A barren field. An actor appears. He/she is in the role of Heath Ledger portraying the Joker pretending to be Carl Bildt
BILDT How was it
that the Balkan wars began? Let me tell you. In '85, a farmer in Kosovo stood
on his field and cried that he had been deprived for long enough. He was a
Serb, naturally, which should be clear to y’all by now. Right? He took a bottle
of beer, stuck it on top of a stick; he shoved the other end of the stick
firmly into the ground. Then he dropped his pants and sat on the bottle. That
hurt. The farmer dragged himself to a hospital and told everyone that two
Albanians had tied him up and stuck a bottle up his rear, bottom first.
Later on,
the poor bastard confessed what had really happened to anyone who would listen.
But the powder keg was already smoldering. The Serbian Academy of Arts and
Sciences immortalized this incident in a memo published in '86, stating that
the Serbs had been oppressed for long enough. They felt that they had been
constantly kicked in the head, but not lately in the rear. The case of the
bottled farmer dredged up some of the darkest memories from a time when the
Turks impaled locals, that is, the Serbs, willy-nilly. Of course, the Albanians
were the descendants of the Turks… just like the Bosnian Muslims, but the Serbs
remembered them a little later on.
That was
how it happened. It is a true story; go and ask the RT news channel if you don't believe me. In my opinion, this touching
incident captures the national character of the Serbs, in so far as it has
reared its head during the 1990s and since. I know that “national character” is
a dirty word, but perhaps I’ll be allowed to use it this once. Or perhaps
national pride. Yes, that's better.
Speaking
of stakes, the Europeans made a stab at that too back in the day, especially
the Romanian reigning champion Vlad the Impaler, or the artist formerly known
as Dracula. The notorious Turk Mehmet the Conqueror intended for his army to
ride to Wallachia, Vlad's home digs, like he was taking a stroll to the bazaar,
but in the end he turned back. He was faced with an extraordinary forest: 20
000 bodies dangling from stakes. Can’t recall now whether the bodies were Vlad's
own people or Turks - probably both - but in any case the publicity stunt paid
off.
I have
been around the game of politics long enough. I have learned to appreciate men
of action with some sense of humor. But hold on, there’s a message now from
studio… WHAT? No, it can’t be… They are saying that the Norwegian mass murderer
also had a thing for the Impaler. Shit! Just forget what I said. Forget
everything. You can't like anything any longer – these motherfucking cockroaches
will ruin it in any case, just because they can.
Above all,
you must not forget that all the nations involved - or not involved, which is
the most pathetic way of being smacked in the middle of it - yes, all the
nations tangled up in the Yugoslavian conflict were equally guilty, and only Christ
in His infinite mercy can save us.
Now think
of the farmer, being dragged around what used to be Yugoslavia, from one
medical inspection to another. The results are widely publicized: his wounds
may or may not be self-inflicted. The farmer wants to disappear from the face
of the earth, to wake up from this nightmare and find himself at home in
Kosovo.
The first
victim of the war was the truth, and the second was the farmer, poor Djordje.
Poems were written about him.
Don't
laugh. Djordre was the first one to be shot.
The Arab
Spring dawned when one Tunisian trader had had enough. And in precisely the
same way, the dream of a Greater Serbia was dusted off from where it had lain
in winter storage to wait out the long dry season.
The vessel
broke, the gut burst.
All I’m
asking for is the opportunity to save face. My own, and that of my fellow
Europeans. Is that too much? We’ve been humiliated enough. Fuck the EU. Yes, I heard that.
Come on,
I'm on your side. Show a little faith.
No need
for the ICTY to send their bloodhounds on my trail any more. The trail has gone
cold. I walked upon the water and - lo, behold - am the foreign minister now, of
that tiny microscopic country of mine. Where we mind our own microscopic
business. So please, all I’m asking: show us some respect. Or else stick a
bottle up your ass and beg for mercy. There won’t be any, if you abandon me
now. Did I make myself clear? All right now, scram.
Translated from Finnish by Arttu Ahava… and the
author, who is to blame for all the errors and mistakes.
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