Election

An Open Letter to Andrew, Who Wants Me to Sign a Petition

Andrew sent me this forward. I don’t think I know Andrew. I know some Andrews but I don’t think I know this one.

Hi,

Today—just one week before the Electoral College meets to formally elect our next president—a bipartisan group of electors sent a letter to the Director of National Intelligence James Clapper demanding an intelligence briefing related to Russia’s impact on our elections in advance of their vote.

CIA analysts have apparently concluded that Russia sought to influence the presidential election in favor of Donald Trump, and that Russia got the result it wanted. But the level of that involvement and what it means for our democracy is unclear because the CIA has not made the evidence public, briefed key members of Congress, nor fully updated members of the Electoral College who are being asked to determine the next president this coming Monday.

The electors and the American public deserve to hear the facts. We cannot presume to know what impact Russia had, whether this should negate the election night results, or what it might mean for future elections until we review the evidence. And while it is unlikely to change the election outcome, Americans deserve the confidence in our electoral system that comes with clearly knowing the threats we faced and whether they had impact.

The president has a responsibility, among his final duties in office, to give Americans the truth, and help us establish confidence in our democracy again. He can and must order the CIA to brief the electors and members of Congress in full before December 19, and declassify and disseminate the evidence for the public to consider as quickly as possible.

That’s why I signed a petition to President Barack Obama, which says:

” The Electoral College has the right and the duty to see the evidence that the CIA has related to Russia’s impact on our elections. Declassify the evidence and brief the electors before they vote on December 19.”

Will you sign the petition too? Click here to add your name:

http://petitions.moveon.org/sign/direct-the-cia-to-declassify?source=s.fwd&r_by=15375497

Thanks!

I replied to Andrew as such:

