Vladimir Pudding (spitting fire): What the freakin’ hell is happening?! The bloody Ukes destroying a load of our bombers in far-flung parts of the country is bad enough and now this! Tell me!! How can a bunch of Mexican criminals rout a regiment of elite paratroopers?! How? Explain!
The gaggle of generals looked intently at the floor like naughty schoolboys, each one praying to all the Orthodox saints that Pudding wouldn’t fix his maniacal glare at him. No-one wanted to be the first to say something. What could they say?
Sergei Lapdog: Well, the president asked you a question. What happened?
General Slagimov (thinking to himself): You jowelly, brown-nosing wanker, Lapdog. One day, you’ll fall out of a window.
General Getyeroksov (suddenly feeling bold): Let my division annihilate this scum, my President.
Pudding: Your division, my brave general, has taken three goddamed months to advance about 25 metres. Why the hell would you think that it can now defeat some trained killers from Mexico?
Getyeroksov: I…I…
Pudding: Ay, ay what? Are you a pirate? Ay ay Captain? They even shot down five helicopters and destroyed three tanks, for God’s sake! How? They’re not even an army!
General Donpisimov: They must have had help from the Americans, President.
Pudding: Oh duurrr! You think? Well now, General, you’re going to help defeat these Mexican bandits. You’ll personally lead the attack on them.
Donpisimov felt his world sinking and he wanted to kick himself in his big, fat, stupid, blabber mouth.
Pudding: And what about the Slovenians?
The generals all looked at each other until one finally plucked up the courage to answer.
General Shakeitov (a big Taylor Swift fan): They are… not retreating, President. But I must add that they haven’t advanced…very far.
Pudding (to Lapdog): What’s Kadyrov up to these days? I could use him and his crazy Chechens to take on the Mexicans.
Lapdog: He’s semi-retired now. I heard that he took up landscape gardening, except that his gnomes are actually dwarves with their feet stuck in a bucket of cement.
Pudding: He’s as mad as a Mongolian horse rustler. Get him on the phone. (Looking at the forlorn group of generals) Right, get out. And if I don’t hear that the Mexicans have been wiped off the face of the earth soon, you’ll all be digging trenches on the front line.
Minority News Report 