On Death Row

Composite blog consisting of notes, reflections, weird jokes, trip reports and amusing stories from the death row; some personal, some told and some fabricated, I have to reckon!

BEWARE!! This is neither a porno nor a politically correct site... more probably is a highly misanthropic and overtly cynical terminal account

Ridendo castigat mores, that I freely translate as ”humor improves behavior” , not that I believe, but it sounds nice!

22
Jul
2018

SOME AMAZING DISCLOSURES OF A NEW RUSSIAN CONSPIRACY

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The pigeon mystery

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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 suspect lack of urine’s smell in metro ( I am a  veteran Parisian I know what  I am talking about ), the exaggerate cleanness of the streets and plazas, the absence of beggars and of the army cum police patrols, carrying heavy, very modern and scary, machine guns and cute berets. Who for God’ sake is assuming my security? Three meagre and often paunchy police force armed with short wooden sticks? Or are they magic wands?  The homeless were so rare that when I have seen 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 behaviour was squeezed by ruthless dictatorship and severe discipline. To be sincere I have to add that Russian in general do not smile, are not very  kind, pick their teeth after meals  and are rarely engaged in overt, outdoors  sexual activity. It seems that they are suffering of a national libido inhibition. Confidentially, I have to tell that the preposterous 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 a terrible need, both mental and financial, they 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 some mature reflection and deep thinking I remembered that Russia is the country of the Pavlovian Dog. It make sense that  all the dogs of the country were submitted to   a Pavlovian Training, and as a result they all  do their 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 the Islamic traditionalism (Erdogan being a conservative and not a fundamentalist, yet) quite remarkable in affirming, once for ever, 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 that I was at odds with the behaviour 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 tumbles face first, all in the subway of their own metropolis, just for fun, fun fans of sorts,  became suddenly lamb meek and gentle. What is going on boy? Are 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 behaviour of the pigeons. For reasons that are not yet clear to me the Russian subculture has the habit to stuff 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  to patch with high and low, stone or metal  reliefs any building where a totally unknown  personality, like you and me, lived, used the kitchen and the sanitary for a various time period. Distasteful! Their nationalistic behaviour 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 antisemite (there are plenty of antisemite who are plainly 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 blast off thinking that I had a scoop.        

However, when I have 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 begun to worry. Cherneschevski was not a genial anti-Semite, neither a major writer;  he was only a early utopian socialist, dreaming of 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 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 the page twenty something he said, I quote from memory, my dear reader I know that you are an idiotwhat I wrote until here  it was only to lure you in 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 really great men or even do worst and leave marks of their infamous visits.

Unable to focus too much upon 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 file like waiting for the Saviour. I left immediately. I do not know what the Saviour has in mind; it can start with mild reforms of language (she, he, it) and end with inquisition rituals (auto-da-fé!!).

Using one of the most subtle inventions of the Russian mind the pereschod, what means a passageway, which allows  one to pass underground, to walk  from a subway trajectory  to another, to anywhere and reach eventually 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 on 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, dense kind of stone, heavy on his shoulders, has 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 who 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 kind 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 descendent of Peter the Great’ Ethiopian secretary and later army general, Abram Hannibal. Pushkin, not his grand-grand father, was and will be for ever Russian number one poet whose art work 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? Not offense meant! A pigeon…I failed to burst in tears….Some conspiracy is at work…You can judge by yourself! During the time that I was refuelling 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 misbehaviour, but the anatomical construction of 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  a hard ground for delivery. Birds are mostly, scientifically speaking,  dropping from the air the product of the 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 for ever. I do not think that I have seen more than three hawks during my last eighty years. And the hawks, differently from politicians, have a very sensitive gastrointestinal tract while the pigeon are totally scum bags.  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 by experience. I am ready to give up! 

Quite crestfallen I went into a bar to have some enlightening drinks. It was full with 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 have 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 instil to 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 is going 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 will see the Americans electing a dog for president or a centenary hilarious woman, the Saudis choosing a gay king, like me, the Iranian 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 droppings marks – 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 will start 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 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 moustache properly. So, me, 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 to mention again, I have to tell you that across the windows of my cosy 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 colours 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!
 
 

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