How Are Things in the Ukraine?

Pictured above is one of the very helpful reports my blog receives from my exclusive partnership with Google. It shows my pageviews by country. I'm not going to say if it's daily, weekly, yearly, or all time. But it's one of those.

I happen to be in the United States, so of course I'm heartened that most of my pageviews are from home. This is the audience I frankly prefer, since most of them know English and are not located so far away as to be mucho foreign. As an aside, I'd like there to be a few United Kingdom visitors for the same reason, instead of all these other screwball places. But you know what they say about begging and choosing.

Still, look at what I'm dealing with! Canada, a measly 8? I can see France coming in at 11; I never speak Canadian, but once in a while I use French, like raison d'etre and savoir faire, so they like to see that. Turkey, I don't get, probably something to do with my Thanksgiving posts. Then there's the complete inscrutability of the others, excluding Germany, since I do on occasion say something about the war. Then Taiwan! Russia! China! Give me a break. All that's crazy, but the very craziest is Ukraine coming in just after the United States! It's the rabbit and hare all over; if America slept a mere 20 minutes, Ukraine would pass us and win!

My actual theory on what's going on sounds very dark, I know, even conspiratorial, but I'm going to say it anyway. Who's more into hacking, gambling, the black market, the sale of body parts, bootlegging, illicit drugs, and dropping out in the 8th grade than these countries? Over there, if you live to be 5 you've beaten the odds. So they're doing something with otherwise neglected websites like mine. Let's say it's like this: I have zero contact with any of them, making my blog the perfect decider for bets. They could look up a post, deciding that X number of characters from a particular line settles something. Web blackjack, roulette, vault combinations, longitudes and latitudes for mumble-peg tournaments, etc.

Going through the possibilities, I'm halfway afraid to ever quit writing. They might set my house on fire. And with global warming and a foolish thatch roof, that's nothing to joke about. I sometimes don't blog for a week at a time, then I get nervous I'm going to see a foreign head pop up on my screen making threats in a tongue I don't understand ... But I would understand the finger cocked like a gun. ... It's scary, the freaking Ukraine!?

If any Ukraine-ites do contact me, I'll try my best to mollify them, such as expressing solidarity with them against Putin, if that's how they swing. Solidarity with Putin if otherwise. Maybe they'll comment on my blog what they might otherwise tweet if Twitter goes down and they need a functioning outlet. For example, I'll say, "Ukraine, how are things?" They'll say, "Could be better," "There's shortages," or, "Tell your NRA patriots, send ammo."

That's important stuff, making it critical -- essential -- that I keep posting. I'm sure one of them is thinking right now, "There are shortages. For example, Putin has a short fuse, and who knows what else? He's willing to show his upper half, why not the lower?"

I'd absolutely love to get a tribute like so: "We need more Grandma Slump posts. It's the only thing that gets us through these tough nights. What with the Army rock 'n' rolling all night and partying every day." That's vivid, a slice of life under siege, and a decent compliment for me.

Something Put Him In An Early Grave

This is about a friend of mine, the late Q------ Wiswell, who was never married yet somehow found himself put in an early grave. He was 42, a young age to die at.

I've given it a lot of thought, and I'm wondering what it might have been that was responsible for his premature demise. It's a sad thing when people die, especially people with any degree of closeness to me.

I met Quentin in church. Of course church is where a lot of healthy people go. They're known for keeping their lives square not only with the Lord but with man. So they're not given to various excesses that so often spell tragedy for those outside the fold. And yet he died ... and I never heard an actual reason why ... Just a bunch of whispers. 

What might it have been? Why would "Q" have died so early? Maybe he was living a secret life. That happens, you know. Folks aren't always what they seem to be; sometimes they're quite a bit different.

Could it have been a secret life of gambling and debt? There's lots of people who play the ponies or bet on sports or are addicted to card games and one-armed bandits who die early. Because they're not frugal with their money. They get in deep with the wrong crowd. And before you know it, their money's gone, and so are they! But I never knew "Q" to gamble, and he always seemed to have enough money. He gave me a nickel for a parking meter one time.

Could it have been a secret life of drugs and alcohol? I despise it when people get hooked on all this crap. They think they're having a good time, which probably they are, until it's too late. You start taking that shit and you'll always be chasing the first high. Unless you only drink wine for your heart. But I never once smelled anything on "Q" or noticed any odd staggering.

