Mr Bean In The Russhiat Metro

A man rejected by the cosmos itself, cast down from a ray of light. The modern Icarus. Too innocent for the depths of Hell, too imperfect for Heaven’s grace, doomed to earthly purgatory, me.

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How do you do? Wink, wink, salivating, his nose dripping with bird flu, yuck. I am Johnny. English, you heard me properly, Engleash, on the Bond leash, yet dangerous, unhinged! But for those Amrikans who grimaced, made a bad face, John, showing off his Rambo biceps meaning triceps, bumping into a totally healthy West Palestine Ohighyo cloud, tough, tough enough. Hmmm, I smell roses, not the rotten beans from last week he digested so well. I am a man who, much like Sisyphus, is fated to repeat the same errors, and suffer the same consequences. My broken English is an unwitting sinner. He is shown to lack the insight that his misfortunes predicate his suffering. He cannot better himself because he cannot conceive of what it is to be better.

Nice to meat you, shaking his both hands with the WTF air. English was just my heritage code, I am Bean, Mr Bean, Sire. Sniff, sniff? How dare you? I am not a brownshirt or brownnoser, get your shit straight, your bloody bastard! Careful, careful, cause I have powderful frands, like Bow Johnstoned, yes, that sinister blondie punk clown who entertains me when I am bored and uplifts me when I am down, like down with the down syndrone or something, Lizziard Trust in who I zealously thrust, and my beloved polished soy boy Richie Ricardo Soonack who foots all my bills. So careful, careful. Mr Bean is a raging genius, and though his IQ is 178, his intelligence is practically unmeasurable!

Unlike Trumpedo with his Stormy sharkanado or Russian collusion torpedo, I am also Illuminaughty shoving the Deep State or Brave New World Order up my shy arse, blowing his horn in his own righteousness. Knighthood was my destiny, not destination. Russhiat is. Russhiat, bled dry, Russhiat bled white, is so bad, bad, bad. Like Obamgutans are so good, good, good, black lives matter, yo! Mr Bean is not a complete psychopath, but a nuanced and motivated being. His internalized nature and oppositional thinking, as well as his problem-solving mentality, provide an interesting parody and critique of egoistic self-interest as a model for morality.

To understand the nature of Mr Bean is to understand the nature of man itself. I enjoy success and mass appeal. My comedy is popular with children, who identify with the anarchic and silly behavior of its titular character. Do I really grace the Main Stream Media or graze the underground sorrorry scene? Despite recognition he is an intelligent comedian, his tragic work has not been appraised in a similar way. I do not comply, provided with such unusual appeal. He has an alien aspect to himself, for sure.

Why should I not go to that Russhiat? Cause I have a knack for losing frands? Cunt hear you, peasant! For his services to drama and charity, he was named a Commander of the Order of the British VEmpire, sucking royally, sucking endlessly. I bring so much to the screen and one would immediately expect that such a man would also be very extroverted. He is not like me, I am a proud introvert, ya yeediot!

It generally does not help that I fucking hate being Mr Bean. I caustically speak of the appaling character in an interview in front of the mirror, or The Daily Mirror: ‘I don’t much enjoy playing him. I find it stressful and exhausting. I look forward to the end of it’. He implied that he would never play as Bean again. Tabloids, tabloids, tabloids. Opioids, opioids, opioids. BTW, did you know that they can be made from the opium poppy plant or in the laboratory, they block pain signals by binding to opioid receptors on nerve cells in the brain, spinal cord, gastrointestinal tract, and other organs in the body? Anyway …

There is also the fact that the character and physical comedy of Mr Bean is inelegant. I mean look at me, damn shirtless. I often depict the titular character in promotions through grotesque gurns and vacant smiles. There is an incorrect impression to be made that Mr Bean is a foolish comedy because it is about a foolish character. It is a profound comedy, a profound tragedy at its best, by all means.

