When you're russian for food, there is no

When you're russian for food, there is no time for Stalin. KGB.

CIA. NSA. MI6. Valeri Gurov would be dogmeat if any of them caught him. No time for exchange rates or the niceties of borders. He needed to perfect his Quantum Transit app before

they came after him. The CIA and the NSA were nothing to joke around with your buddies over beer with. He then quickly perfected his Quantum Transit app, and then packed his

things, but then he realized they had heard him talking smack. Several heads slowly raised out of nearby pot plants, frowning in disgust. He activated his Quantum Transit app and

suddenly found himself in a coffee shop in Canada. The native people confused him as they all seemed to be riding polar bears. All of a sudden the bad guys he was running from came

downstream in their sealskin kayaks, their eyes ablaze with revenge. Tomahawks flew over his head, one grazing his scalp. He jumped aboard a polar bear and dug his mukluks into its

flabby armpits. The polar bear bounded gracefully across the Arctic landscape, free from their Eskimo assailants. They built an igloo for shelter and passed the time playing jacks

heck off, the intergalactic polar bear decided to try his luck at Roulette. That too would lead to failure, as would the slot machines and the poker table. "Maybe I should go back

to posing for Coca-Cola ads.” So he headed to the ad agency, only to find Santa Claus in the waiting room. “Great!” thought the polar bear, “Competition!” So he ate Santa Claus.