Could it have been a secret life of treachery and espionage against his country? It's doubtful. You hear of double agents and spies who turn on their country for money or ideological reasons. But I was at his place several times and never saw any weird insignias, flags, microfilm, carved pumpkins, etc. Plus, I was at his funeral and saw his body. He wasn't beheaded, so he was clean in this area.

Could it have been a secret life of womanizing? It might have been! I probably shouldn't tell tales, but I did actually see him once going into a club well known as a hangout for women taking their clothes off, called strippers. The imagination runs wild. I can well imagine these cute girls taking off their clothes a bit at a time, say a piece and a half for every song on the jukebox. Or, to be more exotic, a classier lady with props -- boas, scarves, a shag rug, or a playful dog puppet, sniffing around -- taking it all off in a classier way. The first girl, she's just stripping for a quick carnal excitement. The exotic lady actually puts the tease in striptease! That's what leaves you wanting more, not someone just moving mechanically (and sometimes lethargically) toward stark nudity.

It is very well likely that "Q" died from watching too many bad strippers. That would put me in an early grave, too.

I Try To Fix A Pro Wrestling Match

I had a bright idea that the Organization should get involved in the professional wrestling game, specifically, to fix the biggest match in this area in some time, coming up tomorrow, Polish champ Stanislaus Zbyszko vs. dried up Jack Taylor.

I told Tony -- Mr. Big -- my idea, and he was dubious we could pull it off. One, he's never heard of pro wrestling being fixed before; it's always on the up and up. Still, I had his blessing, if I could successfully arrange it. He said he'd put 50 Gs on the match with a Zbyszko fall. Because of course Zby's the overwhelming favorite.

We got ahold of Al Reynolds, the promoter. I heard him yawn on the phone, "Surrrre, come over, bring your boys, whatever..." Tony told me to take the only former pro wrestler in the Organization, Big Brute, to help out, who was also skeptical. In short, we made threats, we used the old strong arm technique, both usually effective as an opening gambit ... but not in the field of pro wrestling! Those guys would not bend!

So Tony and Brute were right. And I'm thinking, You mean to tell me pro wrestling's on the up and up? Why aren't there reports of matches in the daily news, sports journals, and almanacs? You're telling me those big garish belts are actually awarded to legitimate winners? I couldn't believe it!

I said I wanted Zbyszko and Jack Taylor to trade falls, then for Zby to take a powder in the 3rd and final fall. Geez, what money there'd be! Stanislaus is a future hall of famer, no one expects him to lose! Taylor's best days are far behind him. Why they even picked that half dead layabout, I'll never know. Not when guys like Earl Caddock and Ed "Strangler" Lewis of headlock fame were available! You tell me!

Anyway, I didn't want to take no for an answer. I pulled out my gun. Brute tried to calm me down. I went up on the ring, shot 40 shells in the mat, and said, "That could've been your head!" They weren't impressed.

I asked the wrestling boss if he had any pictures of his kids. He tossed me his wallet. I took out a big string of pictures, stuck them on a nail on the wall, and shot the shit out of them. These photographic memories of his children, once so recognizable you could pick out each one as a distinctive individual, were like New Year confetti. You couldn't tell which were girls and which boys. All traces of gender were gone, as were all traces of anything, except you could still see the original photos were in color, since the pile of resulting confetti was colorful, as confetti generally is. It didn't matter, he said, the integrity of the sport was too important.

You mean to tell me?.....

I still had one huge ace up my sleeve. Before arriving, some of the guys had abducted some of these guys' mothers. We led them in in chains. They were crying, etc. But everyone remained very calm. The mothers were assisted into the ring, and some of the other boys brought in a full arsenal of machine guns. We were going to get a deal or the mothers would die!

But now it was the mothers' turn to plead, which turned out badly. Instead of pleading for their lives, they pleaded for their sons to keep intact their honesty. "We will gladly die, please allow us to die! Just do not stain your honor or that of professional wrestling for any reason as selfish as keeping us alive. The sport must be Number 1, it must go on! We've lived a good life. We are ready to die." They laid it on thick, as you can tell.

Meaning, we eventually let the mothers go, and gave up. I couldn't believe the sport of pro wrestling was indeed a sport, so entirely above board and incorruptible. I thought it was a sham. But every word is true. It happened just like I said...

In the end, I was philosophical about it: Into every life a little rain must fall. At least I thought that was the end. Al Reynolds and some of his bruisers grabbed us and tossed us around the ring like rag dolls, supplying us a full and vicious pummeling for good measure, their feeling on the subject, not mine.