At the luxuriously laid festive table, the host plunked a bottle right in front of Basia.
“What is it?” the curious Basia said, reaching towards the bottle. Then she saw that the label said “Putinka” and recoiled with a terrified moan.
“Why is it here?” she hissed. “Did you see this? I almost touched the vile thing!”
“It’s a brand of vodka,” I explained. “This is probably just a humorous postmodern gesture on the part of the host.”
“Postmodern, my ass!” exclaimed Basia who is not a literary critic. “Did you see the host’s shirt? It says “USSR” and has Soviet symbols on it!”
“Yes, but this is probably just a humorous postmodern. . .” I started but soon wilted under Basia’s severe stare.
“Let’s drink to the health of our. . .” one of the guests started.
“No, forget about that!” the host exclaimed. “Let’s all just go back to Russia to help OUR PUTIN!”
“Yes! To Putin!” cheered the guests.
“I’m so not drinking to that!” wheezed Basia, turning beet red. “And if you use the word ‘postmodern’ again, I will stick a fork into your hand. Glory to Ukraine!”
“Glory to the heroes!” I yelled*, drowning out the Putinoid noise.
* “Glory to Ukraine! Glory to the heroes!” is a greeting Ukrainians exchange in the aftermath of the Revolution.
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