Alright, that’s enough. Welcome, fellas! Thank you all for coming, so glad you came. Listen up, people. I could use some help. With the Long Play for the record, you’re on. Seriously though, you gotta help me. Since you’re the one who’s gonna buy it, and this way you’ll get what you made in the first place, won’t you? Also, I rid myself of responsibilities. First of all we should discuss the title of the whole thing, y’know? The thing is… How sweet… Her spirit got elevated without a single pun, huh? Fact is, on one of my earlier LP’s — in my own way — I set a memorial to dear uncle Józsi Szendrő, my first ever director. Now, with this record — also in my own way — I would like to commemorate my second director, János Komlós. And I thought it would be fitting if the LP’s title sounded like: “Free after Komlós” Alright… Applause’s OK. Just don’t start protesting on me. ‘Cause we might get into trouble. As far as I’m concerned I’ll say every line of my text which I’m sure will be eventually cut out. Of course, we’re on the clock here, jokes aside. Later when you give it a spin, and hear a ~WC-flush~… well, that was it. I’m afraid this LP’s gonna end up full of toilet sounds… With the political situation going on right now. “Flushed by Géza Hofi” As of lately, I’ve been checking on radio news and more serious stuff. And after a programme’s done, all the creators are credited in one way or the other. Keeping up with the times, the LP’s cover is bound to contain this: Edited by Géza Hofi Supervising Producer: Géza Hofi Production Supervisor: Géza Hofi Assistant Director: Géza Hofi Director’s Assistant: Géza Hofi Directed by Géza Hofi Well, so far so good… Okay, let’s get on with the program. I’ll tell you everything I had on my mind. Anything you don’t like, just tell me, I’ll leave it out in an instant, OK? Now, check this out… Behind the folding screen here we’ll have a hospital operating room with an operating table I’ll be lying on, when a doctor says: “Engage the anesthesia!” A button is pushed, and a speaker kicks in: “The building of Socialism…” “Factory-democracy…” “Annual level…” And I’m already fully dazed, y’know? It’s like opium, isn’t it? But for real! Do you know what opium is made of? …poppy! That’s it! That’s it! Over at the fucking Imperialists, y’know? That’s where it is made of poppy. Over here it’s made of bullshit, y’know? This is why I’m saying we’re helpless. Y’know what…? Last time… The last time, my theatre was… Not mine. Sorry. So, we were visited by the family Cens. There was Lady Cens, sitting with her spouse. Cens-Lordship, you’ve got it. Praising me like “Géza, you were great! What public figures! How political! So excellent, Géza…” “Like what you said yesterday… Just don’t you ever say that again.” — How am I supposed to do this then? Soon after this followed a part in the show which, sadly, ended up in an accident. From a height of about 4 meters 20, on each occasion of the show I fell in onto the stage from above. Those of you who are regulars may recall. If not for this particular fall, at least. While practicing this falling, the labor union’s Occupational Safety and Health representative showed up: “So, where are you coming from?” “Well, from above.” “That is too far high.” “The labor union won’t allow this stunt.” — Back then that Polish case was still open, y’know? And they weren’t sure where it was headed… “In my own responsibility?” “That’s a different story. Then you might as well jump from higher.” Cuteness in person. So, imagine: for 300 occasions I fell into the middle of the stage. No problem, a rubber mattress or something was placed there, I landed on that. Then, just two days before New Year’s Eve… My God what happened…? I mean… Guess what happened, comrades? Guess what? I missed the mattress by half a meter. Think about it… Ouch! I kicked up a lot of dust. Just picture me coming from above, going BOOM! So I crashed. And the gossip soared up… Our Great Audience… Master of mixing the salami. One variation I’ll tell. The chit-chat was: “Do you know Fekete & Co? They overheard…” “They’ve got a Tobacco shop, they know everything.” “They’ve got a western car, a Ford. Wagon Station Camping Can.” “They said: Hofi wasn’t on air Sylvester night because previously he got into a brawl with Kabos.” Look at him. I lie on him, and he dies. Right? Apart from that, I’m not so stupid to hit on the reds in such politically complicated times! Do I need state of emergency on my back? So I crash-landed, mind you. I have proof. Look at this… Broke my red wine. See? I