-----Original Message-----
From: Veselinov Boris [mailto:*******@EUnet.yu]
Sent: 26. januar 2001 22:51
To: Undisclosed-Recipient:@smtp.EUnet.yu;
Subject: Ovo je stvarno dobro !
True story (the comments are somewhat tart, but it’s funny)  

We’re all Serbs a little

  This is a 100% true story about the Serbs in diaspora. For those who doubt the authenticity of any detail of this story, the name of the place and the tame are available for checking on any Serbian-owned phone number in the territory of state of Illinois, USA, that you can find on white pages.  

  The characters’ names are invented, but their nationality is kept original.
  Event location: USA, Illinois, Chicago, West Suburb Rockford [1] . Characters: Serbian refugees from Bosnia (recently arrived), Misha the music, Gajich – c’mon take one…, American postman (of obvious Irish origins), American farmers, American piglets and the SWAT team of awful American policemen, and one local patrolling policeman (cunt of a man, scared like Sloba on the counter-rally couple of years ago, I LOVE YOU TOO), the post office manager (named Ljubche for some reason [2] , and the postman’s wife. I think this is all the characters, and if I’ve skipped someone, we’ll add to writing. The story begins like this.
[1] All the text in the italics was in English; therefore it is not translated. Serbian transcription of these names would be: SAD, Ilinoj, Čikago, zapadno predgrađe Rokford.
[2] Two notes to this: Ljubche doesn’t exist. Serbian grammar has ‘unification by aspiration’, which means b must become p before ch, therefore Ljupche would be the only possible pronunciation and way to write it. Secondly, this is probably not a real name; it would be Ljubisav or Ljubisha; Ljupche would be a hypocoristic, i.e. a name form used among close friends, denoting some affection. “post office manager, called Ljupche among close friends” is a quote from the song of Djordje Balasevic (UN ambassador of good will), “Bozha called Poob” (‘poob’ is Serbian slang name for knave in cards).

  Chicago land, of state Illinois, and a part of north Indiana are known as the greatest Serbian colony in the USA. In the northwest suburb of Chicago, there is the little town of Rockford. In that little town, which is the battlefield of our story, there is, living and working (only some 10% working, others are on state’s neck), a larger colony of Serbs, refugees from Bosnia. The people have just arrived, only a couple of years ago, and handle English in a medium woeful way, i.e. the whole village, because that’s how many of them there are, can compile 3 to 5 simple extended sentences. The reason for them being so many in one place is probably the fact that the Serbs are “dragging like guts”, apartments are rather cheap, our folks are the neighbors, you can always lean on your neighbor, etc.
  90% of Serbs in the village, and they are a 90% of it, do nothing. They live on the state’s burden and scheme how to screw the same, in order to revenge upon Amers for the bombings, the decomposition of SFRY, foundation of a Turkish state on Balkans, Slobodan Milosevich, Franjo Tudjman (er, no, he’s dead), for not receiving the sport lottery prize in 1990, for only one wrong score when Osijek beat Red Star Belgrade 3:0 in Osijek, for having been ditched by Fata (…her Moslem mother), …and much more of that.
  So, the aforementioned sit in front of the building, instead of yard, and waiting for the postman like chilled for the sun, because he’s bringing them, money to some, food stamps to others, and for god’s sake even a letter for some, though that’s rare.

