A letter to Putin from a concerned Russian citizen
|Dear Comrade Putin,
As a life-long member of the Communist Party of the Russian Federation, I have stood behind our glorious government and watched as we have shown the world how tough and independent we Russians are. My son is also a patriot. He is serving with the army in a tank regiment in the city of Matveev Kurgan, near the Ukrainian border. The last letter I received from him was in May, and he said the soldiers receive two rations per day, consisting of milled oatmeal and dried turkey meat. He did write that Russian vodka is always available, so I suppose that is good for the vodka manufacturers, as they consume quite a bit in his regiment. I used to send Boris care packages of dried fruit and cereal, but now these luxuries are impossible to acquire because of the sanctions.
Today I left my job at the paper mill and walked to Kretzky’s market to wait in line to buy bread. There were only three people ahead of me when I neared the front of the line and the broker announced he was out of bread. This is not uncommon, Comrade Putin. They did have a good supply of Russian vodka, though, so I stocked up.
At home, I settled in front of my computer, poured myself a glass of my favorite brew—you can probably guess what that is (smile), and watched a cell phone video someone had posted on Facebook of 250,000 pounds of Western food going up in smoke. I almost cried and I admit my stomach grumbled in consternation when the camera zoomed in on the crates and I could make out the details. Cases of corn flakes, chicken soup and yes, I cannot bear to think about it-- Oreos.
I did cry then, Comrade. My wife purchased Oreos on the black market for our 26th anniversary two years ago and I can almost recall the taste of the dark chocolate cookie melting in my mouth. I licked the white cream from each individual cookie and savored the chocolate part, eating one cookie each day for a month. It is a good memory. One of the few I have left. Anatolya is gone now. The doctors said it was cancer. Incurable. Like our sad country.
So I look out the window at the gray buildings and the heavy cloud of smog that hovers over the city I have lived in for 47 years, this city that I love, and I decide to write this letter to you. I am posting it on my Facebook page. Then I will chew the remains of the pain medication the doctors gave to my wife during the last few weeks of her life. I will wash it down with vodka and I will think about my life and I will rejoice in the fact that I do not have to wake up tomorrow.
Thank you for your service, Comrade Putin, and good bye. Yes, that is sarcasm. I read somewhere that you have Asperger’s Syndrome, so I wanted to clarify it for you.
A concerned citizen,