touched down like the Malév airline in Prague. Indeed, I fell just like that statue back then… Stale… Which statue did you mind again? Your eyes don’t look good, y’know? Because I was thinking of Péter Pázmány’s statue. Comrades… Yes, because it was torn down. Among others. You’re so evil, folks… I said “among others” because there’s another one they tore down too… No. No, wait. That’s not it, I got it mixed up… Success confuses me completely. No, the statue that I had in mind, that one wasn’t torn down… It was blown up! By these dirty bastards, damn them! They blew up the our Hungarian Nation’s Great Leader & Heroic Son, Gyula Gömbös’s statue! Comrades… The Hungarian Nation won’t forget its Heroic Son, Great Leader, Gyula Gömbös! In this we’re assisted by this SMART Socialist memorial plaque! Did you see it? No??? Where on Earth are you fucking around on free Saturdays? Always that stupid shopping, eh? What bread did you get? Dry one, huh? At least that’s actually finished. Hold on, I’ll expand on this Socialist memorial plaque for you. Imagine… At the Buda-side bridgehead of the Erzsébet Bridge, in the park there’s a smart Socialist memorial plaque. Some Council of People’s Education or what had put it there. Though… Get off, I won’t take it easy! They put this Socialist memorial plaque there which… unfortunately you could not see in winter times because… the snow covered it all up. At least the snow has got it right. Quoting the text of the Socialist plaque word for word. It says… Gosh the pain… “Partisans situated at Budapest blew up the statue of Gyula Gömbös, fascist prime minister.” That’s what it says. Who the partisans were though… …nobody gives a damn about, apparently. I, too, have a sock full of ’em! Because they’ve got to blow things up. And what do you need to remember according to the Socialist plaque? That standing in this place was Gyula Gömbös, fascist prime minister’s statue. Uncle Gyula…! You won’t be forgotten ever! As long as they put plaques like that out there… But seriously, guys. Let’s talk about this a little bit if we’re already here. Why couldn’t they put the names of the partisans on it? They weren’t so many in numbers. …There. What are you saying? You’re just pissing me off. Why not have their names on it? So they wouldn’t get chased around? Well then you should not include ID-numbers, dammit! By the way, I dunno if you knew: in Hungary, partisans are being chased by a centrally managed entity The Pioneer movement. Man! These bunch of fucking brats are strolling around from door to door. “Here’s the center of my head! Forward!” They’re always in search of old papers and tradition. These two have been reportedly gone missing for some time now… Guys, guys… So, back on topic… I’ll calm down in a bit. Just wait and see me smile again. You wouldn’t believe these. By the way, you know what I saw the other day? Check this out… See? I’m all cheery now, see? I just shook it off like that, y’know? Being like this all day 😀 Then at home D:… Y’know? That was it! Now… Don’t get cocky. Alright, no fooling around. The tape’s running out. So… Imagine, at a Volán Company site I got to see the journey log of a ZIL truck. Geez! I thought i’d scratch myself. I will quote it word for word, picture it. The journey log’s got the date, the mileage… and this text, word for word: “30 quintals of communists…” What? Is it too much? That’s what it said: “30 quintals of communists delivery forth and back.” What the hell? What’s this all about? They called the truck driver: “Comrade Horváth, what’s this “30 quintals of communists delivery forth and back” line supposed to mean?” “What the fuck do you think it means? I brought the workers’ militia out to the drill.” “But how can you put it in such a retarded way?” “How am I supposed to put it smart when regulation says: passenger transport by a ZIL truck is prohibited?” “Only quintals were permitted.” By the way, for you being so kind and bear with the heat in here… Take this joke from me as a gift. For Easter. (Next year…) Next year, she says… My kindness is a zip to her. She resents me ’cause I’m late! She bullies me! I bet you miss your eggs too. Chill out. Talk about a bitch… I’ma tell it to the others then. It’s a sweet little joke. You’ll note no politics in it. Besides, you know me: politics in my show — scratch that! No way. They’d get me to jail. Not again, no. You’re funny, joking around in a crowd, huh? So… It’s a simple animal tale. The wolf puppy says to the fox puppy… Notice: not a single word of politics there! The wolf pup