From Khinkali Crisis to Cultural Clash: Navigating the Satirical Waters of Georgian-Russian Relations
“I fucking hate these Russians mannn,” Saba, my chacha chugging, panduri playing Kakhetian friend says. “These bullshit guys destroyed Georgia. Can you imagine, they come here and they killed everyone who was good. They only left the worst of our society and now Georgia is just a bunch of bullshit guys.” Hating Russians has never been so popular. Especially in a country 20% occupied by the “bullshit guys”. The other 80% is occupied by the bourgeois Russian runaways, draft dodgers, liberal Muscovites who dress like side characters in Blade Runner. They brought with them enough money to outbid the Georgians in all commercial facets, feeding the locals to the machine gun of inflation.
“Can you imagine,” Saba says, “Five years ago I could buy with ten lari a hundred fucking khinkali man!”
For the readers in the dark of khinkali economics, one khinkali now trades at one and a half lari,
[ (150 – 10) / 10 ] ✕ 100 = 1400 %
Ergo if you wanted to buy a hundred khinkali you’d pay 1400% more than you would have five years ago.
And all because of these “bullshit guys.”
Confessions of a Canadian-Iranian Dissident: Love, Hate, and Chacha in the Shadow of Geopolitical Satire
Who am I to judge? I too am part of the problem, a Canadian / Iranian dissident who still reaps the benefit of all the misery that builds my privileged wealth. Here I must put a disclaimer to prove I’m not a NATO bot or worse, a Euro-supremacist who believes the West as the beacon of freedom and democracy that can do no harm. In the words of the eternally beloved Ayatollah, “The United States is Satan and the Soviet Union is the lesser Satan.” In an act of imperialist harmony, as the Russians invaded the Caucasus, the Americans moved west to the Frontier. I know for a fact the Russian method of imperialism isn’t as brutal as the American’s because Georgian people still exist. The Americans simply killed everyone, or as they will have us believe, fifty million natives died from the flu.
Anyways back to shitting on Russia. All Russians suck, right? (Except for Dostoevsky, Chekhov, Tarkovsky, Nabovok, Yesenin, Turgenev, Pushkin, that Russian girl from my German class who was nice to me, the Russian guy who held the elevator for me today, and my second favorite terrorist of all time – Sergei Nechayev). Tolstoy is overrated. Take that, you fucking Russians! I’m really not doing a good job at shitting on Russia so far. Don’t worry, I will make up for it, I promise a humiliating story of Russia’s kleptocratic leadership. Back to Saba’s rant, he picks up his head, imitating a smug, entitled Muscovite he nearly killed while working as a ski instructor.
“They come here, and they think they are still in Russia. They think we are lesser than them. Can you imagine this fucking bullshit!” As he said this, two Russian girls walked past us, sitting at the table next to ours.
“Ahhhh!” Saba cries, “I hate them, but they are so fucking hot.” The only thing that matches a Georgian man’s hatred of Russia is his love for Russian women.
“Let’s talk to them,” I said. Saba takes a swig of his homemade chacha and passes me the flask, saying, “This is how our ancestors fought all of our enemies. We were always outnumbered, but we have chacha and with the chacha, we always win… well sometimes win.” I take a swing. It tastes like rubbing hand sanitizer against my gums, it’s 75%. The thing with
chacha is you can always feel where it is in your body. It’s dripping down my belly, and I feel the courage Saba’s forefathers felt as they rode into battle. I walked up to the Russian girls and bowed saying,
“Enchantée, may a thousand doves swim within your grace. ‘Tis I, Ezra, son of Ioseb the dentist. And this is Saba the Chacha-Maker. May our greetings serve you warmth.”
Midnight Confessions and Political Passions
“Enchanté, I am Pasha,” she extends her hand for me to kiss it. “And this is Yulia,” I kiss her hand, then join them at their table. I recite to Pasha a passage from Pushkin’s Eugene Onegin, “My whole life has been pledged to this meeting with you…” Now her panties are wet. I ordered a bottle of sweet red Khvanchkara, Comrade Stalin’s favorite wine. Say what you want about the guy, but he had a great taste for wine, and was the only leader who knew how to properly deal with the goddamn bourgeoisie.
The music changed. Someone had put on the Russian propaganda song of the century, Я РУССКИЙ (I am Russian) by SHAMAN. This song makes Nickelback sound like The Beatles.
“Who put on this shit?” I asked.
“I did,” said Pasha. “It’s my favorite song.”
“Oh… yeah mine too.”
