Barroom Brawl - US vs. Russia
I don’t know all the rules of war. The Geneva Conventions seem like a dry read. But I can usually tell when one drunk dude at the bar is about to sucker punch another drunk dude at the bar. There’s something about the way they stand. The sloppy drunken sway, the gentle throat clearing to rid oneself of excess gas, and finally, the painful grasp at composure that appears on any drunk’s face seconds before he throws his haymaker.
Now, on the western end of the bar we have the United States. He’s wiggling in his three piece business suit, scratching his crotch when no one’s looking. Mr. US doesn’t like the whole process of putting on and being trapped in a suit and tie, but he’s vein so he does it anyway. If he could come to the bar and get his dick sucked in sweatpants, trust me, he would. In the meantime, he’s accepted the banker look and appreciates the fact that it attracts anything with breast implants and a bar tab that needs paying.
Mr. US has plenty of cash. He showed up to the bar in a blacked out Yukon and doesn’t plan on leaving until he’s good and drunk. After being ignored for too many seconds, Mr. US grabs the bartender by the shirt collar and demands to see his manager. The manager sooths things over and urgently brings Mr. US a Martini with an olive. Mr. US drinks it quickly and wipes his lips on his sleeve.
Across the room, on the eastern end of the bar, we’ve got a thick-necked fella wearing blue jeans, an army green parka, and a trooper hat. He’s bare-chested under the parka and slightly sweaty. He gets the bartenders attention by waiving a pistol and orders a double Vodka. The bartender pours the drink and with only a cold stare, is instructed to leave the bottle. This man is Russia.
In his own words, Mr. Russia “likes fuck and fight.” When he cannot have one of these two things, he will settle for a stiff drink and a rub-n-tug by a hefty woman named Olga in a bathhouse. If the second option isn’t available, Mr. Russia will display his great disappointment in whichever way he sees fit.
At his end of the bar, Mr. Russia throws back his double vodka and shatters the glass at his feet. Mr. US, orders another Martini, downs it, and tries the same macho maneuver. Unfortunately a Martini glass doesn’t break with the same enthusiasm. This makes Mr. US slightly embarrassed and aptly pissed. Mr. Russia resentment from across the room and gives Mr. US the finger. Now we’ve got a situation.
This is the situation I’ve grasped by skimming the headlines over the last few months. The only difference – the real world situation has a much higher potential for damage than a casual barroom brawl. The United States and Russia are essentially playing war against each other on two different fronts.
Side one, roll the clocks back a year and take a look at Syria. Civil war, corrupt governmental regime, chemical weapons, civil unrest, rebels – the whole nine. The United States postures and takes a stance on the side of the rebels who fight against Syria’s President, Bushar Assad. Meanwhile, Russia continues to operate as an ally to Syria staking its claim as President Assad’s main weapons supplier. This is the passive aggressive Cold War cassette – side one.
On side two of the passive aggressive Cold War cassette, in the Ukraine, you’ve got Mother Russia firing up her tanks to annex Crimea. For the uninitiated, annexing is like going into the refrigerator at work, grabbing a lunch bag, crossing out the name, and writing you own. In terms of the dispute, it’s obviously much more complex than that. In coincidental opposition to this Russian presence, the United States is supporting the outgunned Ukrainian troops with “non-lethal” aid. As far as on the surface, this non-lethal aid amounts to; military training, hundreds of troops on the ground, and 230 U.S. supplied Humvees.
Who knows what happens next? I’m no expert. All I know is – Mr. Russia just took off his parka. He’s standing shirtless, thumping his chest with his fist. Across from him, Mr. US is aggressively struggling to loosen his necktie, regretting the fact that he didn’t just wear the goddam sweatpants.
