One of Moscow’s trendiest nightclubs recently hosted a night called “Marry a Millionaire”, which is your night of nights if you’re hip young (preferably very young) Russian “millionaire hunter”. You will probably also enjoy the event if you’re seedy cashed-up mafia boss with a taste for women half, a third or perhaps a quarter your age.

The article is a quote goldmine, but this would have to be the money shot:

“He should be smart, really handsome, tall, with a really good body, like some kind of prince. Black hair, really green eyes. He should have around $US45 million.”

Those are the words of “Vikki Kurova, 17, who drives a Porsche and whose father is in the steel business”.

The steel business? Perhaps something was lost in translation, but most Russian Porsche owners are in the “stealing business”. Perhaps for her 18th birthday Vicki could ask daddy to tell her what he really does. Wait a minute. Whats a 17 year old doing in a nightclub anyway? You’ve got to love that good old Russian sense of irony - nightclub “face control” involves looking at everything but. Especially the one on the ID card.

But lets hear a bit more Vikki wisdom:

“I spend a lot of money - in a week $US300 or $US400. I couldn’t marry a guy that’s not rich because I want to live like I live now,”

Wow, that is a lot of money, Vikki. And thinking ahead to when daddy is in jail. Good girl!

Great to see a girl who knows what she wants. But does Vicki know what her hazel-eyed prince charming may be looking for in her?

“If you want to be a millionaire’s wife, you should be young, and of course beautiful. All millionaires love young girls.”

And what do those millionaires do when those young, beautiful girls get old, Vicki? I should mention there’s a big difference between the Russian and Australian definition of “old”. Like, about a 30 year difference.

But things always balance out in this world, so for every airhead bimbo seeking a prince there’s an airhead princess out there scrubbing’s someone’s floor for attention (ok, perhaps its not exactly a one to one ratio):

Although Diana’s life was been covered in excruciating detail, [..] Brown provides details of Diana’s detachment from reality, such as telling Brown over a lunch that she thought she could solve the conflict in Northern Ireland.

“I’m very good at sorting out people’s heads,” Brown quotes her as saying.

[..]”Marks and Spencer have got these very clever little meals that you just put the timer on and press the button and it’s done for you!” Diana is quoted as telling her therapist, Simone Simmons.

[..] She would also spend the day at [her Pakistani heart surgeon boyfriend Hasnat Khan’s messy one-bedroom apartment in Chelsea, where she would vacuum, do the dishes and iron his shirts.

Alas, contrary to popular belief (in Russia, anyway) being Royalty doesn’t get you everything:

[..] but her efforts were in vain. Dr Khan’s mother had no intention of letting her son marry anyone other than a Pakistani Muslim girl.

Well, I suppose its nice to know at least someone in this world still listens to their mother.

Now, if comedy is more your thing, check out this “soap opera” here, called Sands of Passion, by the online comedy network (?) National Banana. Here are episodes 1 and 2:

Episode three is on youtube and four was also posted up today. Love it!

The people that gave the world Clonaid are back with a new project: Clitoraid. The aim of the project is to provide surgery that “restores sexual sensibility” to victims of Female Genital Mutilation.

Go to the Clitoraid website to “Adopt a Clitoris”, read some “touching testimonies” or make a donation for the construction of their “pleasure hospital” in Burkina Faso, which is due to start next week.

I reckon you’d have to be pretty brave to let these people anaesthesize you. But then, who in Burkina Faso has even heard of Raelism?

(h/t Right Truth)

that massages you.

The caption for this photo on Spiegel online reads: “A police officer in Hamburg gives a demonstrator a massage after he strained his back while throwing a bottle.”

I’d be careful, you may get sued later for pressing too hard.

UPDATE: Its back rubs for young and old in Germany at the moment.

Click to read more.

A “perfectly un-PC” image via Tim Blair (Via James Lileks):

In other great “You did what with that nuclear waste?!” moments in history (as opposed to cartoon life as above), I wonder what kind of images Arthur Kesller’s father used to sell his “atomic” product:

[Arthur Kesller] was born in Budapest in 1905 to assimilated Jewish parents. His father was a businessman who failed most of the time but who occasionally hit the jackpot: immediately before and during the first half of World War I, he made a fortune (soon lost) by manufacturing and selling soap that contained radium. Radioactivity was then a recently discovered phenomenon, and many believed the rays to be life-enhancing and disease-curing.

A marketer’s dream that soap surely would have been. Well, several decades after initial deployment anyway. I can picture it now: Three long glowing legs kick out of the bathtub caucetishly, soapie splashes mushrooming around it; the camera mists up like a window on a crisp nuclear winter morning as it closes in on her radiant smile. Fade to black. Beautiful.

Self:

Chapter 1: “Life’s little contradictions”, by Tim Blair
Chapter 2: “A Self-Hater’s Guide To Science”, by P. Granate

Find out the real origins of the infidel holiday of April Fools!

But here’s Bolivian President Evo Morales with a pancake on his head:

Thats Evo “Bunny” Morales from now on. The resemblance is truely striking.

Meanwhile some of Evo’s countrymen are trying to take the ‘coca’ out of Cola-Cola, claiming the “sacred plant is part of Bolivia’s cultural heritage”, according to FP Passport. I think Coca-Cola should counter-attack and demand a reclaimation of their other brandname currently tarnished by the South Americans - Coke.