Take me to the prairiedog city.

Dusk comes late to the Russian countryside in the dead of summer; late, but with the swiftness and sureness of impending vodka-assisted cirrhosis. As the shadows lengthen, babushka-girded women and their be-flanneled men gather their ghastly pale children close and trundle them off to the simultaneous comfort and crushing ennui of a night at home. For tonight, as every night on the vast Eurasian steppe, something unspeakable stalks the land:

Vladimir Putin.

In a statement that would seem crass anywhere but a country where fully three out of five adults can't point out the subcontinent of India on an unlabeled map, I honestly didn't give the President of the Russian Federation much of my time. Oh, I could have told you who he was, where he was born, sundry stories of his presidency and his favorite cocktail - but then again, you could do that too, right?

Needless to say, when I read this, I came to simultaneously understand three very important things.

1) Good ol' Vlad's gone quietly out of his motherhumping gourd.

2) His PR people, who'd probably seen their share of sleepless nights after the Kutsk submarine fiasco and the whole Chechen-rebels-killing-small-schoolchildren things, were most likely hastening to open various blood vessels in hot baths, perhaps even en masse in a grisly show of solidarity. And who could blame them? How can kneeling down, opening a five-year-old's shirt in Red Square and tenderly kissing his belly "like a kitten" be made into something that is even remotely OK, let alone light-hearted and innocent? Shet, I've got the fecking willies, and I live on another goddamn continent. And I am 26. It's skeevy, sketchy and creepy on nearly every level one can imagine.

3) Sometimes blog-fodder falls directly from the sky, like sweet, nutritious Little Debbie cakes.

***

In five days, I will board an airplane and, for the second time this summer, depart from the sacrosanct airspace of the United States for ten days of loping about in our Neighbor to the South. The Big Burrito. The Hot Tamale.

May-hee-co.

If you want the God's honest truth, I'm ready to shet my bretches. Nobody I know is offering me any sane advice. An example of this so-called "sane advice" would be, oh, letting me know how to say "Thank you for your offer, but I do not wish to purchase and consume undercooked animal offal" in Espanol. From what I have gleaned from several people who have gone and, dehydrated and dry-heaving from their puckered o-rings, returned, I should not:

- Eat the corn-on-the-cob from the street people, because the last thing they do before they give it to you is DIP THE WHOLE FECKING COB IN MAYONNAISE. I politely informed them that this wouldn't be a problem for me, because the very idea of consuming this "treat" made me want to strap on a pair of steel-tipped boots and kick a nun to death.

- Buy a small, hairless dog, because when I brought it home and took it to the vet's to get some medicine, I would discover that it was *weary gasp* a Mexican sewer rat. With rabies. And distemper. And diarrhea.

- Allow a busty lass to sidle up to me in a bar, because her drinks will melt my credit cards. *twiddles thumbs* No problems there, my friends. None whatsoever. [whistling]

Oh, and uh, if one more person tells me to not drink the water, I am afraid I may have to kill yet again, and I am out of lime and my shovel's in the shop getting a new handle.

I'm sure I'll be fine. Yep. No worries here.

[packing economy sized box of anti-diarrheals]

Until later this week, I remain,

Domonic (ontheplusside,Mexicoisoneofthemaskcapitalsoftheworld) Potorti