Gold-Coated Absurdity that We Can’t Put Aside
This bizarre bromance of two history-obscured men who by themselves would probably reduce toast to dust with their miscommunications has given us a volume no one needed but could not do without. Let’s make ourselves acquainted with Trumputin Krasnov, a political Frankenstein’s creature who survived the lab not only but promenaded himself into the presidency. Seriously?
If Mary Shelley were around to see that, she’d say: “I made that creature to terrify you with, not inspire!”
Trumputin is our baffled mystery – we can’t help but christen him thus. Like pineapple on pizza or a room-temp water drinker, he makes you roll your eyes yet you can’t look away. Why? Gall? Bedlam in a parade? Or maybe that gold-plated armor of indefensibility society willingly bestowed upon him? Seriously, who said, “The world needs this: a walking, talking oxymoron with a side of surprise factor”?
Here’s the kicker—Trumputin doesn’t just exist; he reproduces. This guy’s like glitter that spreads everywhere. The instant you become aware of him, he’s everywhere, and no amount of scrubbing can brush him away. One moment he’s performing maneuvers that are politically astute and practically sound. The next, it’s like watching some reality show where you’re questioning whether it’s scripted and carefully planned or fabricated and improvised in production offices.
And who doesn’t wonder if we are drawn to his turbulence by some guilty pleasure of masochism. Or if we’re watching because of that old adage that never has chaos been so fun. Either way, nobody’s turning the light off. Not because of incapacity, but unwillingness.
That is, socially speaking, has social collective self-control ever actually been our forte?
From Gilded Cradles to Gold-Plated Thrones
We are told that Trumputin didn’t climb like the rest of us did. Trumputin‘s Moscow penthouse welcomed him to the world not a sterile room with antiseptic surroundings. There were champagne fountains and excessive winking and handshakes that were indicators of his future personality. His golden hamburgers were served on plates labeled “The Best Deal Ever” because he would not bet on conventional tactics. Every second-guessing observer would bet that this individual might indeed know what he was doing.
Then things got strange. Trumputin’s upbringing induced general shock in people. The “golden boy” (literally) slept in a nuclear-proof baby bed because being one tantrum away from WWIII was apparently a healthy childhood activity. His diet? Cold borscht and Big Macs fed to the toddler. At bedtime he listened to stories that sounded more like battle plans.
His playroom? No teddy bears and trucks. Little Trumputin’s black-ops stuffed animals engaged in “playroom takeovers” as part of high-level rituals. At five years old, he was drawing blueprints complete with helipad landing sites. At six years old, he was hoarding bullion in playset camouflage packaging. A low-key playdate? Fuhgeddaboutit.
Clearly, that was only procedure. All budding leaders come out of the gate with dubious eating habits and refined plotting abilities and secret toy conspiracies. Right?
The entire world does not understand if his fate was influenced by bubblng fountains and gourmet burgers or cold borscht.
When Deals Turn Into Theatre
His personal credo of existence was seemingly “Why negotiate when you can dominate?” He wanted to convert every one of his wins into high social events rather than one-off achievements. Everything that he did accomplish was a dramatic scene set against stage lights with one spotlight shining intently upon him.
He walked through the doors of the UN campus with the proper stride as if he were attending his own victory party. He carried a glossy brochure for the Moskva Tower Resort & Casino which would have been a decent business but appeared to be a elaborate scam. He carried a dossier labeled TOTALLY NOT BLACKMAIL in his other hand. The whole scene introduced itself with the same dramatic flair that a surprise plot twist in a Netflix series would have. That smile? His cheeky expression became his sign of unapologetic Monopoly cheating.
Diplomatic interactions were downright unlike anything. Those interactions consisted of high-level receptions at which he blended negotiation of hostages with hors d’oeuvres and phony smiles. The public referred to him as “Trumputin” because he transformed deal-making into theatre.
I find it difficult to determine whether this was some deliberate plan or impulsive thought process. The whole spectacle demanded attention.
Spots That Would Make Coachella Envy
Trumputin Krasnov’s “Make Empire Great Again” (MEGA) effort exceeded understatement by being so over-the-top that you’d tune in episode after episode like one never-ending telenovela. Outrageous mottoes on red caps? Why not. Rally music that married Russian classical musical heritage with July Fourth explosives – why not?
