SOME AMAZING DISCLOSURES OF A NEW RUSSIAN CONSPIRACY

The pigeon mystery

or

What shall we do?

There were a handful of things I hated in Russia ( I am still there, so restrain is mandatory)  such as the suspected lack of urine smell in the metro ( I am a  veteran Parisian I know what  I am talking about ), the exaggerated cleanness of the streets and plazas, the absence of beggars and the army cum police patrols, carrying heavy, very modern and scary, machine guns and cute berets. Who for God’s sake is assuming my security? Three meager and often paunchy police force armed with short wooden sticks? Or are they magic wands?  The homeless were so rare that when I saw one I took him in my arms and kissed him (Jesus style) so much he gave me a feeling of HOME. Also, the total penuries of graffiti, the absence of muscular youth jumping over subway doors, or the subdued low tone of speech on public transportation convinced me that human natural behavior was squeezed by ruthless dictatorship and severe discipline. To be sincere I have to add that Russians in general do not smile, are not very kind, pick their teeth after meals, and are rarely engaged in overt, outdoor sexual activity. It seems that they are suffering from a national libido inhibition. Confidentially, I have to say that the total lack of dog’ turds*on streets gave me another proof of Russian cruelty and wickedness. It was one of the discoveries that I am most proud of. Russians are dogs mad. They can be in terrible need, both mentally and financially, and they still want a dog. OK. A COMPANION you will say! Not at all, they want a CHAMPION, a pure breed, which will cost a fortune and have to be treated like a prince. The Prince Cannis!..So how come? After mature reflection and deep thinking, I remembered that Russia is the country of the Pavlovian Dog. It makes sense that all the dogs of the country were submitted to Pavlovian Training, and as a result, they all meet their physiological needs at the same hour, in the same unidentifiable place, and get rid of results,  in the same manner.  I cannot see another explanation and I do not care for more details about this quite revolting subject. Now that the Turks have dropped the Darwinist Theory, which pretends that we originate from monkeys they can very well, after the last elections, drop the Conditional Reflex Theory too, which suggests that people are behaving like dogs. I felt myself tempted, more than once, to bark at all azimuths, especially when I heard some correct people lecturing.  So, I found, let’s face it, the position of Islamic traditionalism (Erdogan being a conservative and not a fundamentalist, yet) quite remarkable in affirming, once forever, the difference between humans and animals and the manifest superiority of the firsts! To hell with animal rights!!!

It is not my business, I reckon, but I have to tell you that I was at odds with the behavior of the English and German soccer fans. These practically beer barrels on legs, rude, vociferous, riotous fatheads, who may spill on one sulphuric acid or kick the ladies behind and make them tumble face first, all in the subway of their metropolis, just for fun, fun fans of sorts,  became suddenly lamb meek and gentle. What is going on boy? Are you afraid of something, of somebody? Just say a name…Deep silence!  I was disgusted by so much hypocrisy and ambivalence…  

Among the many things that shocked me most was the shameless and mysterious behavior of the pigeons. For reasons that are not yet clear to me the Russian subculture has the habit of stuffing all the open spaces of their towns with statues of famous nationals of whom educated people, you know what I mean,   barely have heard before. Worst, they have the custom of patching with high and low, stone or metal reliefs any building where an unknown personality, like you and me, lived, used the kitchen and the sanitary for a various period. Distasteful! Their nationalistic behavior is both overwhelming and insupportable, especially in our times of OPENING of both borders and souls.

One day, before leaving Sankt Petersburg, I remarked on the head of the genial anti-Semite (there are plenty of anti-Semites who are just stupid and among them many Jews)    and peerless contributor to the Russian classic literature, who by the way died crazy, Gogol, a pigeon doing something, eventually fawning! You know, these beasts are even more involved with themselves than humans. I experienced a heavy amusement. Life being what it is one has not to miss any occasion to enjoy the misery of others and even have a good laugh. I took a photo and blasted off thinking that I had a scoop.        