says to the fox pup: “Yo! Let’s beat the rabbit up!” “Meh, we’ll beat him tomorrow.” “Beat him up today!” “Beat him up for what?” “If he’s got a cap on, we’ll beat him for that, if he’s got none, we’ll beat him for that.” Going to the rabbit… Bang! They beat the crap out of him. Next day, the wolf says to the fox: “Yo! Let’s beat him up again!” “We already beat him yesterday.” “Let’s do it again!” “But what the hell for?” “We’ll ask for a cigarette.” “If he gives us filter-tipped, we’ll beat him for that. If he gives us non-filter-tipped, he’s done for that.” Approaching: “Yo, rabbit!” “Give us a cigarette.” “Which one would you prefer? Filter-tipped or non-filter-tipped?” “Look at this sorry motherfucker, again no cap on…” Can we agree there’s no politics in here? I would’ve been ashamed if it were. To be fair, this joke reminds me of a certain time period. I was told, back then many people didn’t have a filter-tipped cap on. Oh, wait a moment! In my embarrassment I haven’t even introduced myself to you… Hold on… “Not a relative…” (“…nor an acquaintance”) She knows the poem, you hear? …If only you weren’t such an over-educated ass… What did U major in? F-minor, huh? “Not a relative, nor an acquaintance of nobody I am not” I am The Socialism Expected a nicer one, Gizi? Sweetheart, this is how it is! You know what? Pay a visit to our neighbours, then you’ll be glad I am the way I am. I, The Socialism, wasn’t just so contrived or poetized. I was born as a dream. I’m a dream of people. But not just anybody’s dream. ..*x. I said Marx. And Engels. Who else? Lenin! Alright, you’re a clever one! Sit up front! Lenin’s been dreaming of me in full colours. And as you know, dreams are colorful before the awakening… Lenin’s right been dreaming of me when he said to himself: “We better be rising.” “After all it’s the 7th of November.” And that’s the day of the uprising and ever since I ain’t a dream. At this point we should stop for a while. I received some critique on this particular part here. And not by just anybody but THE Critic… the 70 years old Critic… The original text was like: “Lenin’s right been dreaming of me… when his cleaning lady, Pavlovna Ivanovna, said to him: “Rise and shine, comrade Lenin! It’s the 7th of November!” And Lenin’s like: “Indeed! Today’s the uprising!” The critic saw it. They asked him how he liked it. The answer was the following: “It is quite profound. It is very political. It just does not comply with historical accuracy. Which is… It wasn’t the cleaning lady who made Lenin rise and shine, but Lenin did all the world’s cleaning ladies.” In life you make mistakes… Whoa, it just occured to me: I have a costume too… Once I put it on, you’ll drop dead. You haven’t seen anything like it. Don’t you leave, okay? Ain’t that something? This cap… This water polo cap is not finished yet. Here on top will come the hammer and sickle. To be a line pattern. And to the front goes my start number: ’45. That’s when I jumped in! “Took a jump-start!”, turned hopping. I’d like to ask you something, darlings. You’ve been cute so far, hats off, you got all the gags. Please, do not freeze from now on, because we are getting at more sensitive territories. I’m speaking from experience. At this part people usually go all… Okay? Just keep it up, OK? Alright, let’s move on then. Think of it… This cap is on me because somehow it’s characteristic, y’know? Since I, as Hungarian Socialism, totally have never been out of the water yet. You see? I told you beforehand… See? That section over there just completely froze… Why are you like this now? What’s up? You all from the same company? Yes? Then I didn’t say a word. Pardon me! Everything’s clear. You’re a clear example of what factory-democracy means, comrades: Shit yourselves simultaneously, well done! That’s what I call badass. It figures. Relax, man! You’re at a cabaret, not on a free Party day. How do I know? You’d be half as many, that’s how. Yep, I forgot to mention: this Capitalism… This Capitalism… wants to defeat me, The Socialism. Silly. He’s nowhere close. Capitalism could only triumph over Socialism if it first teamed up with us. Because no-one can cause enough damage to Socialism more than we do. Since we’re at close range, y’know? And when we reach it… To Capitalism we are like what the iceberg once was to the Titanic ship. What do you say what cool stuff I know? Only this much shows above water. But to think what’s beneath it… As the poet says: “Though the gally’s above” “And the water-mass’ below” …Well, how does it go on? (“Water’s