Happy Birthday, Comrade Putin! We deserve you!

Today is Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin's 74th birthday. What a pity for us, the civilized part of humanity — we would really have been satisfied with, say, 64 as his last blown-out candle, but the good Lord decided to put the sluggish Europeans to the test. I report that the test has taken place, and the result falls short even of the PISA scores.

Vladimir Putin's birthday is usually an exciting event: on this notable day, the subjects who adore him — who, despite the foolish little hack op-eds that numb the Western citoyen's brain, still make up the great majority of Russians — usually delight the simple son of the people, their own Vova, with murders. In 2006 the Russian journalist Anna Politkovskaya was murdered, and Putin popped champagne, grinned, and registered with satisfaction that real power was in his hands — he can have anyone eliminated or disposed of, and, freed from all Western democratic coyness, he also had Navalny treacherously murdered, just so Anna wouldn't be bored over there in the afterlife; and yet there are still depraved, vile scoundrels who fail to notice the Comrade Tsar's profound humanism.

Today, in 2026, twenty years after that murder and in the fifth year of the war launched against the Ukrainians, in a society that has never in human history had such high chances of being well informed — well, today in Hungary even the influencer-scum named István Szakács, who wages a repeatedly losing battle against spelling and who pampers with huge tongue-strokes the testicles of Viktor Orbán, the greatest traitor to Hungary of all time, delighted Comrade Putin with a special photo post — yes, a rather stupid offspring of the nation of 1848 and 1956 did this. Why this offspring can command such public attention says a great deal about Hungarian society, and the fact that no sharks were swimming in this offspring's mother's amniotic fluid is clear proof that evolution has stalled.

The offspring István Szakács drew attention to himself the other day when, evoking the memory of the Martyrs of Arad, he shared a photo related to the 13 executed Hungarians in which 14 figures appeared — he casually lumped in Pasha Murad, better known as Father Bem, with the Martyrs of Arad. And I don't even know whether it helps his case that he later took the post down — after all, he could just as well have left it up; there's that million-strong brain-dead Fidesz guard that will go on to explain that yes, that's exactly how it was. There you go, Father Bem, did you really have to go fight alongside the Hungarians? By the way: that revolution of ours TOO was crushed by the Russkies, but who cares — as long as Putin's cock reaches down our throats, that's all we need.

Politkovskaya's memory is fading, we live in the age of Szakács-István offspring. According to the West, all this is fine, it has to fit under freedom of speech and all that — of course, no one bothers anymore to pin down exactly what counts as an opinion. Can someone hold the opinion that Pasha Murad died in Arad? We're back to the Katyn method of education: the Nazis did it, because I say so — after all, it worked for nearly fifty years, and this wasn't the only way the Russkies screwed over the countries they occupied. Although their tanks went home in 1990, their nuclear mind-poisoning army corps, enriched with intellectual incest, stayed behind and have come back to life.

It's October 7th, and we barely remember Hamas's cruel terrorist attack, but in exchange, this European left, raised on the KGB's teat, these days does a fine job of defending the Palestinians — nothing has changed since the red terror brigades of the seventies: the Red Brigades, the RAF, ETA, IRA — all of them got out to Arab states through the Palestinian wing, where they received training, all of them obtained weapons through Palestinian channels, and all professed together the blood-red proletarian world revolution, which, of all things, they imagined bringing about in exactly the way Putin imagines 'liberation.' And meanwhile our last 36 years have passed with this red trash dictating the tempo of the ideology, branding as a 'Nazi' anyone who so much as turned a few more pages in the history books. The RAF's murderer, released from prison, was paraded around film premieres in the 2000s, where the European anti-globalist left fawned over the aged and dim-witted pseudo-revolutionary, to whom the ugly, wicked, dying West — this capitalist death-spasm — granted a peaceful old age: a little house with a garden, a dog, a pseudonym, a pension. Danke, Walvater Wotan!

In Politkovskaya's time the bell began to toll, not only for her own people but for us Westerners too — we didn't even hear it. We followed Navalny's ordeal almost live, yet not a muscle in our faces twitches when the elected leader of the free world, a severely demented Trump, invites Putin to the G20. We needed the martyr, whose picture can produce good engagement for fifteen days in the public eye, and that brings revenue measurable in advertising income, while the rest will be covered over by time. It won't be: time doesn't solve anything, it only ages you, and you can no longer force back into the bottle what should have been settled back when it was time to settle it. For instance, in 1990, in one giant mega-trial, bidding farewell to the communist dictatorships, with plenty of hangings as in the Nuremberg trials — but these proto-democrats bearing the Soviet label didn't want revenge or reckoning, so things were never settled. By now the fabric of time has frayed, the wounds have reopened, and purulent fluid covers the great majority of those condemned to public opinion — the total success of cognitive warfare: we act against our own interests, loudly, proudly, patting each other on the shoulder. Today is Putin's birthday, the glorious Russian army fires a missile into a residential building, a six-year-old child dies, and from the Budapest of the Corvin Passage fighters they enthusiastically wish him happy birthday.

In France today the students are rebelling — so to speak rebelling, meaning they're setting fire to everything and, slowly, to everyone too — the resemblance to the leftist wave of violence of '68 is more than eerie, it's downright real. Or if you like, more than real, downright eerie — let's sacrifice a little to the altar of semantics today too, not forgetting to note here, for the young generations coming after us, that these are the very same people who installed the Ayatollah Khomeini on Iran's throne; for the consequences and the details, please call the office of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard.

Politkovskaya, Father Bem, Navalny, the thirteen martyrs of Arad, the boys of Budapest in '56, Katyn and Chernobyl, the victims of Prague in '68, those who suffered the gulags, the women stoned to death, the tens of thousands of Persian protesters massacred this past January, the raped and murdered Jewish girls of October 7th, the Latvian, Lithuanian, Polish, Hungarian and German women raped from Belgorod to Berlin: all of it, all of it, was in vain. They stand there in a row beneath the starry sky, mutilated, burned, buried in frozen ground, and they all ask the same question: what was it for? Nothing, my dears, because along came the Szakács-István offspring and put an end to the illusion that it is, after all, decisions made on a moral standard that lift man above the rank of apes.

So happy birthday, Comrade Tsar — the Pharisees hanging off your teat send their wishes, from Constanța to Oslo, from Budapest to Paris. Set your golden chalice upon the bodies of raped Ukrainian women, fill it with the blood of Ukrainian infants killed by your army, sip and feast on the brains of beheaded prisoners of war — celebrate, for yours is the world, the power and the glory.

And we deserve you!

P.S.: if you feel that the text above makes you angry, then go out into the streets and demand that NATO bomb Moscow! Or at least that it close Ukrainian airspace!

Anna Karczag