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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.