Monday, October 19, 2009



My Dear!

Please release great comrade and eternal friend of Pubish revolution, Tim Ljunggren, to continue on the paths - revolutionary, economic, social, five year orientated and promulgated through institutional instruments of rehabilitation - to the glory of the worldwide creative thrust!

Thank you!

We kiss you!

But not your ass!

Verdimita "Steve" Ripyorebollokov

PS Is me, Maxim. Ha! Pull finger out, Tim. Let sun shine in!

You remember this below?

NOTES FROM PUBISTAN PART 3 – by Maxim Ripyorebollokov
Translated by Stewart Sumner

Dear readers, it is me again, Maxim Ripyorebollokov, the future of literature in the unfree world! Greetings to you all! As I squeeze the final drops of fervent dew from the horn of the affair with Larissa, Miss Pube 2007, a vegetarian, I thus seek the ultimate clarity (Trans – the Pubish word for red wine and lucidity are the same – klarkost. It is unclear what Maxim means to convey here). But where to find clarity? To shout loudly from the tree branch? To shudder in front of farmyard animal traffic? To pluck hair from a rabbit till the bladder is on display? “Drink to thine clarity”, the great Pubish poet Dmitri Ripyorebollokov – no relation – proclaimed as night was drawing in over State Rabbit Farm 6.5 one hoary night post-Revolution (Trans – you’re on your own here, the meaning is all but lost on a non-Pube).

O Sweet clarity, come forth to me. Show yourself, if thou’st dare. I was deep in thoughtfulness at the office yesterday when I was approached from behind by the man they call Spider. Officially, he is chief of quality control and a fine sculptor, which is a amplitudinous shame since sculpture was banned in the Second Decree of the Post-Revolution Phase of Our Great Revolution. So Spider – genuine name Richard but Spider since he is full of mischief and malice and crawls rather than walks. Also, he is deceptively quick to pounce. “So,” I said, “Spider, you are here!” “Yes,” Spider said, “I am. I have recipe for rabbit cake. You want?” I suspected a trap. “Yes, all right, Spider. Please.” Ha! He gave me no recipe, just the price to pay for such top secret information. You know, the last time rabbit cake was made in Pubistan was in the cruel, foreboding, winter of ’76. That was when we still had an abundance of cream. For your intrigue, now a bowl of imported cream cost 2 Pubes on blackest market. That is roughly 10 million of your American dollars! So anyway, I watched intently Spider with his hairy legs as he slowly crawled back to his darkened corner by the trap door to the exit used for employees who have displeased the furtherance of the glorious State of Pubistan in some despicable way. Sometimes, it is possible to believe Spider is indeed a spider and that it is my self-deception which maintains him to be a human being, but that way madness lies, and the trap door.

What does Spider want in life? What can he hope for? Will he fall through the trap door before he has realised his dream of assembling the greatest collection of octopedes the world outside Pubistan has never seen? Despite the fact that he is truly creepy and smells like a rabbit’s genitals after a prolonged session of heightened activity, I wish him only happiness and a resolution of his mother’s gender reassignment issues.

But sorry. Really. Where is the literature? You ask. I present you with two paragraphs of my novel, which unfortunately, do not follow sequentially, consequentially or even logically from what has gone before. You like? There is hope.

Night fell. The burrowing began. He stretched his arm out. The hand was not there. Just the newspaper with no news and the walking stick with no handle. They would find him. Soon. The trail of imported peanut butter would lead them to his resting place. His movements were slight. More twitching than calculated. The in-tray of despair mounted ever higher.

Were you gripped? And this paragraph. I think this might be the end. We shall see. Forgive me, for it is short.

The words tumbled. The wind blew. The extremely happy rabbit clucked. A pause. A heartbeat. Silence.

Oh, joy extended beyond, my friends. The literary journey continues. I must extinguish the candle now and think of Marsha, Miss Pube 2008, a carnivore. She could partake of my meat any day.

Long live The Pubish Writers Union!

Hail words together! May they never be parted!

I kiss you!


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