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The Balkans have always been a sore thumb in the fist of civilization. Ethnic and cultural butchery have evolved from hirsute homonids vaguely waving chipped stones in each other's faces to the glorious mechanized ethnic purifications of the 1990s. Endless slaughter can be traced not merely to some real or imagined slight consummated some hundreds of years ago, but to the remembered and revered exact date, time of day, weather, and sartorial embellishments of the long-dead antagonists. Ask any five year old and prepare for hours of lamentation and reprisal.
The Romans overran the Balkans, anointed their indigens Slavs (slaves), and gratefully departed with a vigorous flapping of togas in their wakes. Hitler's hordes overran the Balkans, and were relieved to cede their hard-won territory to the Russian sphere of influence. Russian apparatchiks overran the Balkans, plundering their mountains for concrete and iron, exploiting their valleys for food and labor, burying missiles with nuclear warheads and housing tens of thousands of troops. After glasnost and perestroika toppled the USSR in a massive Gorbasm an early order of business was to reward the Balkans with independence, whether it was wanted or not.
Profound historical penetrations by Dr. Schund have enabled him to trace the evolution of this remarkable laity, architects of eternal self-flagellation and bizarrely inexplicable atrocities, to the very first obscure incident of mass slaughter. It began with a chance meeting between General Stosh and General Latka one brilliant spring day long before the year one.
Remember that there are many coextant languages and subtongues in the Balkans - Torlak, Macedonian, Bulgarian, Kosovo-Resava, Stokavian - all of which sound much the same and none of which are. A blizzard of barytonesis, synchronance, diachronesis and paroxytonesis obscures and embellishes all. When there is an aorist tense, there is bad trouble in your verbal exchanges!
General Stosh at the head of his troops spied General Latka at the head of his own as they emerged from opposite ends of a vast forest clearing. The opulent bosom of Lady Latka was for to die in, nature having gone hog wild to the amazement and perpetual heartache of the peasantry and General Latka's overweening pride. Being neighborly, Stosh shouted a compliment Latka's way:
"Vas svadljivka pretvoriti moj slabine do pokriti." ("Your pretty raises my standard of excellence.)
General Stosh hailed from way round the bend where they employed an entirely different set of phoneme fricative attributions. He heard to his initial amazement, horror, and then red faced anger:
"Your vixen transformed my groin into steel."
He shot back, "A folosi patriia sa cu totulu sa sileste einste nu miare patrief fierbinte o doreste!" ("The pus of the patriarch's diseased feet were the soup stock of your father's feeble spurts!")
General Stosh was shocked and outraged! While he missed most of the exchange, he did hear "fierbinte," which was a suppurating anal fissure back home. Nasty taunts about his rectal problems had haunted him since childhood, leading to beatings and worse when the neighborhood toughs sought to cure him of his perceived homophilia. He screamed,
"DA SAM PRIJE UMRO, NE HCAH NI TE CUTI!" (Had I died earlier, I should not have heard you!)
The traditional Torlak challenge of honor was not lost upon General Latka. Before he ruined his new horsewhip upon his wife he would dull his favorite sword upon Stosh's neck,
"PREVALA BIA ALI NE MOGU SAMA!" (I would sing, but I cannot do it alone!")
He charged. During the exchange whispered translations propagated through the ranks of each collection of troops. As with any game of telephone, the perceived trespasses of Stosh's steely groin and the inconceivable insults of Stosh's seed were echoed and embellished as each side took increasing umbrage. Two approaching dust clouds sought to settle accounts. The troops fought through the day, all night, and well into the next morning. The few survivors left bloody smears as they crawled back to their barracks to sound the alarm and mobilize their brigades.
With a stout slap upon its ass, the Balkan obsession with Pyrrhic victory was born.
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