Blood, Mud, and Whiskey: Barmageddon on the Dnipro

Start with Vladimir Putin, that cold-eyed bastard running Russia like a bookie who’s fixed the race. He’s got the face of a man who’s seen too many winters and liked none of ‘em. His deal? Invade Ukraine, snatch Crimea, bomb the hell out of anything that moves, all to glue together some fairy-tale empire that never was. It’s not about strategy; it’s about a guy who’s looked in the mirror and seen his own death, so he’s dragging a whole country down with him. I’ve seen his type in every skid-row bar—guys who punch walls because life didn’t bow down and kiss their ass. Putin’s just got bigger fists and a nuclear arsenal. He’s a bully, sure, but don’t kid yourself—he’s also a symptom, a tumor on a world that loves its tyrants as much as it hates ‘em. I’d tell him to drown his sorrows in a bottle of Stoli, but he’s already drunk on power, and that’s the worst kind of high.

Then there’s Volodymyr Zelenskyy, Ukraine’s golden boy, the ex-comedian turned war saint. What a story—guy goes from cracking jokes to dodging missiles, rallying his people in a green T-shirt like he’s auditioning for a gritty reboot of Braveheart. You gotta hand it to him: he’s got balls, standing in Kyiv while the bombs fall, telling the world to send more guns. But let’s not get misty-eyed. Zelenskyy’s playing the hero because it’s the only card he’s got, and the West’s eating it up like suckers at a carnival. He’s begging for NATO’s scraps, and every tank comes with a chain—Uncle Sam and Brussels don’t give handouts without a leash. I’ve seen his kind too, the hustlers who believe their own hype, thinking they can outsmart the machine. Good luck, pal. When the war’s over, win or lose, he’ll be another used-up dreamer, and the suits will still be running the show. I’d buy him a beer, but he’d probably want to make a speech about it.

The West? Don’t make me laugh. They’re like a bunch of hungover accountants pretending to be knights. Sanctions, arms shipments, big talk about “democracy”—it’s all a con, a way to look noble while keeping their hands clean. All those polished turds in suits, they’re playing chess with other people’s kids. They’ll send Ukraine just enough to bleed Russia dry, but not enough to end it, because a long war’s good for business—Lockheed Martin’s stock is proof of that. I’ve seen this scam before, in ‘Nam, in Iraq, in every bar fight where the big guy eggs on the little guy but ducks the uppercut. The West’s got no skin in the game, just dollar signs in their eyes and a moral superiority complex that’d choke a horse. They’re as dirty as Putin, just better at hiding the stains. If I ran into ‘em at a gin joint, I’d tell ‘em to shut up and drink, because their sermons are giving me a headache.

The soldiers, though—God, they’re the ones who get me. Ukrainian kids in mismatched camo, fighting for their homes with nothing but guts and borrowed rifles. Russian barely old enough to shave, half-starved, shivering in trenches, sent to die for a cause they don’t understand. They’re the same, you know—young, scared flesh caught in a meat grinder run by old men with dead souls. I’ve seen their faces on display in every booze-eum, every flophouse, every street corner where life’s kicked the shit out of hope. They don’t care about geopolitics or pipelines; they just want to live. But there they are, bleeding in the mud, while the world watches like it’s a damn reality show. It’s enough to make you puke, or cry, or both. I’d pour ‘em all a shot and say, “Boys, you’re better than the bastards who sent you here.”

So what’s the point? There isn’t one, not really.

This war’s just another verse in the same lousy song—power, greed, death, repeat. Nobody’s clean, nobody’s noble, and the only winners are the vultures picking the bones.

Ukraine’s got heart, but it’s bleeding out.

Russia’s got muscle, but it’s punching itself in the face.

The West’s got money, but it’s spineless.

Me? I’m done with the flags and the spin-doctoring rhetoric.

I’d rather find a rat’s nest where the jukebox plays Hank Williams, the bartender doesn’t talk politics, and the whiskey’s cheap enough to forget the world for a night.

That’s my advice to you, too—skip the news, ditch the Twitter fights, and head to the nearest watering hole where the stools wobble and the air smells like regret. Order a double, tip the barmaid, and raise a glass to the poor bastards in the trenches. They’re the only ones who deserve it.

This war’s a mirror, and it’s ugly. It shows us what we are—petty, cruel, desperate, brave, all at once. I’ve seen it all, from the gutters of L.A. to the bottom of a bottle, and I’m telling you, it doesn’t get better.

So drink, laugh, maybe write a poem on a napkin before you pass out.

The world’s gonna keep burning, but at least you’ll have a buzz.

Here’s to the end of everything, or at least to the next round.

Charles Bukowski is a poet, novelist, and professional misanthrope who believes life is mostly ashtrays and assholes. His unpublished manuscript, Love Is a Warm Kalashnikov, was last seen being used to prop up a broken barstool in Odessa.

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