However, when I observed, near my quite friendly giant hostel in  Moscow, invaded by a TAME cohort of football fans, in a small square, on the trendy Pokrovka street,  a pigeon making itself at home on the head of   Cherneschevski statue I began to worry. Cherneschevski was not a genial anti-Semite, nor a major writer;  he was only an early utopian socialist, dreaming of the revolution who got some ten years of prison and exile. His book What Shall We Do? influenced generations of revolutionaries among which Lenin and made me laugh loud at the age of 12 when I had a brief access to it. I will tell you why shortly! He began the book like a thriller and by page twenty-something he said, I quote from memory, my dear reader I know that you are an idiot, what I wrote until here was only to lure you into my book which deals with serious social matters.   I found this approach in 1878 amazing and never went over the gate. Now, I began musing on the strange occurrences with pigeons that may hit great men or even do worse and leave marks of their infamous visits.

Unable to focus too much on one issue I took a metro at the Kurskaia station and hit in no time the Alexandrovsky Garden to buy a ticket for a Kremlin visit, decided as I was to play my tourist game to the bone. Thousand of people stayed meekly in the file like waiting for the Saviour. I left immediately. I do not know what the Saviour has in mind; it can start with mild language reforms (she, he, it) and end with inquisition rituals (auto-da-fé!!).

 One of the most subtle inventions of the Russian mind is the pereschod, which means a passageway, that allows one to pass underground, to walk from a subway trajectory to another, to anywhere, and eventually reach the moon. I, more modestly got out in front of Lenin’s library. The library,  an enormous fascist kind of building (here the adjective points to an architectural style) is hulking in retreat upon a kind of polygonal bleak plaza on which somebody sits deeply sunk in thoughts. He is nobody else than the massive, genial (again) Dostoevsky.  Feodor, carved in gray granite, a dense kind of stone, heavy on his shoulders, has a triple natural size, is bent upon his troubled past, and reflects upon his sinful life. While on his head? A pigeon….I got into a hysterical laughing session… Dostoevsky, an ex-revolutionary who also got ten years of prison and exile, and had a change of heart after, was the puritan’s  Cherneschevski most bitter enemy…My God, damn pigeons who do not make any selection….

Exhausted by my experiences, I do not remember how, more dead than alive I strolled on the Tverskaya street looking for a joint where I could get some vareniki, pelmeni, or pierogi, all these being some sort of related dumplings, which are the poor’ man local dim-sum. In comparison with the glorious literary talents of this great nation let’s suggest that their cooking is still in infancy. To reach the Varenichnaya joint, a chain after all, but also an epicurean (me) should live, I had to cross Pushkin Place. And there he stands the mighty good looking still young genial, (Oh yes!)  mulatto.  Pushkin was a descendant of Peter the Great’s Ethiopian secretary and later army general, Abram Hannibal. Pushkin, not his grand-grandfather, was and will be forever the  Russian uppermost poet whose artwork and personality I adore and revere. I think that I read five times his Ivan Belkin stories, three times the Capitan’s Daughter, and at least once everything else.  But what is on his head again? No offense meant! A pigeon…I failed to burst into tears….Some conspiracy is at work…You can judge by yourself! During the time that I was refueling myself with these poor dim-sum relatives and pestered by the Uzbek waiter who, against his Muslim faith, was assaulting me with new beer mugs I didn’t order, I began to analyze the mystery of the serial occurrence.

Do they use the top of the heads of these luminaries to alleviate themselves? It may, actually both Cherneschevski and Dostoevsky show some tracks of pigeons’ misbehavior, but the anatomical construction of the aviary excretory system, relies on cloaca, a kind of biological cesspool,  and forcefully, does not demand from one to plant his extremities, to land, on hard ground for delivery. Birds are mostly, scientifically speaking,  dropping from the air the product of their metabolism on the head or on the hat of the elected, who are after, the legend says,  good to hit the JACKPOT or visit a dry-cleaning shop.  

If this is a lame hypothesis let’s consider that the stupid pigeon is choosing a high spot to detect eventual hawks, their classic enemy. However, let’s face it,  if a pigeon has to rely on hawks to finish his miserable scavenger activity, it will live forever. I do not think that I have seen more than three hawks during my last eighty years. And hawks, different from politicians, have a very sensitive gastrointestinal tract while the pigeon is a scum bag.  Let’s drop (I should avoid this term) this shy suggestion also.

