the “little” variants that still didn’t quite satisfy me. “Little” came close to expressing his essence but something essential was missing. I discovered the secret in Prague.

The Czechs are famous for puppet theatre. A year or so ago, I had the opportunity to walk through a showroom created by one troupe of performers. Here we could see the puppets at rest. They were all standing and with most, the strings were evident. But a few had the strings folded and placed neatly beside them. How then, I wondered, did they stand erect?

One little girl, clearly bursting with scientific curiousity, decided to find out. To the crowd’s horror, she slipped under the guard rope, ran up to an elaborately dressed puppet king and lifted his gorgeous robe. She then called to her mother, revealing the answer to all (who spoke Czech.) However, translations were made available and the whole room soon dissolved into multilingual laughter. What had the little girl said?

“Mommy. He has a stick up his bum.”

In fact, he didn’t. The puppet was simply mounted on a cleverly designed stand. Still, the little girl’s mistake was understandable. And as I reread the story of Putin’s gratuitous and boorish insult to visiting gay athletes and spectators, I am reminded of the little girl’s comment. It captures the missing piece of the putin puzzle  and is equally true of assad and ahmadinejad and our ford. They are puppets, caricatures of power, each held in place with a stick up its bum until its time for it to dance,  twirl, kick, or fight according to its masters’ dictates.

What part of putin made the comment about gay visitors – the Iago, the little boy, the man on a stick? It doesn’t matter. It’s noise. What can we do about it? I suppose it would be nice to expose those who pull the puppets’ strings or manipulate the stick. That would help. Oh yes, and one more thing.

 We could stop electing them to high office.

To the Reader: As Facebook attempts to deal with its unpleasant economic realities, it seems to be changing the way it serves its members. Whether the issue is capacity or shifting priorities, fewer and fewer people are notified when members post. If you enjoy “The Elegant Bastard” and wish to know when new material is published, you should consider going to its facebook page and “liking” the page ( not just a specific post.) Apparently you will then be notified when new posts occur. Here is the link:  https://www.facebook.com/theelegantbastard

 

 

The Devious Daylight Murder of “O Canada”!

In which the Elegant Bastard points out to singers and song stylists everywhere that while the national anthem is our national anthem and even my national anthem, it is not your ticket to stardom!

Somewhere around the 6th grade, I stopped singing the Canadian national anthem. I had not abandoned patriotism, nor had I intellectually evolved to rejecting the concept of nations entirely. (That happened at 18 during my annoying years.) About all I had turned my back on by age 12 were broccoli, short pants and fried liver.

I stopped singing “O Canada” simply because all the other boys in my class stopped. The classic symbols of manhood were only vaguely understood by then – and in that culinarily challenged time, none of us knew what quiche was so we could hardly refuse to eat it as part of some gender based protest. But we all seemed to know that singing a national anything was not part of “male cool” and that was enough. If proof that men didn’t sing was necessary, all a boy had to do was watch a televised hockey or football game. True, the anthem might provoke a tough jaw-clench, but in no male faces was there any indication that they even knew the words. (In fact, during many subsequent visits to various sports parks where large portions of the male audience seemed to sprawl in their seats, their great beer bloated bellies raised to the glory of God, I wondered whether they knew any words at all.)

My 12 year old self had not rejected singing entirely. My friends and I had learned that singing Presley and the early Beatles allowed us to practice our (at that point purely hypothetical) pelvic-thrusting. (One had to start somewhere!)

And I’ll admit than on September 28, 1972, when Paul Henderson fired “the goal heard round the world”, myself and a crowded dorm room full of buddies tried (unsuccessfully) to belt out our nation’s song, but that was more booze and brotherhood in action than any pure love of country.

Yet in the years since then, I’d like to think that my male ego has grounded itself primarily north of the belt buckle, despite the efforts of Abercrombie, Fitch, Diesel and Levis to keep it south. I’d like to think that given the right chance, I’d be ready to “stand on guard” loudly, proudly and as close to on-key as anyone. And in fact I was more than ready to. I wanted to. And so, on February 12, 2010, I tuned in to the opening ceremonies of the Vancouver Winter Olympic games and cleared my throat. Who cares how the athletes might have been feeling. I was pumped. I’d even googled the words – just to be sure.

And then Nikki Yanofsky destroyed the dream.

Perhaps she has a great voice. Perhaps some publicity agent told her to do what she did. Maybe she mistakenly thought – or had been informed – that everyone was really there to see her, and all those flags were flapping around just to keep people warm. Whatever the cause, there – in front of tens of thousands of Canadians crammed into the stadium – she rendered the national anthem unsingable. It was impossible to even hum along.

From the opening dirge-like bars to her closing it’s-really-a-pop-song-and-it’s-time-to-BELT-IT-OUT style, it wandered in pace and pitch with a few vocal pyrotechnics thrown in – usually just when I thought it was safe to join in. And as she sang, it became increasingly clear that this was not about Canada. It was not about the Olympics. This was all about Ms Nikki, and anyone with the nerve to try and share the moment was going to be made to look – and sound – like an idiot when the anthem went off in yet another unexpected direction.

I’m not suggesting she was unique in this. I’ve Grey Cupped and Stanley Cupped and Super Bowled. Hell, I’ve even Brier-ed; I‘ve heard O Canada and Oh Say Can You See in rock versions, country and western versions and even one operatic version.  To me, those were merely sports moments and my inner patriot snoozed on. But this moment was, to me at least – and I think to many others – a moment of the Nation, and something in my quintessentially Canadian psyche wanted to cast off reserve, modesty and even politeness and just bawl out boring old “Oh Canada” to myself and to the world. I didn’t care about the billions spent. This was our time. We had long been misunderstood. Now was finally rooftop time and our collective barbaric YAWP was ready!

Then the lady sang.

And the anthem died in my throat.