  An important detail of the story is the state money and stamps usually get paid out at 6th of the month. Serbs, of course, remain Serbs, specially when scattered around the world, else they are communists, Yugoslavs, Macedonians, Montenegrins, or some other geographical or political terms. And as the centuries have it in order, a delegation of Serbs visits the nearby pig farm on January 3rd, and with the farmer, American, in the most difficult manner, because of his elementary ignorance of Serbian language, they strike a deal to buy 10 piglets. Pressed by the poverty of American society, as well by lack of proper space, i.e. meadow and yard, they beg the same to kill and shape up the piglets the next day on his farm. Serbs ask if that’s O.K, and farmer says O.K., which was the only thing he knew how to pronounce fluently in Serbian. Fool and ignorant.
  Next day early at dawn a team of 12 professionals arrives at the farm, and they begin preparations for the slaughter, sharing work brotherly. One slaughters, the other splits, third skins, fourth steams, fifth fuels the fire, sixth and others yet find something to do each. Fire cracks, water boils, piglets squeal, just typical Serbian idyll. At some point at the door of the house a disoriented face of the scared-to-death farmer appears. He can’t get amazed enough with what’s going on. He’s raising pigs for years, but never killed a single one. Once he gets them fed enough, he calls the slaughterhouse and they come and drive them off. So the farmer was permanently depraved of the idyllic picture of the Serbian pigslaughter.
  Our heroes work and work, there’s no time to waste. Still, there’s a moment to drink one “for so help God” or “not to work on dry”, but the work doesn’t suffer. While the water simmers and the fire burns, someone drops a piece of liver into the ashes, just for “on foot, without bread”.
  Once the farmer recomposed himself, he ran to the phone to call his neighbor farmers to behold the miracle unseen. And people came from surrounding farms. They watch, admire and don’t believe their eyes. Some even brought video cameras, lest they may steal some of the miraculous Serbian artistry and top-notch technology. But our guys aren’t off-worlders either. Even if they did suck the oars [3] , they didn’t eat the boat. As the number of spectators increased, the team of professionals played better and better, so in the end they were “shaping” so quickly and handily, that even the cameras couldn’t record the supreme technology presented by hands of world masters. With the first twilight the job was done, tools washed and packed. The piglets were on the way into bakery “Bela Rada” [4] , to be roast. The farmers remained staring like sheep, … [5] their stupid American mommy. Let them look and feel ashamed.
[3] “suck the oars” – be very naive
[4] “Bela Rada” is a name of a white flower; Rada is also a hypocoristic derived from female names Radojka, Radoslava or Radinka.
[5] The expected verb was not omitted during translation, and it didn’t exist in the original. It is still virtually present and assumed to be there by default.
  Did you get warmed up, our story is yet to begin.

  Christmas eve’s day [6] , January 6th, lord’s summer of 2001 [7] . Rockford, Chicago, sleeps the sleep of the righteous, and in one of its ‘burbs the sad and nostalgic Serbs, far away from their native soil, are preparing to celebrate the greatest holiday of Orthodox Christians in peace and bliss. Lacking a yard of their own, they went out in front of the building to celebrate the Christmas eve’s day with their neighbors.
[6] Actually called “Badnji dan” – by ‘badnjak’, which is an oak log, to be burned in the evening in a big fire in front of the house, usually at the driveway or any convenient place. The Serbian Orthodox Church still adheres to Julian calendar, therefore the Christmas day is January 7th.
[7] “Lord’s summer” is ancient equivalent of “anno Domini”.
  It’s fasting, but fasting can do as meze [8] , and a jug or two of native plum brandy from fatherland emerges.
[8] “meze” is something one eats with the drink, or to be able to drink.

  As the sun rises on the horizon, the team slowly warms up, Shemsa, Nino, Shaban, Hasan, Halid, Himzo and other renowned “Serbian” singers beat the mere Turkish [9] , from Misha’s pole (he’s got bose’s speakers and the amplifier of any number of wat-s you want, the most powerful around the place, what bro, the most powerful in Amerika).
[9] There’s native Serbian folk music, and there is so-called turbo-folk music, which is an incredible mix of thefts from all possible styles, very simplified. Present style is rather Islamic, and most of the songs are actually bootlegged Radio Teheran tunes. The names quoted are Moslem.
  A Mira or Ceca [10] may run by, but that’s rare. Brandy flows, strong and spicy, but the boys aren’t easy to scare away either. The way they eat, the way they drink. It’s a little hard with the fasting food, but still doable. Christmas eve’s day is still only once a year. Whoever gets run down and crosses his eyes, Gajich runs after him, offers him salty fish-ringlets, pours a shot of brandy and shouts “c’mon drink one, for your mother’s sake, it’s Christmas eve’s day, it’s a should-do”.
[10] Names of female singers of not-so-islamic turbo folk songs. Ceca is actually the widow of the late Arkan, leader of some paramilitary units in Bosnian war, probably very high in the hierarchy of Belgrade crime underground, until he was shot in a hotel lobby.
  At some point the postal car appears in the ‘burb.  “Pooooostmaaaaaan!!!!!” someone shouts, and the bliss enlightens the faces of the present. The postman reminds everyone of something else, and reminds some of our heroes of money, some of food stamps, anyway they love him like their born mother. This is a lazy man’s country.

