Thread 64091772

“Hi, my name is Sergei Shoigu… and I’m an alcoholic.”

Thanks. I appreciate the support. It’s been, uh… 3 months since I last invaded the wrong country with the wrong army for the wrong reasons. I’m trying to take accountability — which is new for me. Usually I just take bribes.
Step 1 was admitting I was powerless over NATO logistics and that my life — and every Russian tank division — had become unmanageable.
Step 2 was realizing that a higher power — in this case, Ukrainian farmers with tractors — could restore us to sanity. Or at least to reality.
Look, I didn’t start this war.
I was just the guy who said, “Da, comrade, looks good on paper.”
I come from a long tradition of totally qualified defense ministers who studied hydrology in college. I thought commanding an invasion was just like flood control — the maps are wet, and everything flows downhill.
I built a $1.5 billion military Disneyland in Moscow with cathedrals and parades, but forgot to stock enough first-aid kits. I guess I thought vibes and TikToks would win the war.
I was told we had the second-best army in the world.
Turns out, we had the second-best army in Ukraine.
…on Tuesdays.
…in one oblast.
…if the wind wasn’t too strong.

Anyway, I’ve come to understand that military leadership isn’t just about Instagram camouflage, Soviet nostalgia, and having a hotline to Kadyrov's beard oil supplier.

I now take full responsibility for:
Losing to a country with fewer tanks than we lose weekly
Allowing our soldiers to fight in Crocs
Replacing generals like lightbulbs during an earthquake
And personally approving the military doctrine titled “Quantity is our Quality”
My sponsor says I should make amends.
I wrote letters to every family whose son I sent to die for a border that moves weekly .
They wrote back.
Threats.
I’ve also stopped blaming the West, NATO, Satan, gays, microwaves, and gay NATO microwaves.
I’m trying to focus on my own growth now and not bombing apartment buildings.

Hi, my name is Dmitry, and I’m an alcoholic.

[“Hi, Dmitry”]

Thanks. It’s been… what, five or six years since I last felt human dignity?
I started drinking heavily when I realized that even as President of Russia, I had all the power of a decorative soap dish. I’d sign something mildly progressive—like internet freedom, or "don’t poison dissidents"—and then Vladimir would emerge from the mist like a Bond villain and overturn it before lunch.

So I drank.

I drank when they made me Prime Minister again, like a corporate reorg where you’re “promoted” to closet monitor. I drank when I had to give press conferences pretending to believe the nonsense they handed me. I especially drank when Navalny leaked the video of my duck house. And the vineyard. And the other estate. And the giant country home you can only reach by private yacht.

Some people drink to forget. I drink to remember what it felt like to have a Wikipedia page that didn’t use the word “puppet” in three separate sections.

Step One: admit you're powerless.
I nailed that one. Had a decade of practice.

Step Two: believe a higher power can restore you to sanity. Harder—because my “higher power” keeps sending me to Telegram to threaten nuclear war with countries I can’t even locate sober.

They say resentment is the number one offender. Mine rides a bear shirtless and makes me play bad cop on state TV.

But I’m working on it. I haven’t blacked out and tweeted about glassing Denmark in over ten days. That’s personal growth.

Anyway, I’m Dmitry. I’m powerless. I’m present. And I’m here because someone said there’d be cookies.

Thanks for letting me share.

Hi, my name is Ramzan, and I’m an alcoholic.

[“Hi, Ramzan”]

Thank you, brothers. I mean that sincerely, unlike most things I say into a camera while holding an assault rifle and wearing a gold Rolex.

I didn’t used to drink—Chechens aren’t supposed to. But I found exceptions. Like when I’m “honor guarding” Putin in a track suit at midnight. Or when I’m filming TikToks of myself threatening NATO from a marble jacuzzi. Or when another one of my Instagram posts gets flagged and I have to explain to my team that, no, it’s not technically a war crime if you add the crying-laughing emoji.

So, yes. I drink.

I drink to stay hydrated after screaming about jihad on Russian state TV while rocking Yeezys and a Louis Vuitton vest.

I drink when Moscow calls and says, “Hey Ramzan, can you send another battalion of guys to Ukraine?” and I say, “Sure,” and then film 12 guys jogging around a parking lot in Grozny and call it a ‘special forces deployment.’

