Lack of expertise
Shrewd observers are constantly noting the emergence of new phenomena in Ukraine’s multihued political life, and it is beginning to seem as though all possible methods of parliamentary struggle in our part of the universe have long been studied and recorded in special reference books.
But this is only at first glance. In reality, Ukrainian parliamentarians have not exploited every possibility for political struggle that mankind has come up with. They still confine themselves to blocking the rostrum (a preposterous and completely unsportsmanlike spectacle), heckling (with the exception of women, parliamentarians don’t know how to whistle), using foul language (who cares about such trivia today?), and so on.
Such outdated parliamentary weapons as eloquence, a stinging but courteous joke about an opponent, and gentle hints at skeletons in the closet are of no value today; they are the stuff of obsolete manuals. But then what weapons should the Ukrainian parliament’s present-day knights and ladies use “without fear and reproach?”
Still, they have managed to pick up some nice techniques along the way. Take, for example, the lightning change of masks by some members of parliament: you think you are seeing a well-known figure, but in fact it is an entirely different one. And while you are reflecting on who is who, the picture changes again. A practice that is old as the hills is still in wide use: money, of course. But few MPs are able to take money in the proper, i.e., “gentlemanly” and “dignified.” way (as the French say, manners should be observed). Nor is it so easy to give bribes while smiling sweetly and dishing out compliments.
But the world has developed many other parliamentary tools in comparison with which our Verkhovna Rada looks like a kids’ sandbox. Researchers have long been studying the parliamentary behavior of Homo Sapiens — since the age of primitive societies, when an incautious colleague could instantly turn into a meal for his fellow MPs. Hellenic times saw the liberal use of “voluntary” ingestion of poison and banishment abroad, while the political labyrinths of medieval Europe were full of sophisticated Byzantine tortures, poisoned swords and finger-rings, not to mention confiscation of property (a brilliant if forgotten invention).
Leafing through old books at a wholesale market in Kyiv, I stumbled across an ancient manual presumably intended for some (unknown to me) aboriginal parliamentarians, who permanently “sat” in their chieftain’s council (the chief himself would never appear at the council unless he had to undergo his own funeral rite). The book also describes some latter-day methods of political communication, such as wresting a microphone (in ancient times, a “microphone” meant an MP’s tongue). Here are some excerpts from that book. Perhaps some of our parliamentarians will choose to take advantage of them.
Smell. No need for grabbing mikes, voting cards, or seats (I’ve just remembered a good method: “stitching up” the chairs with thin, sharp spikes). Instead, some talented doctors brew up a special fragrant extract — an absolutely harmless one — which is secretly sprinkled on the floor of the Rada’s enemy sectors or podium (the job can be done by “friendly” floor-sweepers). This is a polite way, without cries and rowdiness. Your opponents will become helpless as children — for a while, of course, but sometimes it takes an experienced politician a few quiet moments to achieve a noble goal.
Pyrotechnics. Experts claim that the rich and time-tested spectrum of pyrotechnic devices can be put to excellent use in Ukraine’s parliament. Very effective are so-called surprise fountains, i.e., small envelopes that blend in with the color of the parquet floor, which are secretly scattered around in the right places. They explode when they are stepped on. This is a very effective and spectacular method: some shocked MPs are shocked into inaction, while others are immobilized by laughter. (The VR’s floor is a very important strategic area, although so far it is no match for the famous flooring of the British Parliament.)
Occult sciences. It is always useful and pleasant to employ the achievements of occult sciences in public affairs, which Leo Tolstoy brilliantly proved in his inimitable Fruits of Enlightenment. A character in this play, Professor Krugosvietlov, aptly claims that “occult phenomena are as old as the hills,” but not everyone knows this. But this raises the problem of lighting: as you know, occultism is incompatible with bright light. But why not? Why on earth should we waste millions of kilowatt-hours in the VR during an energy crisis? Twilight would be as effective during parliamentary sessions as it is at spiritualistic seances: a dusky atmosphere would be completely in line with the overall situation in our country. So dusk and dusk again! Although all important political affairs may not be made not in heaven, but surely never in the beams of a spotlight: this requires discretion and never-ending consultations with otherwordly (read: foreign) occult forces.
Water effect. For some reason, our parliamentarians have not used the powerful potential of water — the one that runs from faucets. The principle is simple: on the eve of an important and lengthy debate the water supply is quietly cut off in parliament. After a while, MPs will begin to leave the session room. Then the chairman can do whatever he pleases, if, of course, he retains his seat.
In conclusion, I will take the liberty of recommending that a special high-security occult technology research institute be founded in Ukraine, which would develop parapolitical methods of public administration based on the experience that mankind has accumulated over the past 10,000 years.
