On both of yours, Dima

Genetic nomenclature Kholi, part -time an angry convict of vices of a backward Russian people, organically incapable of liberal modernization, in a recent interview deftly licked both porty -bearing tandem asses at once:

They and only in their entire titanic activity in the last decade have earned an honorable right to participate in the superfinal of the Russian electoral mundial-2012. So we will choose, friends, worthy of our two seasoned modernizers!

This fake dilemma, Putin or Medvedev, is imposed on the mass consciousness not only by Mr. Jurgens. His political antipode with the passion of the biblical prophet, the Consinner warns compatriots about the upcoming seizure of power by the Jewish Menson Mendel and luggles to the original Russian Pu, stuck to throw his wagons stretched out of fifty and return to the times of his glorious feats, inspired in the novel "Mr. Gakes".

Such hypersheds of public consciousness only emphasizes once again how brilliant the Putin's operation "successor" turned out to be. Without losing the gran of his personal power (which is much more important than any formal status), Putin received the most valuable for himself as an additional bonus on Twitter and a doll casting in granite.

In some, her tweeting gives rise to exciting liberal illusions, mitigating their rejection of the lead aboats of the Putin regime. For others, on the contrary, the “Jewish fears”, pushing them again into the overtaking hopelessly, seemingly lost their sovereign charm of the oil and gas trader.

In the upper echelon of the ruling kleptocracy, the conflict is really growing. But Medvedev, in principle, cannot be his subject. The bouquet of the psychosomatic problems of this young man would only cause humanitarian sympathy if he had not vulgarized by his Shutovsky presence the highest institution of the Russian government. He is just a possible tool planted on the edge of the throne in the hands of the warring parties.

Both of them are worse. One is Putin and his Chekist bunker. The other is the majority of the "elite", mostly billionaires and multimillionaires of the Yeltsin litter.

Sometimes they are called, respectively, the "batch of blood" and "bolt party", which is methodologically not entirely true. The batch of blood is still not alien to the big dough. And the Babla party, in turn, never stopped before the politically appropriate shedding of blood.

Actually, the largest special operation of the PB - the lead to the hand in 1999 Putin with his brigade as its own, as for some reason it seemed to them, obedient guards - costs and costs Russia of great blood: the Second Chechen War, the loss of the North Caucasus and now an endless war with Islamic fundamentalism.

Do these two parties share not some ideological or worldview contradictions there, but a purely specific skin question: does Putin have a druk of all Rus' for twelve to eighteen years or leaves the political scene?

Putin, of course, categorically does not want to leave. He represents too well where he will go.

The banter’s party has long reached the backbone raider activity of the Putin brigade. They are frightened by the prospect of an even greater personal authority of the alpha male, which will be able to turn any of them into camp dust in its whim.

And finally, they understand that without classical rebranding (“our father ...”), the regime rapidly losing adequacy can simply collapse at any time, without even leaving them the “ thieves' ship ” options.

But the betting they, carefully bored with an iPhone, finally wilted even in their eyes due to the obvious worthlessness of the client.

Rather, Putin will be able to adapt it again to solve his personal tasks, elegantly turning it on a bench:

You see, Dimon, they need you - these are all the counts von Palen for the unfinished ones - only one fatal night for my resignation. And then they will throw you out as a used gondon. And I can give you, if you are the right kid, six more years of buzz - barracks and Nicolas, Makarevichs and Elton John, Ovechkins and Katya Gamova, stations and pussyers, palaces and yachts, twitters and bloggers. And then take Chanel, go home to St. Petersburg. At least in the Constitutional Court, at least in P ... at least in the Red Army. And here I am on the galleys somehow, I myself am twisted for another twelve year, I swallow the dust. So he will run, God forbid, Mubarakovo thirty. And there and in coma.