Nuclear warheads dropping near the die table. Bombs away, babes. Time for a quick game to 11 before we trade the table for wood to build the new ark. Passive income. No better way to negotiate denuclearization than with a couple Russian studs. Ratio? Terrible. Russian studs? Гей.

My boy Zander lays it right in the cup when the phone rings. The Kappa from last night? Nah, her sister. Actually it is America, the President, to be precise. He tells us that the Civil Rights Movement has concluded, and it has terrible implications for next year’s Halloween party theme. Meanwhile the Russians keep asking to play chess, and as this nation’s top diplomat it is my job to look him straight in the fucking eye, like come on buddy, I don’t go to Harvard I go to ASU, Ass sTitties University.

Now this commie fuck tosses the die up, and it soars with alacrity, wings sprouting from its bosom, no longer tethered to the world we live in nor our petty human desires. This is a die for the books, for the Lord’s books, as it reaches up into the heavens, grabbing in its arc a handful of the angels’ divine light, before caressing the beer like — well, like my face did to those Kappa yiddies. The commie looks at me and smiles: “Sig Ep, Moscow Chapter.”

No fuckin’ way dude. And as if he couldn’t get any fuckin’ cooler, he tells the war to fuck off, and yosses us this absolute baddie. She’s smoking hot, Russian, 10/10, but then she opens up, and another IG model comes out, and then another baddie comes out of her, and on and on. War? Averted. Ratio? Saved. It’s a Matryoshka doll of smokeshows.