Diary From The Carrot Union

Chapter 1: #AGloriousDayInTheMotherland!

 So how do we start? With something strong? Something not so strong it will bust your liver, nor something too weak you're better off getting high out of sniffing bath salts.

How about a callback to an opening passage to a book that is worth at least something compared to this pathetic sigh of a goat's enragement child of a story.

It is a bright cold day in April, and the clocks strike thirteen, as it has always been the past three weeks since Commissar Nikita never bothered to realize that the gopniks dismantled its orange-coloured clockwork and sold it for scrap metal.

So here's the thing, friends, in this glorious Democratic People's Republic, everyone has equal access to our outstanding public services! As is traditional with an Animalist state worldwide, our wonderful benefactors from the Animalist Party of the Carrot Union led by the Great Glorious and Eternal People's Democratic Father and glorious representative of people, beloved Lord Comrade Yosif Boneparte has kindly bequeathed his beloved people with the fruits of Animalism and the glorious revolution — such as a Carrot shop, where they have a shortage of carrots, A battery shop, where they have a shortage of batteries, and a library, where we buy firewood!

The only abundant things in Carrot Union are vodka, and by vodka, or more accurately, those sad, pungent tasting alcohol that the Animalist Party of the Carrot Union called Victory Vodkas.

So as a member of this glorious democratic people's republic, I patriotically took a shot of that condensed depression in the morning like a true washed-up loser! And don't forget to save that sad pathetic piece of phallic orange stick (carrot) for tomorrow's breakfast while you're adding it, cause the carrot shops only restock a week from now — if the trucks didn't break down midway the streets due to poor maintenance (Add another week), or if the carrot itself is never picked up and is rotting on the fields (Add two more weeks), or if those said farmers become too rich and hence become counter-revolutionary and get sent to gulag! (Add one more month).

My name is Comrade Leon Roborovksy, and I hate everything including myself. I live in this shithole called Moshare, spelled Most-Hare, or so it's called the city of rabbits, as kindly bequeathed by our dear leader, The Great Glorious and Eternal People's Democratic Father and glorious representative of people, beloved Lord Comrade Comrade Yosif Boneparte (Okay I'll stop).". Like wow, a city am I right? A place to eat, poop, and work your nine to five job until you die? What a luxury!

The streets were desolate and dustier than a petrified mummy's cunt, and not even the birds are chirping as half-century old speakers blare a soul-crushing rendition of "Oh where is my Comrade?" Nests of cameras look over the poor destitutes strolling, their life force sapped by a great eyesore on the back at the cornerstone of the street, where a huge telescreen displaying Comrade Yosif's perverted eyes looked over like an undying spectre.

I passed the giant telescreen and straight into the alleyways. Still, something was going on today, for a rather peculiar set of events transpired on my path to work, as there was a Pygmy old buck with an accordion in front of a tenement, singing about smoking and tobacco. Soon I realised that the song was called "Okurochek,"

He sang about stuff such as smoking and tobacco, and I thought the party or the police hired him to raise awareness about saving the planet, whatever "saving the planet" means, but then he talks about Tupolev-104, and about soldiers, and soon, I realised that he was talking about the freakin' Gulags!

I, of course, as a model citizen, tried my best to just stay out of his business, as no good can come out from someone talking about bloody Gulags or capitalism, freaking Tupolev-104s, or about free speech! But of course, fate loves to toy with me. The old buck called me, "Oi!" He said, and I was like "Goddammit what now?