still in control”) …Cut the crap! The water’s still below! Keep learning. Wait, did I mention? I’m not brought to the operating room because I, as Socialism, am sick. I’m fine, y’know? And yet, ever since I exist, they keep doing surgeries on me. Something’s always taken out of me. “Still need this” a change of heart, back to the other side, upside down. And this double mill has been going on for 30+ years. This pull-out plug-in game you sure noticed when… every hole in the country was filled up with oil stoves. Now… What does this son of a bitch oil stove eat? Oil, the evil fucker! I hear ya. It just won’t be feeding on acacia wood. Apparently, on top they didn’t know that the oil stove just won’t eat acacia wood. Now, check this out. As you all know, many of our coal mines dried out according to plan, and… Do not laugh. Nothing ever happens in our economy, except which happens according to plan. We just may not know. So, they shut the mines down in a hurry, with a slick reorganization the miners were sent to work as weavers. No kidding. And this actually worked out in parts, y’know? Although they can’t weave yet, their tits already grow. This special type of beer-tit: One, in the middle. Have you ever been to Komló? They all look like that. And then these fucking Imperialists, mind you, made the oil price go up. The effects eventually arrived here. After all the impact is heaviest at rock bottom. Then they announced: we shall revert to using coal at the fireplaces again. Where the hell do we get coal from now? There’s a smartass who burnt up his wooden leg? Otherwise you wouldn’t get it anywhere. And one more thing. Whatever they take out of me, it all comes with warranty. You’re the warranty for me. Wonder what they’d offer as a replacement if I ended up in total shambles. For start they removed a weapon out of me. I’ll show you, you’ll faint. Ain’t it something? Accordions, I dare you, accordions were serious killer weapons in the ’50s. They exterminated the kulaks with these! All the shitty kulaks! Die off, bastards! To the jail with you! And y’all go… volunteer! You remember it, don’t you? You don’t remember… Clever… It appears you moved up in the ranks since then. But I hope you still have your loden coat, don’t you? Careful. The winter’s upon us. Careful. So they approached the kulak with the accordion: “Well, kulak…” “Wanna hear some chastushka?” “Fuck that, I’m off to jail rather.” And the kulak got away with it in prison. You won’t get away with it so easily… Now you’ll have to listen to the chastushka! Clever! This one’s an original museum specimen. Listen! “One…” Oh, wait, it’s closed on two… One, two… One, two, three, four… What do you laughing at? This way it can’t go wrong. And the lyrics aren’t mine. But it’s clever as hell. Listen… “We the youthful pioneers…” Bleached one U2. “We the youthful pioneers welcome all the people” “Again, one step they closer got to a brighter future” Boom! There’s the wall. Imagine… All the kulaks are in jail. The prison guard says: “20 o’clock! Line up! Start marching!” Stop! These dolls are deaf… Stop! At last… Lame cretin! Is that a prisoner? Got some late ignition, eh? I’ll check you under the hood, don’t worry.” The prisoners are standing in a line nicely. The guard’s like: “Why you in here?” “To report: I’m a kulak.” “You’ll die here, scum. You filthy piece of shit enemy of people! I’ma stomp your fucking lungs out! Along with your fucking mom’s! You stinking pile of shit son of a bitch kulak dirt…! …Bony ass fishy kulak… Mom was doing the fishery patrol, wasn’t she? You just wait… Gonna hang you right there! Once we get a few nails. Why’re you in here?” “To report…” “You’re a kulak too, damn you! You’ll receive it on paper. You fucking reactionist scumbag, you!” So the kulaks were purged from society. But if you recall, they went a bit overboard, because along with the kulaks went all the pork, all the beef, and all meat altogether, y’know? That’s when I was brought to the surgery with caecum. Had a caecum that… …couldn’t see me eat any meat. X-ray went blind over my gut feeling: showed no cornbread. Though we used to gobble that shit. Anyway… No food. I was thinking: it’s OK that we’re building Socialism but… …food we still need. As the saying goes: “I think, therefore, I eat.” “…therefore, I am.” If I eat, I’ll be – you could say. Yo! The thought that over the building of Socialism you also need to eat… …didn’t occur to everyone around here… I’ll try to say it indirectly by paraphrasing. In a specific country, they made a law which