Dear Andrew,

Thank you for your forward. I regret to inform you, however, that I am in fact a Russian spy and have been for several years. My actions up to this point include cleverly inputting small quantities of nuclear material into every day objects (I would recommend you get rid of that favorite mug of yours), hacking Trump’s personal email (and let me tell you, his tanning technique is far more invasive than anyone could have expected given the end result), and being Putin’s personal chest oiler.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. “Kathleen, how does one get the position of Chest Oiler Supreme?” or, as we call it back in mother Russia, “Cold Hands, Warm Heart, French-Fried Nipples” (Loosely translated, you must understand). My story begins long ago to when I was a youth who travelled the Trans Siberian railway with my father, who was conductor of the orchestra (you might have hear of them) for a short period of time in the early 90’s. His career wasn’t to last after he lost the use of both his elbows in a freak snow shoeing accident. After that we ended up in Moscow and I kept us alive by stealing rubles from the fur lined pockets of wealthy stereotypes until one day, after marking a certain local official, I was caught with my hand in the figurative cookie jar by none other than Putin himself.
My father, having only a slim understanding of Disney films and parental duty, readily sold me for a ticket to Fiji and some matching luggage which, in hindsight, was probably the best deal he could have gotten given how malnourished I was. I know it seems like this story is going to a weird place but just hold on, okay? So after thirteen years in the Russian Ballet (All young Russian girls are required to join the ballet. It doesn’t matter if you have two left feet or prefer video games. Historically, every woman of Russian origin has been a Ballerina for at least 30% of her life) I was spotted once again by Putin during my solo exhibition performance of Annie. The part of Daddy Warbucks was played by a cardboard standee as my partner had only recently defected and was, I presume, currently being interrogated by Chinese Nationals somewhere outside of Putin’s reach.
So you’d think being a Russian ballerina I would have lovely feet, but in reality it was my hands that Putin was interested in. I have always had lovely hands. My father used to say I had the hands of a youthful Baba Yaga. I never knew what he meant but the man was usually three sheets to the wind on potato vodka so I am left assuming it was a compliment. During the pinnacle moment of the performance where Annie stabs Miss Hannigan in the throat with a knife and proclaims herself to be a daughter of Mother Russia, Putin stood on his chair and forced the performance to stop, declaring me to be the new Chest Oiler. Now, Kim Jun Un, who was visiting at the time, looked a little shocked, so you can imagine how those of us who were not completely psychotic thought of it. It made no difference. After I finished awashing myself in the blood of Miss Hannigan the performance ended and as I was leaving the theatre I was thrown unceremoniously into the trunk of a passing black car. I had, of course, expected this, making the tumble rather gracefully. You can take a ballerina off the stage, but can’t tag the stage from the ballerina.
Some time later after the customary sixty-three days of interrogation, wherein I was challenged to admit my complacency in American Communism (I never did break, praise be to Putin) I was taken to the Kremlin, given a new set of clothes and a tub of car wax and presented with Putin’s fresh shaven chest. This became my life for the next six years until, after having buffed and spit polished Putin’s chest, I was taken by a handler I had come to know as Madame Perdet. Putin had new orders for me. I was to travel to the United States, infiltrate their electoral process and, ultimately, ensure the election of Donald Trump in 2016. This was particularly interesting to me given we had only just begun to see reruns of The Apprentice in Russia and I was interested in the physics of his hairs as well as how he managed to appease his many wives (sexually) with such tiny Vienna sausage fingers. Putin told me I was his oily star, and when the President comes a’callin’ you must answer or else you disappear and everyone you love is told of your treachery.
Fast-forward some years later and I had yet to be activated. While finished my Undergrad in Visual Arts I joined local political protests, and while I am unsure of what I was protesting, I was told it was very important and it involved throwing many buckets of paint. In Russia this is just an average birthday party so it was like being back home. I met a lovely boy named Bobby who decided he wished to couple with me, but my handler in America, Mr. Turd Ferguson (I believe this is an alias, however he demands I call him by his full name) quickly put an end to that, and to Bobby’s promising football career, by breaking both his knees in a bar brawl outside of a Hooters.
After that Bobby succumbed to the drink, as weak willed men are want to do, and I was told by Mr. Turd Ferguson that the time had come to point the ranks of the Republican Party. I was confused, as the values praised by this party seemed very reminiscent of those at home and not at all the sort of values that I had learned during my education in the Liberal Arts. I was assured that this was wholly American, and that I was about to see some, and I quote, real interesting shit go down.
I must admit I was so pleased to see Hillary Clinton as the Democratic Nominee. Back home is a woman ever tried anything like this she would… well, nothing bad would happen to her. It would really depend entirely on her ballet background first and foremost. Ultimately she would probably be passed over for a man, whether or not he was more competent than her. In fact, our general election back home involves six weeks of drinking until the population is in a blackout haze and incapable of even the most basic commands beyond ‘sign here’. On more than one occasion a hungover family man has come from his stupor to discover he has sentenced his entire family to the gulag. Putin finds the whole thing very hilarious.
Where was I? Oh yes. Ultimately I was activated by Turd Ferguson and sent in to corrupt the vote. Over the last two years I have thrown many chairs and hacked many emails, but none ever brought me pleasure. I was frightened, realizing that this country that had adopted me was more home than Russia ever could be, and I was actively contributing to its downfall. I did what I could; I hacked Mr. Trump’s emails, his taxes, all of it, but every time I went to meet with a contact in the news to release the information I would find that individual mysteriously strung up by their own entrails. Quite peculiar.
As I write this to you, Andrew, I am at a loss. Trump is now the President-Elect. Hillary Clinton has not been seen for weeks, and I have been summoned back to Moscow by Madame Perdet. Turd Ferguson would not meet with me prior to my boat leaving New York. I am frightened at what awaits me back home. My hands are not dry and paper cut from weeks of writing letters and stuffy envelopes. What Putin expects to find when I arrive back in Moscow is a young, vivacious young woman with the glistening hands of a Russian child. What he will find is a cynical American woman who has seen the true underbelly of the world and been helpless to stop the impending doom. I pray for you Andrew, as I have prayed for my homeland so many times before.
Yours Sincerely,
Katarina Savatzki

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An Open Letter to My Fellow Canadians: I am Your New Prime Minister

My Fellow Canadians,

On the day of this, what is historically the most nauseatingly-propaganda filled election ever witnessed by this country, I would like to pre-emptively thank you for electing me as your new Prime Minister. I know it was a difficult decision, what with Tom Mulcair’s excellent beard, Justin Trudeau’s luscious locks, and whatever the hell crawled onto Stephen Harper’s head and died at least three years ago. But you, Canada, you made the right choice. You went out there and said Hey, I don’t want a Prime Minister who is in contempt of court, or looks like he eats babies, or has brought about an unending deficit, or skins kittens to wear on his head, or, when realizing how foolhardy his clinging to power is, decides to bring up issues such as the niqab in order to distract voters. No, you had enough of that and also, you thought this was a little sketchy:

Say Nope to Dope but Make it Rain Cocaine!

Say Nope to Dope but Make it Rain Cocaine!

Congratulations, Canada, on pulling your head out of a prolonged stay underneath a pile of refuse, which might have been dealt with if it weren’t for all the scientists that got fired and the abandoning of the various environmental protection plans that were in place. Yes, that is what the sun looks like; no, I can’t stop the burning. Even I have my limits as your newly, shockingly elected official.

