Ah, mother Russia. The land of scrambled limbs and dashcams. Folderol and self-immolation. Their coat of arms is a fork in an outlet; their national anthem is a whoopee cushion under a faceplant. God bless them, and keep them. He must have a big collection of them by now; they burn bright but don’t last long.
(Thanks to Gerard at American Digest for sending that one along. He’s moved halfway to Russia to observe them more closely)