Desperate I look for a metaphysical solution. Chaval, in 1965, made an animation movie called: Les oiseaux sont des cons (the birds are dickheads!). It is possible that pigeons decided to pick wisdom from enormously intelligent individuals notwithstanding the material of their last embodiment. A kind of ultimate transfer signifying the triumph of the spirit on the matter! Impossible, both animals and humans are reluctant to wisdom. I know that from experience. I am ready to give up! 

Quite crestfallen I went into a bar to have some enlightening drinks. It was full of soccer maniacs, but in the corner was seated a guy with his back towards the screen. In no time I asked for permission to join him and got it. He was a depressed gay, half computer scientist and half geneticist considering suicide. I understood that I had to hurry up and I put the question to him.

You don’t know he said with a weird smile. These are genetically and surgically modified pigeons. You can call them cyborg pigeons. They are inserting, in an algorithmic form, (a concave one)  in the heads of the people, a finely shaped loci with a WiFi dormant potential that can be activated by a code. When necessary you can use the code, open the loci, and instill in millions a unique idea. That should be another algorithmic form, a convex one. A Yin and Yang situation comes into being. The world’s media fancies a similar approach but in a much more primitive, artisanal manner. They repeat the same biased assumption ad nauseam till it goes into the people’s brains and remains.  One of the first applications of this NEW, complex, scientific I will say, FIXTURE led to the election of Trump. It was experimental and it didn’t work hundred percent. Today it functions much better. Don’t be started if you see the Americans electing a dog for president or a centenary hilarious woman, the Saudis choosing a gay king, like me (hey! I mean joyous), the Iranians going into a make-love drive, the French starting a never-ending strike, the feminists supporting ritual clitoris ablation in determined cultural situations, the Swiss nationalizing the banks, the English queen and partner joining Lenin, right now,  on the Red Square for economy reasons, the Italians getting a never changing Cuban type of Cabinet, the Cubans getting a token BLACK and a token WOMAN in the government, the Israeli ceasing the Hunting of the Snark and acknowledging wise leadership that led to enormous economic development and first quality INFLATION  and the Chinese becoming LAZY BONES…Everything will be possible for the Puppets’ Master.

OK, yes, that sounds reasonable, but for God’s sake why were the cyborg pigeons programmed to land on thinkers’ heads and leave some obvious signs behind? Ha! Ha! and his eyes twinkled for the first time. Thinkers, it is obvious, people sometimes recognize them and they are located in central positions.  The dropping mark – it is more subtle. They are a forgery, painted by low-paid professionals, a kind of a tongue-in-the-cheek visual joke, you see? and he left without paying his bill and let me ask stupidly: WHAT SHALL WE DO?

Scared, out of my wits, I remembered that a pal of mine (he said!) was an ex-USA president, relatively still a young man and unemployed, at least until he started to give some lectures of one million dollars apiece as the other one. That one cared so much for the poor that he became filthy rich and buys by now  Cuban cigars, with multiple purposes,  by the kilo. (My friend also cared a lot for the poor who from his time on can afford to be sick as much as they want! They got O-Care, not NULL, O!…). I called him by videophone but from the face he made I understood that he was either CLUELESS or thinking of something else. I cannot blame him; to take care of the poor is a life-consuming job. They multiply exponentially. Look at Mother Theresa. The poor woman hadn’t even time to shave her mustache properly. So, I am stacked with the CYBORG PIGEONS without knowing what to do. Maybe one of you has a bright idea?

 

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Cautiously, discretely and in direct connection with the subject, which by decency I avoid mentioning again, I have to tell you that across the windows of my cozy but modest Parisian residence, on the sidewalk, there is a Marie-Antoinette rustic Versailles style fenced area, imposed – body and soul – by the city mayor, Anne something, and designated to contain a distinguished selection of semi-wild perennial flowers. What semi-unconscious citizens and dogs of many colors and origins, from mongrel to thoroughbred, made of this quite innocent and eventually inept project is everybody’s guess. In one word?  A garbage bin and an open-air defecation ground, respectively…. Woe to us!