  Father, mother, brother, sister, godfather, postman! The postman, smiling, approaches the serene mob, they exchange greetings with him, some hug (it’s not just anyone, it’s the postman), and Gajich is trigger-happy with his bottle and a shot: “c’mon drink one, for your mother’s sake, it’s Christmas eve’s day, it’s a should-do”. Before one could clap palm on palm, the postman merges with the cheering crowd, takes the shot and sends it down his throat Serbian style, bottoms up. “Hoooooooraaaaa!!!!!!!”, dozen throats roar. Gajich, slightly surprised with the postman’s “secret skills”, comes to his resources fast and pours another. The next shot disappeared in postman’s throat as well. “Hoooooooraaaaa!!!!!!!
  Hoooooooraaaaa!!!!!!! Hoooooooraaaaa!!!!!!!”, ovation just like on a rally against Sloba [11] . Gajich gained experience and doesn’t wait anymore, just pours. Follow the 3rd, 4th, 5th shot and they all end up the same. The joyful shouts slowly get replaced by admiring. Follow the 6th, 7th, then 8th and 9th, nobody speaks anymore. They all behold the miracle unseen, i.e. miracle of a postman. And just as they eyes went dry from not winking, the super postman shook down the 10th shot bottoms up and fell like a candle. [11] Sloba is a nickname for Slobodan (Milosevic).

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!! – it hung around with a slight sound of disappointment from the throats of the fans gathered.

“What happened to him?” – someone asked. “What happened, well he overforced himself and did no meze at all!” – another replies. “We’d better carry him inside to sleep it off a bit and when he sleeps it off he’ll feel easier.” Said, done. They accommodated the postman into the ground floor apartment to sleep there, and they continued the celebration of the Christmas eve’s day, with unavoidable mentioning of the postman’s not-far-from-heroic achievement.

  The day goes on, time goes by, the Serbs get all the merrier, postman sleeps, etc. Everything extremely normal. But the devil won’t sleep. The spoiled American populace from surrounding neighborhoods, annoyed by postman’s failure to deliver their mail, dials the post office manager to, speaking proper Serbian, have a long turn at fucking his dear mother. The manager gets completely aroused, ‘cause here anyone who doesn’t do his job properly gets fired, and not a people’s hero medal or a manager’s position, sooner-better dials postman’s wife and asks if he may be at home, did he get sick, did he call?
  Wife as a wife, American, has no idea, and says he’s at work. Only now the manager got really frightened. He dials 911 (police) and reports postman missing. 5000 policemen of the city of Chicaga start a search for the runaway or kidnapped postman. After a long-lasting unsuccessful search, one local patrolman, “corner-guy” in Serbian, runs into the abandoned post office wagon, but in the neighborhood inhabited with bloodthirsty Serbs of Balkans. He sees the wagon, but also sees the crowd on the street and concludes that the postman is at least kidnapped if not brutally killed and butchered. Decides that this is where his jurisdiction expires and calls the station, reports the case and asks for backup.
  Within half an hour, with the deafening noise of patrol car sirens, accompanied with a helicopter, 12 maries [12] full of members of antiterrorist action units of American police have blocked the whole neighborhood. The security organs under full war gear ran out (in order to “provide for undisturbed performance of traffic” as our beloved former president [13] and his SPS, JUL and SRS [14] rats, i.e. potparoles [15] for press, loved to say), including bulletproof vests, helmets, goggles, with machine guns in hands and “Slobodanka [16] batons by the belt”.
[12] ‘Mary’ (actually ‘Marica’, a diminutive form of ‘Marija’) is a traditional Serbian name for a police car. Most usual form is “crna marica” – Black Mary, though the last black ones were used by Gestapo; police cars in Yugoslavia are ink blue.
[13] I.e. Milosevic.
[14] Socialist Party of Serbia (Milosevic); Yugoslav United Left (led by his wife, Mirjana Markovic, neocommunists); Serbian Radical Party (Seselj, ultra-right pro-fascist nationalists).
[15] Proper pronunciation would be “portparol” (from Italian “porta parole” – carrier of word), which is the PR manager, or press attaché. Prefix pot- actually stands for sub- in Serbian. Even “portparol for press” is redundant, because the relations with the press are their base duty.
[16] Female version of the name Slobodan, in this case applied to the police baton.

