... thirty years too late?

in soviet russia, in a small talent agency run from a cupboard in the back of a small balalaika club, a man walks in. he stinks of vodka, as if the effort to walk in the door has taken an enormous amount of georgian courage (like dutch courage, but with vodka... in crates) to perform. the talent agent squints at the man from behind glasses with slightly the wrong prescription and he says, "greetings, tovarisch! what do you want?"

the man replies, "i have an act for you. with my family. a family act."

the agent spreads his hands in a universal gesture of [i can probably help you but i'm going to need a lot of money to do it] and says, "the mother russia is full of family acts, comrade."

"not like this," the man says, shaking his head. "it's... subversive. you could be arrested for even hearing about it."

the talent agent narrowed his eyes. "tell me about this act."

"i set up a counter on the stage. my wife, my two children and my dog come onstage, dressed in their best clothes. i stand behind the counter and say, 'can i help you?' to my wife. she steps straight up to the counter without having to queue and replies, 'i would like to buy two happy meals and a royale with cheese.' i say, 'certainly madame.' i serve her and the children three hamburgers, with a side or two serves of french fries and two small coca-colas. then she gives me some money, i give her change, and she and the children sit down to eat, feeding small tidbits to the dog. and that's it."

the agent is aghast, unable to believe his ears, he stammers, "that's quite an act, tovarisch. what is it called?"

"the capitalists!"