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.’

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A Drunken Alan Watts Has My Vote


When I was a small kid I wanted to be Perry Mason. No, not because he was fat and could fall on and crush villains, or had a future as a crippled bastard, but due to the use of words. And he had other people doing the minor details.
Then I heard JFK speak – and thought, that’s it. You could look at Richard Nixon and just lift your leg, fart on him, and that would do it for him.

Thus at the same time, I began to wonder about other politicians. What made them believe they had solutions to almost everything when some of them looked like they last read a book called Dick and Jane?

Was it just that they listened to other numbskulls, and then derived their ideas from what those poltroons had not said as well as what they yapped about? None of them seemed particularly schooled in intellectual discovery, as in had a sense of curiosity that extended beyond their own specific interests.
To me that resulted in immediate dismissal of any desire to know more of what they had to say.

Plus they seemed like moral cripples who waited to see how many yelled ‘yay’ or ‘that’s the ticket’ to validate their ‘ideas’ (really cribbed sketches of ideas), at which point they would either shrink down and run away, or stand up and start drawing attention. No matter if the ideas were good or bad. Like circus barkers, ‘Come one, come all, buy my shit.’ Nah.

Outside the generational politicians with a heritage of riches and thus attendance at highly valued colleges, the only other choice seemed to be in those who had a rough life, and thus could brag about being ‘of the people.’ But were they just incipient psychopaths who did not play well with others? Not exactly a source for comfortable inspiration.

Which brought me to the point where I questioned the fact that many were trying to be inspiring, which I found particularly horror-ible.
One of the philosophers I listened to regularly when I was younger was inspiring just be being himself. Alan Watts. Other than that, he was a fucking drunk who lived on a ship. But brilliant.

You could imagine the insults if he tried to run for office. ‘He lives on a ship, and it’s not his.’ ‘He drinks too much.’ ‘He believes in philosophy, can’t kill enemies with words.’ The usual bullshit from non-entities who don’t have a single original idea between them… but unfortunately, the standard.
It used to be said that a nuthouse was like a snakepit, a mental ward where the only thing separating the chuckleheads from the keepers was who held the keys. That became my view of politics and their supporters.

I heard Stephen Lewis talk. He was the son of one of the Canadian NDP (New Democratic Party) politicos. It was like music. Reasoned, passionate (bright, therefore passion wasn’t about yelling and overpowering, circus-like), and far reaching. Inspiring. He’d get my vote… but the vote was a given, while the ideas were not.

So obviously it’s clear whomever wanted my vote would have inspired it, not solicited it. And to me that said it all about so-called politics. The best and the worst of it. An immediate dismissal of those attempting to earn it (i.e.Nixon), and a yes to those who’d inspired it (JFK).

After that we’d get around to their ideas. And an examination of those in power with whom they had to interact. Which would make clear their characters, for examination, not approval.

Seems like the process is backwards now. i.e. current Prez He may have inspired, said the right things, but he lacks in the follow-up department where he is open enough to speak about what worries a great majority. Debt, jobs, the country’s position in the world and how all those things combine and interact with other influences.

I think Shakespeare got it right when he said, first, kill all the lawyers. Meaning I suppose that there was endless yapping and a protracted misery that made them rich and enabled while others merely wilted or died, and process was reduced to a sterile, tortuous ‘conversation’ in which the principles had absolutely no interest.

Today, we’re surrounded by ‘lawyers.’ A mass of uneducated, unlearned intellectual versions of lightweight flipflops merely reactive to every other flipflop. Everybody knows everything… sort of, they all have an opinion, with a lack of knowledge, schooling in their subject (in depth details), and culture in every aspect, except a very select number of writers, has been reduced to this representative gossip good for old ladies of either sex. I know the sand rats probably love that fact. The country’s making warbling tools, and they’re busy schooling psychopathic warriors, all the while China is quietly taking over and sending an unspoken message, ‘learn Mandarin, ah so.’
When everybody knows everything, no one knows anything.

And the politicians, political candidates, reflect all this. In terms of historical awareness, and an inspiring difference, real ‘smarts’ (articulate with lessons learned from history/philosophy/literature/psychology backing up words) are as rare as a red diamond.
Everybody hears the noise-some crap, but no one’s noticing that it’s not the real thing. No true substance at all because the politicos are basically diaper full and nothing more.

Give me Alan Watts drunk on his ship, or Irving Layton (called Canada’s “greatest poet” by Leonard Cohen) reciting his own poems, Stephen Lewis just talking, or the icon Bob Dylan mumbling on stage (as distinct from the funny person), instead of the current tower of Babel just waiting to fall.

© Dean J. Baker

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