Vladimir Poopin’

Protecting the dirtiest secrets of the Russian state requires highly specialized skills.

Leave nothing behind.

Once upon a time and far, far away (Pittsburgh), I had a sister-in-law with an interesting job. Not, like, mayor or anything. She also wasn’t a nail-polish namer, a pickup-artist instructor, a fragrance chemist, a hippotherapist or any of the things that come up online when you search “most interesting jobs.”

No, obviously, she was a cow inseminator. The primary tool of the trade was a turkey baster. Here’s how I learned those facts:

ME: So, Mary Ann, what do you do?
MARY ANN: I inseminate cows.
ME: (pause) I see.

My thoughts went every which way — beginning with ascertaining that she was indeed speaking of her employment, not her hobby. Roger on that one; she was a professional cow inseminator. But, as I say, the whole concept unleashed wonderings I’d never wondered before, such as, if there are cow inseminators, presumably there were also bull jerker-offers.

I mean, it’s not like the bull goes to the bovine sperm bank and gets sent into a curtained-off area with a specimen jar and a copy of Cattle Sluts. So, therefore …