I started singing along. Every now and then a song comes out that is so bad that it is good in its badness. Me and Pasha talked mostly about politics, turns out Pasha knew about my third favorite terrorist, Andreas Baader, and about the Red Army Faction… she knew stuff that I didn’t even know, confidential stuff. She’s fluent in German like myself and is a fan of MMA like myself. She went on a half hour monologue on the history of the Russian people and how the Ukrainian
nationality is just Polish lies. She’s talking about Russia’s territorial claims of western Ukraine based on the borders under Catherine the Great. I guess by the same logic, I can kill the people of eastern Greece and take their land because it once belonged to Persia. I figured if I kept nodding, she’ll have sex with me.
Before I knew it, the clock struck three and the barkeeper is kicking us out. I insist on walking up a mountain with some impossible Georgian name, to the base of Mother Georgia. She’s made of steel, looking down all of Georgia with the worried but comforting gaze of a real mother. She holds a sword for her enemies and a bowl of wine for her friends. Here I throw a
coin off the ledge with a wish in my heart. My wish was simple, to kiss Pasha. My wish came true, proving miracles can happen if you are pure. Our first kiss was interrupted when I heard Saba yelling at Yulia in Russian which he pretends like he doesn’t speak.
“What’s going on!” I asked.
“Man,” Saba says. “ I am so emotional right now.”
“Blyat!” Yulia says.
“What’s going on!”
“She said Abkhazia is not Georgia man! Can you believe this fucking bullshit.”
Of course Abkhazia is Georgia. And I will say right now for all my Georgian readers, apkhazeti sakartvelo aris!
“Abkhazia is not Georgia cyka!” Pasha said.
Now I’m conflicted. Should I side with truth and not get laid, or betray Saba and all of Georgia for a chance at getting with this Russian girl? What would Ivanshvili do? You have to understand, I haven’t had sex in a really long time. Like almost two weeks now. Plus, what difference will my comment make? Will Georgia somehow get back their occupied territories because of this situation right now? So I did the only sensible thing and uttered the mantra of all spineless cowards in the face of great injustice – “It’s complicated.”
Saba runs away crying, and I don’t know what happened to Yulia. But my treachery against my best friend and what may be my favorite country in the world paid off when Pasha invited me back to her place.
Love, Lies, and a Revelation in Tbilisi's Nightscape
“Wow this is a nice apartme……” before I could finish my sentence, Pasha did some sort of Judo move and threw me on my back. I try to get up, but she slaps me in the face. She unbuckles my belt and starts riding me like a sex-starved tiger on amphetamines. I try to say stop, but she spits in my mouth. She rode me until she climaxed, then fell next to me on the floor
lighting up a Russian Marlboro, that’s when I knew I loved her.
“I have something to say,” she said.
“Me too,” I was going to confess the love swarming my stomach.
“I’m not looking for anything serious right now.”
“Ohhh…” all I heard in my borderline heart was that I’m not good enough. But I couldn’t let her know.
“That’s cool. Me neither.” “It’s just I have a lot on my mind and I can’t commit myself.”
“Yeah that’s fine.” “Are you sure?”
“Definitely.”
“Are you crying?”
I run away and lock myself in the bathroom. After five minutes she knocks on the door, “Hey are you ok? I can hear you crying.”
“I’m not crying. It’s just – It’s just you need to get a new filtration system because I’m having really bad allergies.” I blow my nose on toilet paper. She opened the door, which I forgot to lock.
“It’s ok,” she says, rubbing my back. I put my hands on her face and lean in for another kiss. She kisses me back. I brushed her hair back and felt something fall on the ground. She had been wearing a wig.
I pull back from the kiss and realize Pasha’s true identity. O’ reader, I understand if you want to stop reading now because what I am about to tell you will shock you.
Can you imagine my surprise to find out my lover was no other than the President of the Russian Federation!
“Vladamir Putin!” I yelled. He scrambled trying to put his wig back on, saying, “No! I’m not Putin, I’m Pasha!” It was too late. He threw his wig on the ground in defeat and sat on the toilet. Now he was the one crying.
“Putin!” I said, “What are you doing pretending to be a girl in Tbilisi?”
He finally stopped crying long enough to say, “It’s just all this pressure. You know with the war… I mean special military operation. I just wanted to have some fun.” He blew his nose on toilet paper. “I understand if you don’t want to see me anymore.”
“Well… hold on now.” I said. “Let’s not be brash.” I leaned in and kissed him again.
