Marshal Pupovich joined The People's Cube roughly the same time I did. I suspect that because of that, we bonded almost immediately. I probably interacted with him more than any other member. He came up with the idea that as high-ranking Party members the two of us shared a corner office, which I considered a great compliment.
Like Ethel Mertz, he often expressed dismay at some of my
harebrained schemes liberal activism if he thought it might backfire on our glorious cause, but like Ethel he always came along for the ride, ready to steal credit or take the blame as the case might be.
After I spent 62 days perched on a high-rise ledge for Peace and to raise awareness of the need to establish a movement that would meet to discuss ways to press our elected representatives to introduce and debate and then vote to pass some kind of resolution calling for the demand to make steps to take action leading to the impeachment and prosecution of the war criminals Bush and Cheney, only to...to...oh, what was I saying?
Anyway, after 62 days of Perching for Peace, I was shot down from the ledge by Zampolit Blokhayev. I plummeted halfway down the high-rise only to land on a horizontal flagpole, where to my horror, I found myself wrapped in the American flag. It was none other than Marshal Pupovich who rescued me while the rest of you ran away to your parents' basements to blog about how there should've been a government program to prevent that from happening to me. For my own part, I don't blame Zampolit for shooting me. Instead I place the blame for that squarely where it belongs: On the NRA!
A true Progressive to the bone (especially if it was one he stole and buried), Pupovich knew just how to play the victim to get whatever he considered his government-given right. Because of this, he remains the only Cubist to have received Pinkie's prestigious Beet of the Week Award simply because he was miserable and I thought the award, along with a bumpersticker for his mother, would make him feel better. And because I cared.
But like any true Progressive, Pupovich didn't feel any better. It wasn't enough, for he was still as miserable as ever. He demanded more. Always more.
Then Red Square asked Pupovich how he'd like a promotion from Commissar to Marshal. Just like that, for no particular reason, as nonchalantly as asking if he'd like a doggie biscuit. So of course Pupovich jumped up on his hind legs, wagged his tail, unfurled his tongue, and seized the promotion just as if it were that proffered doggie biscuit. I'm not unaware that I might receive a similar promotion if I went through the same motions should Red Square ever ask, but I understand and even appreciate why he never will, or at least better not.
If there was anything certain to pull Pupovich out of the doldrums of dwelling on the downtrodden, it was his love of denouncing himself and others.
As Red Square already mentioned, Pupovich enjoyed nothing better than a good old-fashioned show trial—and never so much as when he himself was the subject. As an obedient Party member correct on all the issues that mattered, Pupovich always came through these tests of ideological purity unscathed and yea, more equal than ever.
For all these reasons and many more, Marshal Pupovich/Wesley Cannon held a special place in my heart, which broke to hear of his passing on Christmas Eve.
One of my least favorite Christmas songs is the one about the kid who doesn't have enough money to buy shoes for his dying mother. She's not expected to survive Christmas Eve but doesn't have a nice pair of shoes to wear for when she meets Jesus. A man standing in line with other last minute holiday shoppers pays for the shoes. I'm supposed to get all boo-hooey at this, when in fact I usually change radio stations in disgust the moment I realize that song is playing. Because you don't need fancy shoes or even heavy boots and warm clothing to meet Jesus, unless, of course, you're both assigned to the same gulag.
All you need is faith. All you need is to believe. All you need is in another special place in your heart, always there, waiting for you to find it. Wesley found it, and so met Jesus on Christmas Eve.
I raise my shovel in salute to you, dearest comrade. Rest forever in peace.
