Semantics &
Ripov
by Albert Russo
When Ripov was a little boy
he cherished the idea that one day he would be a
day-plough-matt in order to help the poor of this
world. His parents who owned a tiny farm in the
Middle West and couldn't afford outside help were
overjoyed at their boy's prospect.
With tears in her eyes and
grit under her nails Ma Ripov said: "He's so
per-conscious, that kid of ours. We were right to
send him to school. Our son, a day-plough-matt!
Do you hear Pa?
Not a talkative man, Pa
Ripov nodded as he gulped down his bowl of lentil
soup.
“He's gonna be
ploughin' big,” Ma Ripov went on, “and
pull us out of this bad plot. I can just feel it,
Pa. It's my feline inhibition. Only mothers have
it you know.”
Pa Ripov gave a grunt, for
he resented his wife’s insistant felinism.
He deemed it natural that women cackle endlessly
but not when they started threatening the stable'n
radish order.
Television was the major
cul-de-prick with all those city dames parading
in the streets and calling their own husbands
male-shooting-pigs and other such bleating names.
Yet he too had a lot of faith in little Ripov and
didn't mind making so many strata-vices. He knew
they would pay off and that later he would be re-corded.
Not-sit-or-standing his wife's claims, Pa Ripov
believed Man-errism was a much older and truss-worthy
tr-addition than all the arrow-guns of the
felinists. Pa Ripov was a God-furring lore-bidding
human being.
The day Ma Ripov told him
that God may very well be a God-Ass after all, Pa
Ripov got so angry he knocked out the poor nanny-goat
which was peacefully grazing between the two of
them.
“Take back what you've
just said,” Pa Ripov growled, “there's
no God-Ass. The Lord has never been a trans-vestal.
Trans-vestals are creations of Satana. This is
udder blah-s-phony."
Though Ma Ripov repented in
her heart of artichokes she remained convinced
God-Ass was indeed the ruleress of the You-Me-Verse.
In spite of their
differences, Ma and Pa Ripov were a happy-toiling
couple, mainly thanks to their son who promised
to be America's most distinking day-plough-matt.
Having graduated from
university with straight As, young Ripov
announced: “Ma, Pa, the State Department is
sending me to Moscow in the Russian Steps. Isn't
it great for a first assignment?"
His parents stood dumb
& founded. After the initial shock,
mustarding her courage, Ma Ripov said: “Why
must you go and plough so far away? Isn't there
plenty of place in this here country of ours? You
could have tried your luck in Oklahoma or even
Texas. I'm sure J.R. in Dallas would've been
happy to hire you with all your quality-fictions.
You really shouldn't work for the Russians. They
don't believe in either God or ... God-Ass.”
The word had escaped her. But Pa Ripov was too
dumb & lost to speak.
Eventually the young
diplomat brought his parents to reason. The
misunderstanding had lasted almost two decades.
Nations of the world, let
this be a lesson, whatever your motives, there is
always a glimmer of hope. It is often only a
question of seem-antics.
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