I drink when people on Telegram call me “Putin’s poodle” even though I have more guns, more Instagram followers, and more teeth in my personal logo than the entire Duma.

Step One: admit I’m powerless.
Okay. I’m powerless… to stop myself from livestreaming threats to entire countries because I’m bored.

Step Two: believe a higher power can restore sanity. Well, my higher power wears high heels and disappears to a bunker every time the army loses a tractor.

Step Three: make a fearless moral inventory.
Inventory includes: one dictator starter pack, 64 track suits, three “combat” horses, two dozen fake medals, and an overwhelming desire to cosplay as a general without ever leaving my spa complex.

Anyway, I’m Ramzan. I’m working on it. I haven’t publicly challenged Zelensky to a shirtless duel in over a week.

That’s progress.

Thanks for listening. Allahu snack bar.

>>64091772 (OP)
>>64091800
>>64091816

Hi, my name is Anton Kuprin, and I’m an alcoholic.

[“Hi, Anton”]

Yeah, thanks. I was the captain of the Moskva — you know, the one warship with a name famous enough to be humiliating when it sank. And buddy, did it sink.

I wasn’t always like this. Once, I was a proud naval officer, barking orders, polishing my medals, and pretending the Black Sea was mine. Then one day, my mighty cruiser became the world’s most expensive artificial reef. Oops.

I started drinking after the first Ukrainian missile hit. Or maybe before, honestly. Who can say? My ship was so modern, we were still jamming Radio Free Europe on Cold War dials and reading radar off a screen that said “DOS LOADING…”

But you know what really drove me to the bottle?

It wasn’t the fire. It wasn’t the panic. It was the moment I had to radio HQ and say:
"Sir… the flagship is on fire. No, I did not light it for warmth. Yes, the Ukrainians did it. No, we cannot unfire it."

Step One: I admitted I was powerless over Neptune-class missiles — and smoke — lots of smoke.

Step Two: I came to believe that a higher power could restore me to shore…
Spoiler: It was a tugboat. A tugboat that didn’t even get halfway.

I still remember the evacuation. My sailors yelling, my crew trying to save... the samovar. A junior officer asked, “Captain, should we go down with the ship?” I said, “No, comrade, I’m not that kind of traditionalist.”

The propaganda said we exploded due to "accidental ammunition detonation." Which is true if you redefine “accidental” as “Ukrainian-designed” and “detonation” as “precision strike.”

Anyway, I’m Anton. I sank a billion-dollar ship because we thought air defense was optional. Now I’m here, dry, sober, and banned from every naval museum in Sevastopol.

Thank you for your service — I mean, listening.

Hi, my name is Major General Andrei Sukhovetsky, and I’m an alcoholic.

["Hi, Andrei"]

Yeah. I commanded the airborne assault on Hostomel Airport. You know, that airport we were totally gonna use to fly in paratroopers, take Kyiv in three days, and be home in time for a May parade. But instead? I got my men turned into flaming lawn darts.

Let me explain. Some genius in a bunker said, “Hey Sergei, take a few dozen helicopters, fly them low over enemy airspace, land right in the middle of a heavily defended airport… and hold it with 200 guys until the entire army catches up, which they won’t.”
I said “Sure,” because vodka had already made most of my decisions for me.

Step One: I admitted I was powerless over Javelins and Turkish drones.
Step Two: Came to believe that air superiority was a myth told by our drunk generals.
Step Three: Put my faith in a plan drawn on a napkin during a Kremlin dinner party.

The flight in? Glorious. Real cinematic stuff. Then we landed… into the world’s angriest hornet’s nest. Ukrainian National Guard, Territorial Defense Forces, angry grandmas with molotovs — we got dropped.

Someone radioed, “Sir, should we fall back?” I said, “Fall back? We haven’t even held forward yet!”

Reinforcements? Yeah, those were “stuck in traffic.” And by “traffic,” I mean 40 miles of Russian tanks getting ambushed on every backroad by guys with GoPros and hunting rifles.

After 36 hours of heroic stalling and tactical confusion, we lost the airport, the initiative, and any pretense that this was a professional operation.

Now I’m here. Sober-ish. Unemployed. And banned from using Google Maps after what happened.

My name is Andrei, and I led the airborne equivalent of a group suicide pact.
Thank you for your patience. And your laughter. I deserve neither.