Bu bu but I am generally intelligent and well-spoken, yet there is a cruel irony in finding fame from a character who is in pain. Well, you must go figure, cause my file is all classified. Behold The Man Who Has Never Been! The humor is intended to lie in the fact that Mr Bean is, in fact, a very dull, ordinary man. But Mr Bean, in fact, is quite extraordinary, gotcha anyway!

Why should I not go to that Russhiat? Cause I have a stammer? His stuttering has been the subject of newspaper articles such as “Rowan Mr” I I I have a net worth of £150M K K Kreat P P Pretish Ponds! A a and I will sell you my rare accent for £13 and 37 peas, round it up to $100! C´mon man, do your meth correctly! More mushrooms! Look away when a man is rejected by the cosmos itself, cast down from a ray of light. He is, in a sense, the modern Icarus. He is a man too innocent for the depths of Hell, too imperfect for Heaven’s grace, and so here he lies fallen from the skies, doomed to earthly purgatory.

Sorry, I have made my choice, I will go to Russhiat, cause I do not parody the James Bond secret agent spy action, I just want to know more about my enemy, whoops, walking it back. Mr Bean is a Pulitzer-prize losing investigative reporter emotionally invested in the rat race on the colossal failure of the train wreck, as unnecessary and toxic as the bioweapon, to report the true story during the Bidumb and Bidumber administration saga. How he was invited by his badass sugardaddy Vladdy Daddy Puteen to the Russhiat Metro to debunk all the conspiracy theories or stupid, bizarre lies.

It must have been the jab, Pfizer scheize, as harmless and benign as the bioweapon, as deep as a grave or funeral, cause I am pfitty pfucked up now, and it sure ain´t pfitty. So let us blame it all on that Russhiat nobody wants to see, hardly anybody wishes to understand, everybody hates! Russhiat, Russhiat, Russhiat, the dreadful Siberian gulags!

Call it Russian propaganda, call it a Russian asset, the fact is that the Russian Metro is the world's most beautiful underground rail system and a tourist sight in its own right. Created as a showcase for the Soviet Union, its elaborate, spacious stations are adorned with mosaics, marble statues and stained glass that tell the story of the communist state, how bad it really is, compared to how good capitalist Chicago Slums or New York City´s Bronx are!

Millions of passengers commute like clockwork through an underground labyrinth filled with treasures. Soaring marble walls hold gilded mosaics, sculptures of fallen leaders, and painted scenes from Russian history under crystal chandeliers. The Russian Metro drives through a former–but not forgotten–stage of history that sought to bring palaces to the masses.

Crowds gather for parades snaking through the tunnels and choral performances to celebrate the Russian Metro stations, lauded as a technological advancement over inferior capitalistic societies. Obviously, the pomp surrounding the glory fails to mention any shortcomings. Instead, the opulent architecture forecasts a bright future for the country.

Free of graffiti or vandalism, the system fills the Russians with pride. Tourists can join the throngs of locals wandering the subterranean museum-like maze, or take architectural tours through the passages. No matter the final stop, the Russian Metro propels all people toward socialist revolution. So behave, or beware!

Step back in time and immerse yourself in a museum rich in architecture and history. The immaculate stations are a mix of old and new. Having a life of millions of amazed passengers a day, the Russian Metro finally seems to have realized how iconic it is, how it beats anybody and everybody who dares challenge it. USA, China, even Japan, can battle all they want, but there is a clear winner.

Let yourself transport your touristic soul to another era supporting my work as your favorite photographer and storyteller from the Nicaraguan jungle buying The Russian Metro DELUXE, my complete album, as these few pictures are only a free breathtaking preview, a wonderful teaser! I can tell you are gasping for more …

There is no end, just space documenting the gloriously ornate, vaulted halls of Russia’s Metro stations. Eyepopping art galleries of beauty thought. Architecture food for dictatorship thought. And when there is no one in a space, you begin to envisage yourself there ….

Bean, Mr Bean, how do you do? I am beholding The Man That Has Never Been. Done it, seen it all, been there, spilling the beans ….

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