When I see that wonderful Cyrillic alphabet in the title, I always know what I’m going to get.

Well, not exactly what I’m going to get of course. I’m not a mind reader, and everybody in Russia is half out of their minds anyway, so mind reading might not help. But I always have a hunch that something wacky is going on just past the play button. I’m rarely disappointed.

Picture, if you will, the Russian Fire station. The phone is ringing off the hook. There is a wide assortment of supermarkets, apartment buildings, buses, trains, planes, trucks, cars, scooters, nuclear power plants, and mulecarts fully aflame all over the immediate area. There are pools of flammable hazardous waste leaking out of everything, and even the infants smoke. The Dalmation has three legs left from the last time they all got a notion to do something fun.

Sergei or Ivan or Ivor or Leonid answers the phone once in a blue moon, and yells over the frantic cries for help: Call back later; we’re busy out front.

[Thanks to tovarisch Gerard at American Digest for sending that one along]