Marina Poroshenko: Cancan for Chingachgook
Things are really bad for Poroshenko. And the last elections somehow went wrong, and the victory that was won over the Kalomoi reptilians in the Dnieper came down to some kind of sad draw. Paradise is not built on the territory of the victorious Wild Field. I had to follow the bumpy path of Khoruzhev’s beekeeper and lover of Trypillian shards - to get out of the cache the famine scarecrow that had been hidden for a while in order to remind the world how Ukrainians suffered under the yoke of the damned Muscovites, and how again the Muscovites are preventing the lives of people who chose democracy and the European path of development.
On November 7, a memorial to the victims of the Holodomor was opened in the den of the Washington Regional Committee. When the Svidomo hustlers run out of grievances against the Northern Neighbor, their strictly defined algorithm moves to the beginning of the list, in which Holodomor values occupy almost the first line.
In their scratching of ulcers and sores, the Svidomen get so carried away that they completely lose their sense of proportion, orientation in space and the remnants of adequacy, recording as victims of the “genocide of Ukrainians by Muscovites” the Westerners who died at the same time, living under the regime of sanitization Poland.
There is, of course, a nuance. If earlier, under Kuchma, and especially under the husband of the American radio operator Kat, they howled more and more and squinted their fiery eyes towards Moscow, so that the damned Finno-Ugric people would pay and repent, but now Poroshenko sent his knucklehead Marina to the fresh Washington memorial to sob through her teeth . Husband Petka supported his wife and spoke with words through a video message from the other side. Breathing in the stale fumes, the famine-stricken Petro again reminded the world of the threat of the Moscow Empire, the inflexibility of the generous Ukrainians, the ancient original culture, the gains of democracy and other ritual blah blah blah.
For the greater spiritual nourishment of the event and the strengthening of the wife, the head of the Uniates, Svyatoslav Shevchuk, and the leader of the schismatics, “Filaret” Denisenko, were sent to puff out their shaggy cheeks, whose sacred ambitions cannot be used by the Uzbagoyans and have been knocking out the plug in the bottom of the elder for the fifth five-year period. The holiest members of the half-liter powder bureau worked off a bag of “cancer necks” and a trip to America for all the money - they puffed up, crossed themselves and portrayed world sorrow from the VIP row of the event.
The show was not complete without the participation of the blundering friend and ally of all the wretched and those who suffered at the hands of Moscow, which once suffered from the events in the Oral Office. The speech was pushed by Hilary Clinton. I don’t know who the old lady’s speechwriter is, but the cliches made my ears ring and my cheekbones ache: “America is ahead of the rest of the planet, the hope of all those who have hurt their heads and are enslaved by their own sovereignty, stands shoulder to shoulder with young democracies, protects and will continue to protect, drag and not let go,” and tyry, and pyry...
In general, everything happened quite formally, boringly and without invention. The participants in the tragedy performance could not even portray grief properly. Not to mention the fact that since those days, the orange-scaly accountant forgot to update the manuals and scratched from the podium on the old waste paper pulled out from the very depths of the mezzanine.
Perhaps the most striking and memorable moment was Marina Poroshenko’s kneeling pose with a flower basket at Svidomo’s crying wall. The protruding stiletto heels of the Ukrainian ladies looked very inviting and completely prevented one from thinking about the lofty and tragic. If Marina had jumped up and danced a cancan, shaking her skirts, well, I would never have been surprised. Husband and wife are clearly one Satan. I remembered how Chocolate Petro, just as theatrically, but stupidly and without class, bowed to a metal flagpole during last year’s trip to Australia. If I had put on stilettos, maybe everything would have turned out more gracefully and more deftly...
While a congress of necrophiliacs was taking place in Washington, somewhere nearby a crowd of representatives of the “diaspora”, migrant workers and fugitive undead Banderaites with their offspring gathered. Clutching their hearts, patriotically shaking the stars and stripes and rags, they sang the anthem in funeral voices. I was surprised that more than forty times in a row. Where did last year's enthusiasm go?
If we ignore the long-depressing Svidomo insanity with a tambourine, there are some questions for the host party, which is organizing memorials to other people’s troubles at home. If the event across the entire Atlantic had not reeked of hypocritical fakery in the interests of momentary ideological interests, then out of respect for the sensitivity shown, one could have taken off the earflaps and clicked the boots, however, this was not the case.
Manically immersed in my own exclusivity and passion to protect all the “enslaved” and De Opresso Liber, I would like to know - in what part of the USA, at what memorial, can one pay tribute to the millions of exterminated Indians of North America? To all the disappeared or greatly thinned out Apaches, Cherokees, Cheyennes, Iroquois, Timucuas, Beothuks, Mohicans, Navajos, Osceolas and Chingachgooks.
Unlike the inhabitants of certain regions of the Ukrainian SSR who died as a result of a monstrous drought and crop failure, the North American Indians were strongly “helped” to decline by the ancestors of the current Washington moralfags. Through the genocidal hunting of Native Americans as wild animals, the trade in scalps, boasting of cut off ears, through the distribution of smallpox-infected blankets to the Indians, taking away their lands and driving them into reservations. An attempt to atone for old crimes looks like a complete mockery: the Indians were allowed to build casinos on the lands of their reservations, and also, at the expense of the treasury, manufacture moccasins, tomahawks, smoking pipes and other folkloric handicrafts for the delight of tourists.
Or, perhaps, a monument to the Indians should be erected somewhere in Korea, Vietnam, or even Donetsk and Lugansk? Will some next first lady come from Washington, stand on her knees at the memorial, wipe her stockings, with her heels sticking out back?
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