Building Europe's Sheep

A mini-story, by way of introduction, from a collection of the Russian absurd. Which means this might win over some of our ex-Soviet bloc readers, if they ever read past the thread on the Right Wing Nut. The author is Daniil Kharms.

The Carpenter Kushakov

Once upon a time there lived a carpenter. His name was Kushakov. Once he walked out of his house and went to a store to buy carpenter's glue.
There was a thaw, and the street was very slippery. The carpenter took a few steps, slipped, fell, and broke his forehead. "Ugh," said the carpenter, got up, went to the drugstore, bought a bandage, and fixed up his forehead.
But when he walked out onto the street and took a few steps, he slipped again, fell, and broke his nose.
"Phoo!" said the carpenter, went into the drugstore, bought a bandage, and pasted his nose together with the bandage.
Then he walked out again onto the street; again he slipped; he fell and broke his cheek. Again he had to go in the drugstore and fix up his cheek with a bandage.
"You know," the druggist said to the carpenter, "you fall so often and hurt yourself, I advise you to buy several bandages."
"No," said the carpenter, "I'm not going to fall any more."
But when he walked out onto the street, he slipped again, fell, and broke his chin.
"Lousy ice!" the carpenter shouted and again ran into the drugstore.
"You see," said the druggist, "you fell down again."

What I am trying to say with this post is that I am through with my loplop. It is the will of the blog, and so allez viens, I say. It is certain that, as Carpenter Kushakov, I will face Europe better and bigger than before, ever more phallogocentric and paternalstic. With this new, more totalizing identity and carpentry skill, I will transmogrify and direct the hegemonic energy of my posts towards the production of a high-calorie granola bar/master signifier. This will enable me to construct, as no worker of wood has before, a multitude of wooden bric-a-brac for those elderly persons, and there are many, who live out their lives in my building, biding their time, sitting, smelling old, waiting for Sheriff to publish his radical Marxist politics.

And this is a nice picture: