Ukraine

Population: Vampires, gypsies, skinheads, prostitutes, weightlifters and spies.
Located: In Russia.
Known for: I wish Ivan Drago was from the Ukraine, or that it was called Ukrainia.

Ukraine. This one of those countries where the girls look incredible and the guys have the heads of potatoes. I have never understood this. I have never understood how a society with such an aesthetic discrepancy between males and females can ever be repopulated. I always assume that the female spies would stay with the foppish Brits and plastic headed Yanks they are espionaging rather than go back to the lumpy headed, wide eyed vampires clawing at the other side of the Iron Curtain.

One of the uglier Ukrainian males is Victor Yushchenko. He is the Ukrainian president. His eyes are tiny, like the eyes of a lizard and his lips are thin, like those of a chicken. His nose is overwhelmingly human, though uninspiring, and this menagerie of rubbish is all positioned on a coupon inspired by a round root vegetable. And then, during an election campaign, his face swelled, making his eyes squint even more and his pores enlarged but didn't expand with his face, which went outwards and outwards, resulting in pock marks and the skin texture of a burns victim, if the burns victim's face was the moon getting pelted by a flaming hot meteor shower if the meteors were lit safety matches.

It came to light that he was the victim of espionage, no doubt effected by the previously mentioned splendid female Ukrainians. That is another aspect of these Slavic bastards - they are always creative with their assassinations, or attempted assassinations. No point shooting someone, or strangling them from behind with a piano cord. No way. Your Eastern Bloc assassin prefers poison, and not just poison that you find in your Grandpa's shed, not the stuff with a skull and bones on the label, but radioactive gear that makes you look like cancer, or other shit that made poor Victor's face swell to elephantmanentine proportions and threatened to close those shrimpy eyes for good.

When Australian Prime Minister Harold Holt disappeared while swimming off Melbourne Soviet espionage was blamed. The media proposed that Russians had appropriated the frolicking aquatic Holt with one of their submarines. They proposed that it was in response to the seven troops Australia sent to Vietnam. And, given the Russian propensity for elaborate espionage, the public accepted this as a viable explanation as to the Prime Minister's disappearance.

Like there was a lobster shaped sub that plucked him by his budgie smugglers as he negotiated the Portsea shore break. Surely, if the Soviets wanted off with our PM, and I dare say they didn't even know who he was, an assassination born by a simple bullet sent by sniper, even while he was swimming, would be more cost proportionate to the offending Australian troop deployment.

The motherlickers could even dip the bullet in poison, if that so tickled their creative murderous fancies.

Or, better yet, send some of those delightful femme fatales from the Ukraine. Perhaps they could entice Harold deeper and deeper, past the breakers, past where he could stand. They would flash their delightful Slavic breasts and beckon him to swim "just a little further", where they would marvel at the uniformity of his round head, the decent spacing of his eyeballs.

Then they would push him under and hold him there between their muscular thighs where, with the memory of their accents and his proximity to their caviar dispensers, he would die the pleasant of deaths. A death befitting of a statesman, a gentleman, a good bloke.

R.I.R Harry
Rest In Rips