said: anyone who stocks up food will be sentenced to up to 5 years in prison. Do you think this worth 4 years? Seems like I may get a few cellmates from here though. Better so, trust me. Got a few pounds to lose. That is, we’ll have to. You’re laughing now. You just wait… Time will come when you say: “Geez, I thought that Hofi was joking.” That’s what I, too, thought for a while. On May 1, I was watching a rerun on the TV-show “You asked for it”, and y’know what’s terrifying? Every single word of my recorded show from 2-3 years ago has become actuality by today. I’m so awesomely fresh… …incredible. Speaking of the devil: the Americans launched a satellite so they could provide whole Europe their U.S. based TV-broadcast. Certain folks got all scared: “Well, it appears then… We might get to watch some films as well. Now those rotten Imperialists and those rotten Capitalists will now water down our politically educational enlightening education in enlightening politics, social politics, politically socialist nurturing… agitating… political agitation in socpol… political work, won’t they? But nevermind! We gonna build a great jammer station!” Stupidest idea, isn’t it? What for? Firstly: building a jammer station would cost awfully much. Secondly: by the time this U.S. satellite starts broadcasting we’ll have a blackout anyway. We already have regular power failures 3 hours per day. And when’s it down? At night! So you can see you can’t see shit. I used to have another speech similar to this, it was just cut out of the program. They were chopping it up virtually coming with a combine harvester. Yes, they said I can’t tell it “cause it’s too long.” Yeah, it went too far… A man came at the butcher’s shop, not the usual way… …he came how he came. There are so many butchers standing vacant. Why they wouldn’t convert them to cloakrooms, it’s a fucking mistery. The pegs are given, only need to show a number. Wouldn’t need to be standing around in queues for our jackets …like cooking stuff. Back to our man who says: “I’d like to have 1 kilo of head-meat.” “There ain’t.” “Well then… 1 ½ kilo of meat for stew.” “There ain’t.” “Well then, let’s say… 1 kilo of tripe?” “There ain’t.” “Well then… 40 deca of ham, please.” “There ain’t.” “…Not to cut you off… 2 kilo of ribs.” “There ain’t.” “…1 kilo shank?” “There ain’t.” The boss in the warehouse gets fed up: “Józsi! Who’s that picky fucker?” So, back to the kulaks. I guess for the sake of justice we ought to tell since, in retrospect of so many years, nobody wanted to address this issue, whereas I for one think it would be important to clarify… No… Don’t even think about clapping! Careful. Don’t mess with this. You start clapping, and the district’s political leadership will know that you had a kulak in the family. You don’t want that. Watch me. Was I clapping? No. There you go. Even though I had 3. All 3 of my fathers were kulaks. That’s why I have no diploma. At least I don’t need tongue-in chemistry. So… The kulak had it because he was schooled to do agriculture, y’know? He knew where piglets and where pigs are coming from. It’s that simple. For real. Piglets are coming from pigs. Pigs are coming from the pub. End of story. Now, in our country, you can look around in the stores: there is food. And there’s food not because at the end of December Jesus came by. I’ve been examining this from the Popular Front’s point of view… Jesus has been to other places. Some of where he’s got relatives around. I dunno if you knew why in that place they lifted the curfew on Christmas Eve? Cause they knew: poor Jesus won’t finish until 10. Allow me to say we’ve got food on the shelves. What does that mean? Again we have kulaks around too! Thank God and the foil tent for that! Man… If we weren’t such a strong agriculture, we’d be an industrial country – running for our money like Hungry Beggars. You bet! So we have kulaks again. They just aren’t called like that anymore. But for instance the Chief Executive Officer of the State Farm of Bábolna, y’know? He can run the show. Thus snitches report about him every month. But atrocities are no longer an issue …for the snitches. You know him from Bábolna: Burgert O’Góré? And what’s he called locally? “Burgenland” By the way, this anonym reporting to the secret service, it’s a National Tradition here, y’know? This large population of fucking asshole cockroaches… They just couldn’t die the fuck out. Some of the scum is still alive, y’know? Yeah… He’s got the address. He’s got paper. He’s got pencil. He reports. Period. Those 3 are