On staying put

From: Laurence Shandy
To: Vladimir Putin, president of Russia
Re: Succession

Dear Vladimir,

Aren't you glad I didn't call you Pootie-Poot? I've heard that's G.W.'s nickname for you. How insulting. Childish, really. I find your musk particularly refreshing. Your smell invigorates me like a brisk Arctic wind. I guess what I'm trying to say is I wouldn't kick you out of bed.

Lord, that nose. I could ride down that thing like a ski slope. And by "I" I mean my penis.

How about Put-Put? Yes, I know it's miniature golf, and no, I'm not implying you're a small man. But there's something whimsical about you, like a plywood castle nestled in lava rocks. Like those of a mini-golf course, I find myself drawn to your lush expanses, and at the same time you can be as firm and resolved as a tract of green felt. You can be difficult, let's admit it. Many's the time I've tried and failed to slip my balls past your windmill blades. Yes. Put-Put it is. It feels right.

Look, P.P., this is the thing. The media's on to you. You still haven't named your successor, and the journo's are getting antsy. I mean, what's a democratically elected president of a free society doing fiddle-farting about anointing an heir? What kind of populist president are you? The people need to know who they're going to be encouraged to vote for, P.P. You're letting all that KGB encouragement training go to waste!

I know you don't want to give up this power. Lest you forget, it took an AK-wielding Jann Wenner to smoke me out of the corner office at Rolling Stone. And I only left the building after Lester Bangs pulled the old bait-n'-switch with the promise of a PCP-laced pork sandwich back at his place. So, though it may not be as appealing as a mouthful of angel dust, I know control is a drug.

If it wasn't for that pesky constitution, you wouldn't have to step down. You know, bad nicknames aside, there's a lesson to learn from your colleague across the pond, Mr. G.W. Bush. Just because of some tract scribbled by a bunch of wig-wearing Freemasons, Bush is supposed to give up his presidency next year, too. But he has a plan. Last week, he invited impressionist Rich Little to perform at the annual White House correspondents' dinner. Yeah, I know! The guy's still alive! Of course he stunk up the place worse than he would if he were actually a corpse, but that's beside the point. Bush wasn't there to be entertained by Rich Little. He was there to learn.

Consider this. G.W. Bush, with his close-set, inquisitive eyes and bemused smirk can't run for another term, but a little hair slicking, some squinting, transforming that smirk into a sneer? Why, that's no longer George Bush. That's Chinatown's Jack Nicholson!

Of course, the real Jack Nicholson would have to be killed. And whatever Russian celebrity you choose to become will have to be whacked as well, but what are a couple of casualties on the road to power eternal? Does anyone miss Anna Politkovskaya? Or any of the other thirteen anti-Put-Put journalists who have "accidentally" been made to stop breathing while you've been in office?

No one can even pronounce their names! But President for Life? That has a nice ring to it.

Best wishes,
Laurence Shandy, gentleman


RESPONSE
From: Vladimir Putin, president of Russia
To: Laurence Shandy
Re: Succession

Dear sender,

The letter you sent to President Vladimir Putin has been received by the Presidential Department for Correspondence from Citizens.

Information on what sort of issues people raise in their letters to the President of Russia is updated weekly on the President's Web site.