The Origin Of Names in Certain Russian Characters: Vlad Pootin’

How Vlad the Tooter became Vlad Pootin who now is Vladimir Pootin’

Coming from some deep Russian, Ukrainian, Polish ancestry on one side of my family, I can vouch for the necessity of name change.
Superstition, bureaucracy feeding on its people, a sense of privacy required, and the freedom to begin without the weight of idiots’ prejudice.
Thus we come to the status of world leader Vladimir Pootin’ – and the origins of his patronomic.

As might be guessed, and divined from great Russian Literature, as well as the tiny bit of knowledge of the real world that gets through which the media fails to block, Vladimir is the Russian leader who is ex-KGB, strong, authoritative and prone to eliminating enemies, perceived and real.
He’s kind that way. He does not relegate them to government jobs by which they might snipe at him via malicious gossip. Smart to do so.

His ancestors were likely peasants grubbing the land, ducking whenever Stalin the Sentimental Butcher came a-roving. Of necessity they ate potatoes, beets, roots, and cabbages.
Thus we come to the origins of his familial name.

The family knew – because he told them – when Vlad was young that he’d be a leader, making sure to gather food for them. That sold them on his career; his neighbors helped, and the word spread: support young Vlad and eat well.
However, most people wanted proof so when young Vlad was not stretched back grazing on the family’s jewels: taters, beets, cabbages – he was sent forth on walking trips to spread the proof.

Given that the government wanted to eliminate any challenge whatsoever, a method was devised whereby he could assure the peasants, and keep his name secret.
His many cousins would arrive at each town and set up a table, with a big chair toppled backwards on which young Vlad would make his ‘speech.’

Upon secretly arriving, Vlad would climb the chair, facing away from the audience; who would be greeted with only the aspect of his arse presenting itself for their perusal.
His cousins would charge the audience with statements such as, ‘Who wants to always eat!’ and ‘Trust the one who gives you food!’ and ‘What is the surest faith?!Proof!’
With one more statement, young Vlad would be prompted to begin his convocation of confidence: ‘And in Russia, what is the greatest proof of constant food, since we dine on potatoes, and cabbages?! – nasty farts!’

At this point Vlad would start his toot-worthy attempt to make known the Russian anthem in support of patriotism.
The crowds were swayed. A few fools everywhere though demanded proof that he was not a government plant, and asked him how could they know he was dining on cabbages, and that these were from their areas.
His politician’s brain went to work.
‘You know how there are certain dialects for many areas, variations on a common ground of language? Well just so with vegetables, and their after effects in specific scents!
Come closer and smell the proof!’
At this time, anyone looking at the many spectacles taking place with each meeting in the small towns would be greeted with the sight of a line of small children, old women and bent–over men lining up as if to kiss an anonymous ass, then walking away with smiles of satisfaction. Claude Lévi-Strauss would have been stupefied in his attempts to detect the origins of such a habit.

Thus Vlad’s fame and authenticity passed.. so to speak. His anonymity was guaranteed. This did present a problem of how he might gain electoral office if he wasn’t known, yet his identity disguised.
A clever peasant, Bilary Clintoniak, was who employed to snatch the fleeting will-knots off Vlad’s butt – lest they harm the townsfolk – came up with the minor disguise of changing the last name Pooting to Pootin’.
She fully expected to assume the throne, as well, although rumor has it she merely got hit by a stray will-knot as she attempted to snatch a few and market them as gems later.

Thus in their efforts to disguise this great pretender to the Russian throne, a certain essential and inescapable reality was missed.
Vlad had named himself after his activity. The media had translated his name with a ‘u’ rather than the more common ‘oo’ after the P.
The fact that it was not his name at all had been lost.
Small clues began to emerge when ‘Vlad’ was heard muttering ‘Just watch me,’ and ‘Fuckez vous’ and ‘ Le Pierre, c’est moi’ (although to be fair this was mistakenly heard and translated as ‘I am your peer.’*), despite the fact that many English speaking people will swear that he said, ‘I shit in your ear.’

And so began the myth of old dead bloodsuckers being dug up and assuming office, pooting their way through the land and the people as some complained, some exclaimed, and all were unable to smell the trees because of the breeze.

©Dean J. Baker

*Disclaimer: this is not Pierre Elliot Trudeau, former Prime Minister of Canada, who is verifiably, and really and truly, dead as can be attested to by the long lines of Ontario residents que’d up to take a dump on his grave at $100 a ‘shot’.
Far be it for the editors to imply that they have heard rumors that the governors of La Belle Province have been heard to be thinking about turning the incurring piles into apartment buildings for ‘ce foutu anglais, le maudit anglais’ in a misguided attempt to erect a shrine to their former leader.

When poet Dean Baker was asked his opinion, he said, ‘A shrine to Turdeau? made of vacationers’ dumps? I like it. It has a certain ‘je ne sais quoi’, but let me not repeat myself.. so to speak.’