  Serbs as Serbs, knowing they got nothing on their conscience, and their mind got blurred by brandy, started in best of spirits to meet them. Gajich with his bottle and a shot in hand and his inevitable: “c’mon drink one, for your mother’s sake, it’s Christmas eve’s day, it’s a should-do”. But the American policemen are not even 0.05 promilles of American postmen. They not only refuse to drink, but scream, shout and threaten with something instead. All of that may have had some influence on any other nation, but Serbs felt just a pain with that [17] , they continued drinking, the cops continued roaring, and and Gajich kept offering to each individual cop in turn: “c’mon drink one, for your mother’s sake, it’s Christmas eve’s day, it’s a should-do”. At some point one of the stacker Serbs (those who stack themselves and don’t exactly drink each time, but skip a few rounds) managed to understand postman. “Folks, these guys are looking for our postman. Say so, brother policeman. Speak Serbian so the whole world can understand you. Here he is at Djoka’s at the ground floor”, and points his finger to Djoka’s apartment. The cops rushed into the apartment and found the subject of their search on the dining table, wrapped in black trash bag. [17] “zabole me” – “it just hurt me” really means “I don’t give a damn”.

  They started to unwrap the corpse of the poor postman, who heroically died fighting for American national interests, when Djoka’s wife jumps on the cop, beating him with her hands and screaming madly. “Postman!” the cop screams trying to shake Djokinica [18] off of his hand. “Hell don’t touch the roast, that’s for tomorrow for Christmas, fucked your own mother”. Still the cops outnumbered her and conquered Djokinica and one of them theatrically unwrapped the body from the black bag, on the dining table. When there, but a largish piglet! You may only imagine what astonishment ruled among the prominent American riot squadders. [18] I.e. Djoka’s wife.
  They felt like oxen as if Senta Milenkovich [19] was their common cousin twice removed. “C’mon ma’m, they’re looking for the postman” Gajich moaned, and turned to the one of the cops and asked “c’mon drink one, for your mother’s sake, it’s Christmas eve’s day, it’s a should-do”. “Well the postman is in the room”, angry Djokinica said and pointed to the bedroom. The frustrated cops ran into the room and there finally found the postman’s lifeless body. Trying to understand how was he killed, because they were already sure he was dead, they discovered he’s snoring. They tugged him and he woke up. [19] Milosevic’s prime bodyguard.


Astonishment flooded the room. It’s unknown who was astonished more – was it the cops before whose eyes a dead postman resurrected, or the postman who opened his eyes and through hangover saw a room full of policemen.

“Are you hurt”, the cop chief finally managed to utter.

“Who, me?” postman replied in confusion, “oh no, I’m okay.”

“Are you being kidnapped”, the cop moans desperately.

“Who, me, nooooo, these are my friends and brethren”.

  The unit chief, humiliated and ashamed, turns madly around and starts for the car, thinking of what sort of madmen are these guys who can’t be scared even by a SWAT team, and who ever sent me to save the crazy postman, fuck your post office, and DHL, and FedEX, and…

Gajich restlessly runs after the cops who are retreating to their cars, and offers, begging: “c’mon drink one, for your mother’s sake, it’s Christmas eve’s day, it’s a should-do”. The cops retreat, as fast as they arrived, just without sirens and flashing this time, and the helicopter guy has run away first like a cunt a long time ago.


The scene looks like this. Twilight is coming down on the neighborhood, cops leave, and Gajich stands disappointed, thinking aloud: “fucked these American militians [20] , all sober”.

The Serbs sober up slowly, tomorrow’s Christmas and it’s due drinking again.

[20] In SFRY and other socialist countries there was no police, at least not under that name. Their job was done by “People’s Militia”, which eventually was practically the same. The official name for constable was “milicioner” (millitionaire), but the popular name was “milicajac”.


The main hero of the story, the postman, goes to his car and passes Gajich on the way, who addresses him, all depressed and hopeless, with his “c’mon drink one, for your mother’s sake, it’s Christmas eve’s day, it’s a should-do” thing. The postman passes him by, but like every real action hero he turns around, and says in English: “just one for the road”.