>>64091772 (OP)
>>64091800
>>64091816
>>64091862
Kek

That's what I had prepared but if anyone else wants to write some?

>>64091772 (OP)
>>64091800
>>64091816
>>64091862
>>64091882
Nice

"Hi, my name is Sergei, and I’m a recovering megalomaniac."

I used to run bombing campaigns like some people microwave leftovers. Afghanistan, Chechnya, Syria—just name a GPS coordinate and I’d make it glow. They called me “General Armageddon,” which I took as a compliment. That probably should’ve been Step One.

I came to believe I might not be the master of war when my ‘special military operation’ turned into a special public embarrassment. They said, “General Surovikin will fix this!” and I said, “With what? Soviet maps and duct tape?”

I admitted to myself I had no idea what I was doing when I saw tractors towing away our tanks. That was my rock bottom.

I made a decision to turn my will over to a higher power—Putin. That worked until the Wagner guys marched toward Moscow and suddenly I was “on vacation.”

I took a fearless moral inventory and realized: yes, I used air power against apartment blocks, but in my defense, I had no plan.

I admitted these wrongs to God, Putin, and whatever FSB agent was bugging my office.

I became entirely ready to be purged. Mentally, I packed my bags every night.

I humbly asked to keep my pension and possibly my life.

I made a list of all the people I’d bombed and decided not to make amends, because that would require traveling back to Syria, and I’ve had enough sand in my boots for one lifetime.

I kept taking personal inventory and noticed I no longer appeared on Russian state TV. Concerning.

Through prayer and surveillance, I sought to understand why Wagner trusted me more than my own bosses. Still unclear.

And now, having had a military awakening, I try to carry this message to other war criminals: maybe go into logistics next time.

Thank you for letting me share. I’ll be sitting quietly in the corner. Possibly under house arrest.

>>64091893
Give this man an internet for effort-posting.

"Hi, I’m Volodymyr, and I’m an alcoholic—because apparently being president of Ukraine wasn’t stressful enough."

Step 1: I admitted I was powerless over vodka—and over a neighbor who treats international borders like bar napkins.

Step 2: Came to believe that a Power greater than myself—The United Faggots—could restore me to sanity.

Step 3: Turned my will and my life over to the care of God after my cabinet locked the liquor cabinet.

Step 4: Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of myself and discovered the only thing I’d done wrong was underestimating how stupid Russia would have to be to invade.

Step 5: Admitted to God, to myself, and to NATO that yeah, I maybe coped with tanks by chugging from a hip flask. Don’t judge me.

Step 6: Became entirely ready to have the God remove all defects of character—especially my belief that diplomacy could work with a regime blackout-drunk on imperial nostalgia.

Step 7: Humbly asked Him to remove my hangovers—and maybe also that guy Medvedev’s Twitter access.

Step 8: Made a list of all people I had harmed. Realized it was just myself and a few EU leaders I yelled at while tipsy on San Pedro cactus and espresso.

Step 9: Made amends to them all—by winning a war while only drinking on weekends.

Step 10: Continued to take personal inventory and, when I relapsed by smelling vodka during a UN speech, promptly admitted it.

Step 11: Sought through prayer and blackout flashbacks to improve conscious contact with reality. Hard to do when missiles land mid-step.

Step 12: Having had a spiritual awakening, I tried to carry this message to others—preferably by drone, into Russian airspace.

Thanks for letting me share. I’ll be at the coffee table if anyone needs me—just not the Russian coffee table. That one’s wired.

I got a poem I wrote about a thread that pissed me off.

When life gives you lemons and taxes to pay,
You could fill out forms…
Or blow them away!

The sink won't stop dripping, it’s mocking your brain?
Well, nothing says "fixed"
Like TNT rain.

That neighbor’s loud music at quarter past four?
Try diplomacy first…
Then wire his floor.

The tree that won’t fall though you've chopped it for days?
Just plant a surprise
In the roots where it sways.

A spider too big for your bathroom to bear?
Why reach for a shoe
When C4 is there?

Wi-Fi is lagging? The router’s possessed?
Let Semtex and justice
Give you some rest.

The IRS calls? Your ex texts "Hey you"?
Just hand them a gift
From your fireworks queue.

A traffic jam's growing? Your horn's lost the fight?
A blast from below
And the roads are clear, right?