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oldladyjamU.S.S.R. (1982) – If I could dunk on anyone, I would dunk on all of these people ahead of me in this bread line.  I know we’re all supposed to be comrades or whatever, but I don’t care, I’m hungry and I want my bread, Cuban sugar, potato and Bulgarian onion.

Often times when I’m waiting in line I let my mind wander and I imagine what it would be like to dunk on this stupid line up of people.  I mean technically we’re taught in Russian High School to do layups, but I don’t care, I’m dunking it.  Screw this place.

In my dream world, I’m waiting in line (again!) for food and stuff and I’m totally bored.  Then we hear this big rumbling and a look over and see a truck carrying Beets and Leeks.  Needless to say, people are losing their shit.  They cheering and go nuts because they think they are going to have some sort of awesome stew later on.  Oh, and I bet you want a second TV channel too?  Morons.

While they are all distracted, they fail to notice that the US and Soviet Governments are setting up a rematch of the 1972 Munich Olympics Basketball final right at the head of the line.  So once the truck has pulled into the Food Depository, people see this game being set up and they go even crazier!  The atmosphere is electric as we all realize that today could be the day that we get a Soviet Basketball Victory AND a tomato.

The game starts with Soviet Hero Aleksandr Belov getting the tip off and peeling off a beautiful 18 foot jumper.  At this moment, I can’t explain it, but I start stretching.  Olga Egorov, that bitch, is waiting in front of me and asks “why is it you are stretching, we must wait for another forty five minutes before we can acquire our foods.  Sit back and enjoy this wonderful game.”  Rather than sass her about her the time I found her grandson listening to a Bruce Springsteen tape, I just stay quiet and keep stretching.

The game keeps moving back and forth with the American team keeping it close.  Sort of like the Space Race but this contest isn’t going to end on a sound stage in Burbank.  Well, maybe, depending on who buys the rights to my story.

By now, we’re entering the forth quarter and the bread line hasn’t moved an inch because all of these government officials are totally cutting in while everyone is distracted by the game.  I can totally see the Marxist metaphor here but that whore Olga just accepts things at face value, she’s an idiot.

So anyways, I’m seething with anger while everyone else is cheering on Ivan Vasil’evich Dvorny and the boys who are  playing the best games of their lives.

But the Americans are tough and within only 30 seconds left to go, they sink a basket to go up 50-49.  Their coach quickly calls a timeout.

We’ve been in this situation before and there is an almost unbearable tension throughout the crowd.  No one says a thing as everyone just reflects upon the 1972 Munich Games.  The silence seems to go on forever until Olga calls Doug Collins a “fag.” I don’t even know where she learned the English word for it, but Doug Collins doesn’t care, he blows his top and rushes into the breadline trying to get to Olga.  I may hate her, but I respect her ability to say what’s on her mind.

In the ensuing confusion the ball somehow rolls to a stop at my feet.  I look up and due to poor Soviet manufacturing (Thanks  Ukraine), the game clock has started running down.  If I don’t put this ball through the hoop, the Americans win and the ensuing riot will almost certainly prevent me from acquiring my precious tomato.

But I’m not the only one who has noticed the clock is running.  The Americans don’t even question why the clock has restartedt, they know that this sort of shit happens in the USSR and they better start hustling.  They scramble back to the basket, and in the wild chaos the entire breadline becomes disorganized as everyone scrambles on to the court fearful that the nearby Soviet guards will start shooting.  My tomato seems lost forever.

So I’m building up a full head of steam and I can hear American Coach John Wooden say “holy crap that old Russian lady can really haul ass.”  Then I look over and Olga is making a grab for my ankles trying to trip me!  I knew that bitch wanted my tomato.  But I break off a spin move (which is technically illegal in the USSR)  and escape her clutches.

I’m approaching from an angle, and for this game we’re using one of those weird keys that looks like a thermometer and I take off from just inside the free throw line.  From out of nowhere, Bill Walton (who pussied out of the 1972 Games because of Vietnam) jumps to try to block me.

“Listen lady, I’m really sorry to do this do, but it’s for America,” he says to as we’re both zooming towards the hoop.  But I pretend I don’t speak English.

Then I rock the hardest one handed dunk that FIBA has ever seen.  But what am I doing with my free hand?  Punching Bill Walton super hard right in the nuts.  The punch is not only hard, but it is magic as it is able to destroy the sperm that will one day create Luke Walton, and all the attached disappointed for alumni of the University of Arizona.

But Bill’s not thinking that far ahead, right now, he just crumples to the ground in pain while I hold onto the rim.

I reach up with my other hand and pull the rim clean off the backboard and come back down the ground.  I throw the hoop to a small family from Belarus who will boil it to make soup for the winter.  They thank me profusely.

With mouths agape, I just waltz right into the food dispensary and grab a full sack of potatoes, onions, leeks, beets, and the brighest red tomato you’ve ever seen.  Then I walk right onto the American players bus and steal their blue jeans, which I will sell for a fortune on the black market.

Ionovna Kovalevskaya, is an Old Soviet Peasant Woman.  She is 102 years old and lives just outside of Moscow, she credits her long life to smoking and a youth spent in Stalin’s work camps.

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