An old man is dying in his hovel on the steppes.
There is a menacing banging on the door.
‘Whose there?’ the old man asks.
‘Death ‘comes the reply.
‘Thank God for that,’ he says, ‘I thought Yeltsin had sold off my dacha to the liberal mafia before he'd even finish starving, freezing, medically-neglecting, and alcohol-poisoning me and a few million other Russians in the countryside to death with zero Western media coverage'.
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