Saint Peter don’t you call me ’cause I can’t go,
I owe my soul to the company store.

On this day, back when “centurion” was a rank and not a main battle tank, a future despot entered the world for the first time, noticed that the weather was 20 below with a 100% chance of blizzards, and immediately made a solemn oath that he was going to make the world really bloody sorry for giving him such a miserable welcome, even if it took him the rest of his life.

And so it began. The young Emperor grew up, never missing an opportunity to make somebody, somewhere feel bloody horrid. Much remains to be done, we’re told that small enclaves of individuals as of yet un-insulted by our derision and disgust still manage to live their wretched, unimportant lives untouched by our withering scorn and sarcasm, but we’ll get to those eventually. As sure as day follows night. Believe us we will.

In the meantime, feel free to offer your most heartfelt congratulations and/or pleas for mercy in the comments while pounding the shit out of the Vodka Appreciation Fund Button on the left sidebar.

Happy Emperor Day, Rotties.

Bar’s open!

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By Emperor Misha I

Ruler of all I survey -- and then some.

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