The Tales of Shvinkelputin

Averie Michaelson02/01/2020February 2020


#Guest interview

When most people think of a magical being, they think of a great and towering dragon in the sky raining fire on the hapless peasants below, or a majestic unicorn skewering soldiers with its horns, or a fairy eating children or whatever fairies do. Unfortunately for the fantasy fans out there, those don't exist. Go back to yelling at people on the internet about Lord of the Rings. Real magic comes from the notorious Shvinkelputin. We all know and love the guy, but for people who don't know, Shvinkelputin is a Scandinavian gnome with mystical-if bizarrely specific-powers. Shvinky hails from a small town in Sweden, where for centuries he made a living off of hiding in mulberry thickets and stealing mulberries from young children passing by. Shvinkelputin also has a particular love of ice weasels. He was appeased every year by the people of the town, who made him a stew of his favorite things: mulberries and ice weasels. However, following a devastating mulberry blight, the Shminker left town and moved to New York City, where his dreams of making it big were promptly crushed like the arguments of internet people with wrong opinions about Lord of the Rings when I'm through with them. In New York, Shvinkelputin faced what may be the greatest evil of them all—the city's high rent and absence of adequate mulberry thickets. Not even magical gnomes can escape the trials and tribulations of finding a job. Shvinkelputin has attempted to find a job several times with no success. I mean, even if you have two master's degrees, finding a job in this economy is hard enough. What was a poor gnome with magical powers to do? His skills of mulberry theft and ice-weasel-trapping were woefully inadequate in the city, as nobody had any mulberries and ice weasels were nowhere to be found. However, we at The Radish were sympathetic to this poor Scandinavian gnome's plight, as we did not wish for him to be forever trapped in a contract with an eldritch radish god (praise be unto thee) to serve in the gulag (NOT located in the 9th floor tower) for all of eternity: a situation we definitely can not relate to. With generosity and mercy from the Great Ancient One (all hail), we decided to give the shvinkier Putin all the publicity our paper can offer, which is definitely not just the span of one school. He gratefully accepted our offer to interview, seeking to expand his horizons and maybe find a niche for his mulberry and ice weasel related skills. Our talented and only member, Jimmothy McDingus, interviewed him this past week.
Sir Jimmothy McDingus: Good evening, Mr. Shvinkelputin. Shvinkelputin: Gøød evening. Jimmothy McDingus, PhD, MD, Itd.: My, that's quite a long and difficult name to pronounce. May perhaps call you Shvinky? Shvinkelputin: Nø. Jimmothy McDingus, esq: Ah, very well then. I see you are in search of a job. How has that been going for you? Shvinkelputin: Not gøød. I ask many places, but none seem to have want før ice weesel ør mulberry theef! Where are all the ice weesel, I ask. "Maybe you should go" they say! Shame on them! Do they say that to the ice weesels, tøø?! Maybe that is why there are no ice weesels. Lord Jimmothy McDingus XI: Well, have you considered perhaps seeking a job that does not involve ice weasels or mulberries? I personally know of a great eldritch being you could pledge to. Shvinkelputin: Jøb that does... nøt involve ice weesel ør mulberry? This is madness! I refuse to speek with such a madman anymøre! Begøne! Away from my sight. Commissar Jimmothy McDingus: I'm sorry, but this is my recording stu Shvinkelputin: People like you, whøreject mulberry and ice weesel are scum! Away, I said! Leeve! Shvinkelputin then disappeared into a puff of mulberry scented smoke after several attempts to eat our desk, saying something about “these darn kids with their newfangled table technology." Despite our less than pleasant encounter, we would like to take this time to wish Shvinkelputin the best of luck in both finding a job and in escaping the horrific genetically mutated radishes that are converging on his location at this very moment. Thank you, dear readers, and as the Ancient One always says. "meit hseedar dishc em htemoc leseew eci eht ee eE!" Editor's note: ice weasel, for the ice-weaselless New Yorker: Ice Weasel [Mulberry picture stolen by Shvinkelputin]

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