Did Trumputin actually hire an eagle trainer? Yeah.
Did an eagle swoop at a reporter? And yes.
Wasn’t every social media profile plastered with his face for months? Guaranteed.
During his campaigns, Trumputin organized a political production that resembled a Vegas production. He actually had a chariot drawn by bears that was driven into the stadium. At the proceedings, someone reluctantly gloated that one of the bears was from a zoo. The campaign rally pièce de resistance was when he did a drone skydive and waved an American flag that eerily resembled a $100 bill like an over-caffeinated action hero. The crowd made their jaw-dropped reactions into memes that spread like wildfire.
And then there was the anthem. Oh, the MEGA theme song. The catchy anthem worked its way into your head where it performed a manic waltz through your consciousness. Your lightly intoxicated uncle sings it at the local karaoke bar, harmonizing with a 5,000-member choir. The rally became a cultural phenomenon where people gathered just to experience the spectacle.
The Undisputed Champion of Confusing Speeches
Trumputin’s speeches were works of ambiguity. His speeches rose above typical rhetoric because he established trance-like conditions that left crowds choosing between applause and mortal fear. He spun his flattery out of insults flavored with unclear threats and served with winsome winks. It was like getting a gourmet meal with a Frisbee.
He’d make these pronouncements with the grandest gestures.
“You see, I’ve made the perfect democracy. A better democracy than your democracy. My system is that advanced that citizens won’t recognize their democracy. Revolutionary!”
Members of the public responded with confusion. Some nervously chuckled while others looked lost, having presumably missed a crucial lesson at school from their social studies class. These confused reactions spawned angry debates on “Totally-Not-Twitter”, the favourite haunt of confused users.
Political pundits were completely enamored with him. Some referred to his unpredictable nature as “next-level trolling”, while others praised him for transforming chaos into perilous art. Trumputin waved off all criticism by saying he was concerned with staying relevant. His credo was that having power was superior to knowing anything.
Gold-Plated Statements of Fashion Declaration
The style war wasn’t planned, but Trumputin was ready. This was a universe where style battled against order and destroyed all that’s sophisticated. Trumputin approached the stage like a fashion general but with unlimited confidence. His closet? A work of art. Military coats encrusted with Swarovski crystals that glimmered like a disco ball during a funeral service. Floor-sweeping fur coats that served as a wildlife sanctuary—more “escaped zoo display” than catwalk fashion. And the pièce de résistance? Neckties so long and wild that they looked like they’d been designed by a tornado.
Now we have to talk about the hats. Do you have any feelings about hats? Well, Trumputin did not wear hats; he made declarations. His signature item? A red-hot ushanka that loomed over the Moscow skyline encrusted with diamond-studded hammers and sickles that yelled, “I am the Ultimate Style Tsar!” Did French Vogue bemoan that day? We’re not really sure, but the image of one tear falling down the face of Anna Wintour hints that they did.
If audacity were fashion dollars, then Trumputin’s fortune would be comparable to Bezos’. All jokes aside, of course, how does one handle the real-flesh-and-blood version of “chaos, but make it fashion?” In good faith, we will never know.
Master of PR (Propaganda Relations)
Media was Trumputin’s playpen since he controlled the story. He didn’t merely manage it; he lived it, wrapped it in propaganda, and sold it to us with a smile so smug it could feature in a toothpaste ad. Trumputin made spectacle his specialty, posing in front of Mount Rushmore with a self-satisfied grin that’d curdle milk, and even photobombing the moon landing footage with green screen technology. One small step for mankind, one giant leap for his self-esteem.
And his weekly “State of the Alliance” addresses? Those weren’t speeches—those were large-scale events that made Broadway musicals seem like amateur community productions. Highlights of those included him unveiling missile-tower-skyscrapers that he touted as personal inventions of himself. Why actually create something when you could produce fiction?
And then there was the bear-wrestling contest. A genuine bear-wrestling contest. Imagine a 600-pound bear, likely only hoping to be left alone, dragged out of its natural habitat for participation in whatever spectacle merged medieval tournament combat with reality TV silliness. Trumputin, of course, appeared bare-chested and muscles bulging like a living slingshot of testosterone. Bear-wrestling, evidently, counted as foreign policy experience.
