Somebody posed sort of an interesting question the other day. He said: “Maximilian, where will you be in thirty years?” and gave a long Vodka and Herring burp. Really, that is an unusual fascinating question. Nothing like the ‘Where will you be in ten years, which is boring and as used-up as my old Babushka’s undies. God rest her soul, her bum supporters were dated back to the Red Revolution days when she singlehandedly took over a tsar brigade using her panties’ rubber-band as a weapon.

But let’s return to the question in hand. When you spice it up with a 'thirty years' twist like this, Ach, then you have a really different issue altogether, unexpected though a tad foolish. But you know, there’s a Russian saying that goes a bit like this:

Anyhow, in thirty years I’ll probably be like this…

Anyway, it’s hard enough to predict what’s gonna happen in thirty days, let alone thirty years, but that is most definitely not what I intend to be like. Niet, ni za shto. It’s gonna be awesome all the way through. Things are gonna change for the better. You hear me, Droogs.

First, I’m gonna finally quit my day-job as the chief of instruction manuals at ‘Splendid-Stuff - Home and Gifts'. 

I’m gonna very nicely tell my boss, Mr. Bossinsky to shove his crappy job gently up his fat, furry rectum. That his sad paycheck does not mean he owns my white Russian poppa, and yes, he should really do something with that bulging potbelly and his stench of a breath.

Then I’m gonna start a magnificent career in what I have always relished doing – being the inventor of extraordinary and imaginary machines.

I’m gonna throw a line of top-notch, premium, private parties celebrating my glorious success as a contemporary Da Vinci, on my very own deluxe yacht. All the flashy peeps will be waiting in line.

I’ll be having drinks with a very special lady on my lap. We’ll be one loving couple till ever, ever after. Things are gonna be great, I can feel it.