enough reasons, aren’t they? And those rat bitches back then siding with Santa po… I mean the Gestapo… I always confuse these two geezers, huh? Let’s see if the operating room’s free. Wait, I’ll check… You…! That is me! The Socialism is spreading! I’m lying on two separate beds now. I was cut in half, huh? No. I, as Socialism, am spreading from myself, y’know? Therefore I dislike it when they accuse me of being at all kinds of different places where I know exactly I’m not quite there yet. Wait, I’ll rephrase this into clearer text for you… You can’t leave for home without this. It’s my lotto… um, motto. So… I, as Socialism, somehow can not adapt to areas which are geographically sandy. That needs further enchasing. Hold on… See where I am coming from… So, I, as Socialism, somehow ain’t getting much love in those arid, desert areas. There, I just can’t seem to be taking root. Man, I’ve been beating off so much there! Never came to root… And I’ve been pouring it. Been pouring stuff in there. And not just water, fuck that! It was milk! Been milking it without end. But no! It’s swallowing. It just won’t bind. Some Aswan’s in the way. And at the same time, they’re clinging to me, and they’re kicking me… I’m the centre, y’know? They shouldn’t be acting so mixed up. Someone once said at home: It would be time to call everything by it’s name. “Potato soup should be potato soup, comrades.” Simply, you gotta know how to preserve the bottled fruit. In the desert, you’ll label the can “Socialism” in vain, if it smells like… You gotta know how to preserve the bottled fruit. So who’s gonna help me out, ladies? How do you do it? Come on, bravely. (Salycil…) Salycil. Very good. (Fruits…) …And I thought we’d manage without those. Salycil’s number one, gotcha? I love you. Alright. A full-blooded Hungarian gal! She knows there ain’t no fruits, still her void mustn’t turn sour. Salycil… So, we need fruits alright, need “Zucker, bitte”, need. Well then… Say what? After that, what do you cover the bottle up with? (Cellophane.) Cellophane, OK. Got no cellophane on me, but I’ve got a nylon shirt. This is gonna be the cellophane now. What do you tie it down with? (Rubber) Rubber, very good. Got a rubber on you? There ain’t? Weren’t you prepared for coming? I think I’ve got a group of ’em on me… So… You’re one frivolous group, folks. Let’s put the bottled fruit of Socialism into preservation. The glass holds the fruit. We pour the silencium… erm, “salyncimum-um” on it. What do I know now what we pour on it… We cover the bottle with cellophane. Nicely. So. We take the rubber out… Tie it down… Who devours me will get their asses kicked! Salaam… Shalom… Maybe everyone’s gathered. You know, at times like this, I’m becoming so anxious, and I so much would like to ask the Great Dreamer of mine to… Tell me… It was not the whole thing just a dream Tell me… we’re not gonna go just all insane Tell me… we gonna keep on dreaming together Tell me… we gonna quit with all the show trials Tell me… How should I go on with my life It would be… so sad now without you Do you remember our first meeting? Had a bunch of people at the Putylov factory We were as many as the Ru… many people Tell me… How should I go on with my life It would be… so sad now… without you Thank you very much. And now… Right now we’ve got so much buzzing around in the operating room. I’ve just got inserted the fifth Six Year Plan. (…the sixth Five-) What are you? A payroll clerk…? Or folk inspector? Or what? “The sixth Five-“… What’s the difference? Wherever you’re coming from, the multiply of it is 30. This Plan was created totally differently than it was in the old days. The way “The Plan” back then was put together… The more wrinkled-heads may recall. Poor fellas… must’ve got all wrinkled during the ’50s… for life. For the rest, the Youth Communist League, I will tell the story. Better learn it from me than be exposed to it once again. God forbid, comrades… Why did you dodge? Got scared of this? The cross? Or of your neighbour? The cross is not so dangerous unlike the neighbour. So imagine… The Plan-enforcers arrived at the village at uncle Józsi. In a nice, long, brown leather coat. “Uncle Józsi…” “How many piglets is your hog gonna have?” “Well…” “Y’know this particular thing is…” “…damn hard to tell beforehand.” “Shut your fucking mouth, shithead peasant!” “Just utter the number: how many piglets is the hog gonna have?” “Well, you know…” Bang! Punched in the face. “Oh my God! How many would you want it to have?” “How many is the Plan, comrade?” “14.” “Well then, it will have that many piglets!