Return to Greatness

I realized today that I hadn't updated this space for quite some time. You might think it was because I was off having fabulous adventures -- climbing the Alps, scuba diving the Marianas Trench, or perhaps hunting Bin Laden in Waziristan -- but the reality is more prosaic. I forgot I had a blog.

No, that's not true. In all honesty, I really haven't found anything absurd enough to mock. It seems as though life conspires to increase the level of absurdity to match my level of sarcasm. The BP Oil spill and the Mongolian clusterfuck that is the government's response? They're doing enough stupid on their own that I don't really need to mock it. I think, however, I may have finally found something. It combines three of my favorite things: espionage, hottie Russians, and the NY Post.

For the past week or so, the cover story in the NY Post has been the arrest of a ring of Russian spies, specifically focusing on one Anna Chapman. Now, there are nine other people implicated in this spy ring, but you wouldn't know this from the NY Post. Apparently because the rest of the spies are frumpy and look less like Russian spies and more like your fat-headed cousin from Toledo who drives a pickup and likes Coor's Light.

Those of you who were hoping for my critique of the Russian spy plot can stop reading right now. I'm not surprised the Russians are still spying on us after the Cold War ended. We have something they want: Economic might and technological know-how. They have vodka and oligarchs. They also have something we want: A near endless supply of Russian hotties. I'm actually willing to trade whatever technological and economic secrets I hold for a Russian hottie. It could be like a "cash-for-clunkers" deal. Neither will I discuss the efficacy of inserting sleeper cells into our society, except to say that if I were a Russian spy being paid to live in the U.S. on Moscow's dime I wouldn't provide any credible intel either; I'd be too busy watching the American Chopper marathon and sipping MD 40-40 from the bottle.

What fascinates me is the Post's fascination with this story. It's been on the cover four times in the last five days. It always includes a picture of Ms. Chapman looking hot and smoldering. There's always some kind of lurid detail about her sex life in the story. There's always the obligatory paragraph that says, basically, "oh, there were also a bunch of other spies caught who were really too ugly to care about." Really, NY Post? Would you care about this story half as much if this woman looked like a Russian, sausage-and-potato eating grandmother from the Ukraine? Do you think our interest in this story is as purient as you think it is, or are you just being cynical?

(Back to the Russian grandmother thing: Yes, Anna Chapman is smoking hot. And she's apparently kinky (thanks for that important tidbit NY Post). But some day she will look like a traditional fat, dumpy, babushka-wearing Russian grandmother. They all do that. It's as if, genetically speaking, Russian women are programmed to become frumpy at a certain age. So take that, Russia!)

On a personal note: I've found a job and don't have to relocate the Fortress of Solitude to upstate New York. This makes the peacocks and lemurs in my menagerie happy. The hissing cockaroaches couldn't care less.