It’s going to be okay, Canada. I might not be able to grow a beard, or do my hair particularly well, but I promise you that every pet I have ever owned has been well-documented and never once has its carcass ended up on my head as some sad-excuse for a hair piece.

Sorry, hold on, I’m just being told something. Oh… Oh? Oh, it’s real? Oh my god. Oh, oh my god, I had no idea, I just assumed- Yeah, yeah, of course, send my apologies. No, no wait till Stephen is done crying in the corner.

Where was I? Oh yes. I am most pleased by the unexpected results of this election. For once, Canada has shown it cares. Or at the very least, Canada has shown it cares enough about not having another agonizing period of time with Stephen Harper at the helm of this sinking ship. They do say hate is one of the best motivators for getting people off their asses. That, and lighting a fire. And isn’t that exactly what Canada has become? One giant country, metaphorically and, if you live in the Central Okanagan frequently literally, on fire? That environment. Such a shame that we… We just don’t have much of it left.

I know what you’re thinking, not simply because I have utilized the invasive ‘terrorist-prevention’ aspects of Bill C-51, but because it is exactly what I would be thinking were I in your shoes. I am fairly certain I did not vote for you, Most Supreme Prime Minister Kathleen. No, you probably didn’t. You probably voted for Trudeau or Mulcair or… Uh, one of those other ones. But never fear – sensing your unease at the possibility of Stephen Eyes of the Dead Harper becoming our Prime Minister yet again, I have decided to do us all a favor an simply declare myself Prime Minister to expedite the process. Rejoice! Release the clowns!

By the way, our military is now composed almost entirely of clowns, mostly so I can proudly cry Release the Clowns! during our next military action against, I don’t know… Russia, maybe?

And as your new Prime Minister, I am please to announce the following changes:

  • No more First Past the Post nonsense. In fact, I will be adapting an electoral system based almost entirely on what CGP Grey says. Because he clearly knows more than I do on the subject.

  • There will be no Netflix Tax. I repeat, something that you were never concerned about in the first place nor even crossed your mind will not be implemented. Please stop rioting or I will be forced to release the clowns.
  • We will not be taking away your Canadian Citizenship. Ever. You’re a Canadian Citizen and if you have done something atrocious, really shit on the grid, then you are our mess to clean up and we will deal with you appropriately. And yes, it may involve clowns.
  • A consistent number of murdered or missing peoples will be considered a sociological problem that we will look into. Generally, my hope for this new Canada is less murder, more ponies. Less missing people, more healthcare for refugees.
  • We gon’ plant some trees. Go back to protectin’ those rivers n’ lakes.

Dear, fellow Canadians. I know you are tired. 78 days is an awfully long time for us to experience an election campaign (Shut up, USA, we get it.) That is why my campaign lasted exactly three hours and was started and finished on the day of voting. You see, I am just like you. I hate the never-ending propaganda. I despise the robocalls. I am sick and tired of seeing signs promoting an MP who refused to debate because, I assume, public speaking gave him the runs. And I am so god-damned tired of hearing about Justin Trudeau’s hair. I don’t care. None of us care! If Harper’s campaign signs had involve glitter glue and pony stickers I would have assumed he was vying for the position of Prom Queen! Jokes on him though, because Elizabeth May is clearly the underdog in this after-school special, and she would most certainly walk away with the title.

As your new Prime Minister I will levy taxes according to income in the household. Now, I know, that is going to be mighty contentious to some of you, but think of it this way… Taxes go towards things we all use every day. You pay more taxes because you make more. These two things are basically unrelated, and I don’t care. You’re going to pay more, same with corporations. Deal with it. If you don’t like it, you can move to the States where they have an even longer election campaign and they have Donald Trump to deal with. That’s right, you thought Harper’s hair was bad, just imagine Donald Trump’s singular lock of hair blowing in the wind as he blusters about race, wealth, and, oh I don’t know, women or something.

It’s been a long 78 days, and an even longer 10 years, yet we as Canadians stand taller and stronger today, with the vague awareness that government officials are, at this very moment, checking your browser history and questioning how we were raised. That ends today! No more Bill C-51! No more dead eyes searching the crowd from the podium, looking for the youthful flesh that might once again rejuvenate its ailing human form!

This election asked ‘Do you want a lizard person for a Prime Minister?’ and you answered ‘No, thank you! Please give us someone else!’

I have answered your call, Canada.

Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have to go vote for my local Liberal MP.

Most Sincerely,

Kathleen Sawisky, esq.

Most Supreme Prime Minister of Canada

Integrity Commissioner.