… In an offering…” “Who’d wanna have another punch like that?” “How many’s the Plan, comrade?” “14!” “Did you consult this with the hog as well?” “I’ll entrust this to you since you’re around the same level.” Now imagine… Time went by… The time of the hog’s farrow came. They stood around the end of the hog… It was a fine, rifled pig. They heard munching. “You moron! This is the starting site.” They quickly got around to the other side. The piglets came one after another… The hog gave birth to 10 piglets. 10! Then the Party secretery’s like: “Holy Mother of God & mine! Who both are in heaven secretely…” “This rotten pig only had 10 piglets, when the Plan was 14. This might even turn out a sabotage!” “God, what shall I do?” “‘Cause piglets I can’t.” “The wife seems rather unwilling, too.” “Then I’m gonna do statistics Hungarian style:” “I’ma write in 11. At least it’s over 10. And almost 14.” 11 documented. Paper went on to the district office. The district office leader was like: “This is simply outrageous, comrades.” “This is simply outrageous…” “…comrades. We can’t give this a pass, comrades.” “This, comrades, the district office mustn’t cast upon its Working People, comrades.” “No, comrades.” “I mean, ur comrades. We just mustn’t do this.” I am totally inane now… I blame the heat. “So, comrades, we at the district office, will write in 12.” 12 documented. The Plan is shaping up beautifully! Paper went on to the County. The county leader was like: “Woe me!” “We’re in trouble, comrades. Big trouble.” A draught of wind in my face, huh? “10…& 2?” “No-one in the neighborhood had any more piglets? This is unreal!” “Never mind, comrades! Never mind!” “We, the County, will write in 13.” 13 documented. The Plan is shaping up magnificently, superbly. Paper went on, up to ca. … Dunno how much it went up! About Committee. Gimme a break! You’re evil! So, up there they say: “13, comrades?” “This makes me sad, comrades.” “The Plan’s 14! Comrades…” “Couldn’t get a hold of one more, comrades?” “A rabbit would do, just make it grunt!” “Nevermind. We’ll write in 14.” 14 documented. The Plan worked out. With papers and before deadline. The chanting immediately begins: “Long live Rákosi! Long live Rákosi!…” “Dear comrades..rades..ades..des..” …Checkmate. “We warm-heartedly..tedly..edly..ly… welcome you..you..u…” “The Socialist..list..laziest agricultural producers…” “Superior world class standard..dard..ard…” “To thank for the 14 piglets.” “Therefore we have decided..cided..ded… that” “Out of 14 piglets 10 will be exported…” “The rest we’ll have a feast of ourselves!” Ain’t thet something? Recently they inserted new perspective and attitude into me. You might have noticed this… If there’s anything useful coming from Capitalism, we get it and use it. Right on. In the past this was not the case:… “Argh, Capitalism, those dirty bastards! I’ma trample their fucking guts out…!” And in contrast how is it today? “Argh, Capitalism, those dirt…! Ni-ni, na-na-na…” We aren’t so mad at them anymore, you know what I mean. If there’s anything worthwhile, we shall embrace it. By the way, trust me on this: take what you can, it’ll be for your own good anyway. That’s how it was thought out. Not sure if you’ve heard of that 1 kilogram packaged flour which every package of was missing 6-8-10 deca. Now, say what you want, the packaging was not conducted by the Captalists, but by some of our own here, locally. Who they were, we don’t know, but they never showed up to take their award… Those rotten Capitalists, on the other hand, fie, are those some disgusting people, man! Those dirty Capitalists… You know what they do? I’ll tell this. Those bastards… Imagine those dirty scum Capitalists, let’s say, producing cars… Those bastards, picture them… Once their car comes out the factory’s gate… it’s DONE, fuck ’em! That’s why I say we shall accept what is useful. We only gotta be careful about not letting the point of Socialism change over the course of time, y’know? I’ve got an excellent example for this. Think of Ivan Ivanovic, who was sent to the U.S. to a musical conductor training school. He completed it with an excellent rating. Within two weeks. After that, he was set to give a concert at the Bolshoi Theatre . Many wondered how he would fare. In the T-ether of the Theater, imagine Ivan standing up on the podium. Remember: the point of it should not change. The point. Ivan says… Ladies and Gentlemen, my dear friends. Thank you very much for the assistance. That was it. Come again. I love you.