It is not recommended that you purchase the following:

Baker's Bad Boysch1ch2_tm2<–and most certainly not

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Baker’s Bad Boys – The Stiffsicle

“I found your cat.”
Words spoken on an extremely cold February night by the older Baker bad boy, Dean.

Terry and his tormentor, Dean (aka brother), were visiting their cousin John, in Hamburg, New York. Accompanied by their father and mother in the house that Uncle Walter built himself. The adults were sitting in the living room, making noises with their mouths about other relatives. Silly Sally, aka Aunt Sarah, and the Baker’s bad boys’ mother were listening in, murmuring about this and that.

“Where is she? I can’t see her!”
Dean spoke upwards to the eager young faces of his brother and cousin looking down from the second story window, which had now been raised fully.
“Come on down and I’ll show you.”
The two blissfully unaware young goobers shouted that they’d be right down, slammed the window, and Dean stood by waiting.

It was the first evening of one of their annual visits which all three looked forward to, knowing they’d be raising hell and the bar for juvenile delinquency in many a series of unexpected events.

The front door broke open, and the crunching steps pronounced the boys imminent arrival.

“Well, where is she!”
“There.”
Cousin John looked and if a kid could gasp, did so.
There was his beloved cat, frozen stiff as a fur popsicle, horizontal to the ground at the base of the tree.

Terry just stared, wondering what evil brother Dean would make of this.

“Why didn’t you tell me!… do you think she’s dead?”
“She’s a big frozen stiffsicle!”
Poor cousin John erupted in a crying rage, saying that’s not funny. Which of course made it hilarious. Both Dean and Terry cackled loudly.

Dean, in misplaced empathy, picked the departed kitty up and leaned her against the tree.
“There, she at least looks like she’s alive.”
“This was her favorite tree.” After a pause, John added, “I thought I heard her last night, told my Dad, but he wouldn’t let me go out… the bastard.”
This description of a nearby adult, along with the circumstances of the dear departed, caused a frisson * of discovery to rattle through all the boys.
“And now she’s dead!”

At this moment, the fursicle, aided by the winter wind, leaned a little left from the tree, then slid down to the ground below and rocked back and forth.
This caused all three Baker’s bad boys to look at each other in a startle, and then break out laughing.

“Stupid cat!” yelled Terry.
“I am the ghost of John’s cat, meowwww,” pronounced Dean.

“What’ll we do with her, John asked, my mother loved that cat, too.”

This question was solved in short order, resulting in the boys running inside, screaming about how cold it was, how they thought they heard Johnny’s cat. Making sure that his mother heard this, and would react with motherly concern.

“Is she out there, boys?”
“She has to be!”
“I thought I heard her by the front somewhere,” Dean stated.
Terry had somehow vanished in his usual Terry way.

“C’mon, Mom, could you at least come to the front door and see if you can hear her?” Johnny asked.
Silly Sarah concluded that it would be no exercise to simply humor the boys, so she marched toward the front door with them.

A slight but almost unheard meow caused a rustle amongst Silly Sarah and Johnny and Dean standing together.
“What was…”
“Shh!”

Simultaneously, so that it was not quite heard, a louder yet indistinct secondary meow was heard.

“That’s Pearl, Mom!”
“Did you hear that, Dean?”
“Yeh, I did.”

Aunt Sarah opened the inner front door to enable a view somewhat through the frozen over glass outer door.
The hush was interrupted by another startlingly clear meow.

“That was her, Mom!”
At which point as Aunt Sarah turned to look toward them, Terry came around the corner of the house and cracked the outer front door, to yell, “I found her!”
This caused Silly Sarah to step outside on the porch slab, while both Johnny and Dean crowded behind her.
“Well, where is she!” crowed Aunt Sarah.

At that time all three boys pointed to the ex-kitty who had been tied to the railing around the porch at waist level, and started a chorus of meows.

Aunt Sarah caught a glimpse and immediately inflated into adult hyperbole.

“You little bastards! Whose idea was that to tie that poor Kitty to the railing!”

Sadly, all three Baker’s bad boys had hustled into the house by then, and slammed shut the front door.

With the two Dad’s talking loudly, and Dean and Terry’s mother enjoying the conversation, it was difficult, for awhile anyway, to hear Silly Sarah’s outraged calls to be allowed entry, accompanied by a chorus of meows at every instance of her insistence on having the door opened.

This was indeed a good beginning to their visit, but nothing in comparison to what was to occur the next night……

©Dean J. Baker

*frissongreatly anticipated teenage rebellion

see more in…. Baker’s Bad Boys 

and don’t miss their cousin Harold…. Cousin Harold’s Adventures In The Real World

 

 

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Latest poetry – Blood Upon The Moon

latest prose poems – Soliloquies Of The Horizons

 

Disclaimer: None of the events in any of the stories in either Baker’s Bad Boys, or Cousin Harold’s Adventures In The Real World actually took place. Therefore, they are untrue. Well, at least none will be admitted.

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