CoolMintCreme
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Ivan and His Satellite
Once upon a time there was a communist named Ivan.
He was a resourceful fellow. Through a connection to a Party functionary in Minsk, Ivan connived a seat atop a disused satellite launched in the heady days of 1968. Its electronics were poor, so Ivan brought along a drainpipe fitted with ashtray glass to use as a telescope. He rode the satellite atop a musty saddle filched from a crusty Cossack who had been a butler in Northern Mongolia.
One day Ivan was hurtling through the heavens eating pelmeni dipped in garlic dill sauce when he spied the edge of something interesting. We all know that a satellite has no brakes, so if you are riding one you must keep your eyes peeled for noteworthy items. Luckily Ivan was flying low: At 600 km over the Earth, making 7.56 km per second, he would need to wait only 97 minutes to return to the place where he could get another look.
Ivan wanted to be ready, so he polished the glass on his telescope as he flew. All the while, he sang a beloved Russian folk song entitled Go Home, My Cow: “Shtob sýta býla, karovushka maya, shtobý slivotshek, buryonushka, dala!” (“You must be satiated, my dear cow, that you can give cream, my dear brown cow!”)
In no time at all he was back above the fearsome Bible Belt of the USA. This time around, Ivan leaned on the kickstand of his satellite to get a Nevsky prospect on the object of his curiosity.
And there it was: Alone in a field of soy, Ivan saw the detestable Sean Hannity standing alongside the dry erase board whose upper lip the leftist had glimpsed from 372.8 miles overhead. The board featured a flow chart geared to Realtors® headlined “Getting to Yes.”
Ivan struggled to hold down his pelmeni; garlic sauce can be disagreeable after seeing things you find to be unpleasant!
Now Ivan was by no means an ideologue, but in this moment he saw his duty clearly. It vexed him to unravel the seams of his best underpants, but he worked with a sense of mission that was most extraordinary for a young man raised in a collective environment. Luckily he had brought along two forks, so it was no great hardship to sacrifice one of them to his new purpose.
It is tricky business to maintain tensile strength in 600 km of underwear string when you are traveling at 27,216 km per hour. All the skills Ivan had honed as a poacher along the Tynda to Komsomolsk rail line were about to come in handy, I can promise you that!
Somewhere above the Mendocino Fracture Zone Ivan began to unravel his string. Its business end had nearly touched terra firma near the Belle Fourche river in northeastern Wyoming. The flaps of Ivan’s fur hat were flying as he sped through the exosphere across the imperialist heartland.
At last Ivan’s chance was upon him. Like a space age fisherman he delicately drew upon his line to set it right and make it ready for the decisive moment.
Sean Hannity looked up when he heard a sharp whistling sound. The fork caught Murdoch’s puppet beneath his sturdy chin just as he was lifting his fescue from the tray fixed to the board. Ivan gave the string a tug and in one precise motion he had hooked Hannity’s head and torn it up and away from the shoulders.
Arteries dangled like bloody shoestrings. Ivan thought of taffy as he studied the distended superior belly of omohyoid muscle hanging from Hannity’s severed neck. “My chore is nearly complete,” the crafty communist said to himself.
On the outskirts of Petropavl, a city in northern Kazakhstan, Ivan dropped Hannity’s head into a stewpot tended by a babushka at the edge of a modest garden. The gentle grandmother was nearly splashed with hot broth! Just the same, her family enjoyed a special treat that evening, and they rejoiced at the good fortune that had come to them from the sky.
< Message edited by CoolMintCreme -- 9/20/2012 1:36:44 PM >
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Ivan and His Satellite (A Leftist fairy tale) - 
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