War tourists were everywhere on a rainy morning downtown in Kyiv, dressed in costly khaki pants outfits, mid-fifties, Glenn Corn outtakes, moving in groups, smoking not to look bored, on vac, followed by vloggers1.
(Why is it so easy to dislike former senior CIA executives conspicuously “legendary” fucktards bumbling around Kyiv?2 Just the sound of a pack of monied amigos – oh Glenn you’re wicked, see you half-six Craig Jones – is mortifying, the phalanxes of unshaven half-gaping faces with polydirectional teeth and the tittering air of distaste for how painfully alien and unhip this all is, rather, is just so ick.)
Ukraine’s Parade of Infantilism:
We recall Vitaliy’s post, Партнери нас зрадили?, from April 2.
Anyway, I was on the way to buy some honey, which is really neato.
Here’s the screengrab of Uncle Joe’s statement yesterday showing the inspiration for ending our six-month suspension of belief.
Don’t hold my breath.
Poem of the Day: Tulips by Sylvia Plath
Part of this bunch.
I usually never bother, even in cases of extreme error, to fix these things after the fact: I’m dreadfully lazy. However, since a number of Guatemalans and Taiwanese wrote to grouse about this multinational generalization, I’ll revise the inappropriate language, maybe.