The pièce de résistance was his “physical strength” segment. That’s where the magic happened. He provided a forced ten-minute monologue about his physical strength, complete with live cameras that followed him around and close-up shots of him bulging those biceps at work. Those biceps received more camera time than did the Oscar winners.
And the naysayers? If you ever criticized the circus, you received a one-way ticket to the “vacation zones.” This does sound nice, until you found out they were more of their “disappear off the face of the earth” sites. Weeks after that, you’d see these naysayers again sporting Trumputin-themed hooded sweatshirts and showering him with compliments like they’d just gotten back from a five-star resort. “The amenities were great, 10/10 recommend! Pure dictatorial chic!”
At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if Trumputin announced that he invented coffee, the internet, and gravity. As we’ve learned from history, Trumputin doesn’t merely obscure reality — he buries reality, dances on its grave, then declares it a national holiday.
Economic Policy – or Roulette?
The Trumputin economic agenda was a wildly unpredictable game show that involuntarily made every body an unwilling contestant. One could picture getting both a complimentary bottle of vodka and a Big Mac coupon as symbols of economic security. The crowds went wild like they’d just gotten Beyoncé concert tickets. Champagne socialism was traded for fast-food nationalism as the new economic paradigm.
The pièce de résistance? The stock market was a giant roulette wheel while he was president. He guffawed that Wall Street was more of a gamble than Las Vegas. “When the house wins, YOU win!” Economists swooned. Regular citizens gawked as business executives clutched their pearls and declared that’s not capitalism at work. Taxpayers bet their money on Trumputin-brand slot machines and sat back for the show. Win or lose? Nobody got to see the endgame.
The “program of nationalization” was an unmitigated failure. Industries and businesses disappeared quicker than any Houdini escape act. It was a kind of Narcos–Apprentice hybrid but compulsively visible. The whole governing process felt like a dystopian reality TV soap opera instead of actual policy-making.
The documentary’s title should be “Vodka, Big Macs, and Roulette Economics” since it perfectly describes this chaos.
His Legacy (or What’s Left of It)
Comparing Trumputin Krasnov’s reign to anything that made any sort of coherent sense feels like an exercise in remembering a fever nightmare. Was he a shadow puppet master who worked out of the shadows? A traveling punchline who’d been entrusted with the car keys of the kingdom? The flesh-and-blood equivalent of a Bond villain who collapsed over the throne out of an overweening compulsion to be the king of TikTok? In all honesty? He was probably any of these things and we still do not understand him even today.
This man didn’t just make front-page news; he created headlines (if that isn’t a word, it damn well should be after this), along with a string of gilded skyscrapers that shone so bright they’d light up space. Then there were the TikTok videos—viral barely covers it. They were contagious, flooding our timelines with awkward dancing and that signature smirk that said, “I know what I’m doing – or maybe not.”
And then there was that purported award-winning film that was his government-backed autobiography. A cinematic “masterwork” that broke every rule and romped its way across awards season mopping up prizes left, right, and center. Here’s the rub however: nobody’s owning up to having voted for it. None. Zero. Zilch. It was like conducting an election as sole candidate, and calling yourself a winner by a “landslide.”
Trumputin did more than create a dent; he made an imprint upon the galaxy. Whichever guise he chanced upon—weatherman, stand-up comedian, the guy who inadvertently hosted the longest-running party the world had ever known—there was one thing of which you could be certain: he knew how to be unforgettably. Or at least un-ignorable.
Satire or Survival Mechanism?
The fictional character Trumputin Krasnov exists only in imagination (thank heavens). But imagine if he did exist. A dangerous cocktail of ego, propaganda, and sheer absurdity squeezed into one inflated, self-adoring figure. Like a peacock-megaphone hybrid creating a cartoonish villain. Thankfully, this fictional nightmare exists only in the realm of safe imagination. For now.
Satire enables us to confront uncomfortable realities that otherwise might pass unnoticed in everyday life. This distorted mirror reflects reality in a warped way to reveal its inherent absurdity while making everything clearer.