Amber Night

Guest blogger moxcamel here.

Wow, tough crowd. I feel like John Romero at a Daikatana developers reunion. Ba-dump! Hello is this thing on?

OK, here’s the deal. I’m a technical guy. I can install and maintain a blog, but I am not whatchacall a blogger by trade. I have a blog, but it’s lame and only exists as a place I can stick my photos of hawt Russian women, which is also the subject of this post. Hawt Russian women that is. Not lame blogs.

To maintain the “look and feel” of the blog I’m switching to the new “Amber Night Style,” Wordpress theme, complete with too, many, commas and (liberal) use of parentheses and, dotchaknow, syntactic quirks. (or is that semantic quirks? I don’t know, but I got another parenthetical out of it.)

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Alrighty then.

Although I am a gamer of the MMORPG variety, this post is not about gaming. This post is about hawt Russian women. It’s about hawt Russian women for 2 reasons: first of all, you can forgive a lot of crappy writing if you’re being served up some hawt Russian women. And second, because you can go anywhere on the internet to find out about MMORPG’s, but there is a dearth of information about hawt Russian women. I aim to fix that oversight.

Anywho. Way back in August I took a trip to Russia. It was business related (gratuitous parenthetical note goes here), which basically meant I had my plane tickets paid for by attending a 2-day conference, («« comma!) and was able to spend an additional 2 weeks just seeing the country. It was an amazing trip, and maybe if Amber ever holds my dog hostage again I’ll be forced to write more about it. I’ll just leave you with this: if you are a crass, cynical, and jaded BOFH like me, you will fall in love with the Russian people. Here’s a Russian joke:

Russian pessimist: Things cannot possibly get any worse!
Russian optimist: Sure they can!

Ha! («« Amberism!)

But you probably want to know about the hawt Russian women. I’m coming to that.

I wound up missing the first day of the (2-day) conference because it took me 2 hours to get through immigration and customs. There is only one flight to Kazan a day, so I sat for almost 24 hours at Sheremetyevo International Airport waiting to catch that next flight. It might have been even quicker to catch a train, but I have no idea because nobody speaks fucking («« Naughty words!) English at Sheremetyevo International Airport, which is only one of the busiest goddamned international airports on the planet.¹ And you know those little phrase books you can buy at Borders? Just try whipping that baby out in front of the Aeroflot Customer Service² agent who could really give a rats ass what kind of hurry you’re in. I asked where I could buy a train ticket, she sent me to some little unmarked office, and I think I might be a member of the Communist Party now. Things work a little differently in Russia.

Anywho.

I’m being told that I’m only allowed one “Anywho” per post. I am, however, allowed unlimited “pretend I’m being fed information via ear piece” paragraphs, so you might see more of this.

I learned something about (hawt) Russian women while sitting in Sheremetyevo International Airport for 24 hours, and it is this: Russian women are hawt. All of them. I might be breaking a blog rule by saying something so misogynistic, but I think that in the interests of freedom and liberty the Western world needs to know that the Russians have da bombs! Yow!

Russian women do not leave the house unless their hair, makeup, and clothing are perfect. It doesn’t matter if they’re going to the supermarket or out dancing. They always look fabulous. Roughly half the women—and remember, these were passengers—were in high heels and looked ready to hit a cocktail party. It was like 1965 all over again. I fully expected that Mary Tyler Moore would come running down the concourse at any time crying “oh Raaaaawwb!” (and shit, there I’ve gone and dated myself. Or did I do that with the BOFH reference? In any case, here’s another parenthetical remark for you. Enjoy bitches. [cuz Amber says "bitches" dontchaknow.])

I also discovered that any reflective surface automatically attracts Russian women by the droves. Seriously (had to get a “seriously” in there) it was like watching very well-dressed parakeets. They’d stop for a couple seconds to fix their makeup and hair, and then continue on. Want a Russian woman to hate and loathe the very molecular structure of your being? Stand in front of her reflective surface. It’s fucking scary. Hawt, but scary.

The highlight of my trip came as I was returning, 2 weeks later, through Sheremetyevo. To make a long story short I missed my flight to Frankfurt, and in the process had royally pissed off the super incredibly hawt Russian woman with a heart of ice who had been assigned to make sure I got on the next plane to Berlin before my visa expired. She was SO. VERY. ANGRY. I have to admit I was pretty turned on by it. And when she finally handed the boarding pass to me, she said, with a James Bond villain sneer and her sexy sexy Russian accent—and I swear to Jeebus that I’m not making this up—”Do not come back to Russia!”

I said “yes ma’am,” just because it seemed like the best thing to say to the woman who still hadn’t quite let go of the boarding pass that was going to save me a thousand dollars in overstaying-my-visa fines. But inside my heart was crying “Oh Nikita you will never know (never know!) anything about my home. I’ll never know how good it feels to hold you! Nikita I need you so!” ³

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¹ Yes I am an ugly monolingual American. C’est la vie.
² “Customer Service” translates roughly into Russian as “Disdainful Ignorer.”
³ Obligatory homage to the old school lyrics days.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, October 2nd, 2007 at 5:34 am and is filed under Vacation. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.