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Vladimir Putin goes into the aviary of the Kremlin to consult the orb-gazing warlock that dwells therein. Cloaked and hooded, the reanimated dickless corpse of Grigori Rasputin shuffles amongst the stacks of cages, doling out handfuls of seed from a burlap sack while the pigeons make an absolute racket. "You seek informatskaya?" Rasputin asks without pausing his labor, making bird noises and clucking while waiting for Putin to reply.
"Noskaya," Putin answers. "I need magickskaya. Spellskayas. The old shit."
"This will require a sacrifice." Rasputin rasped. "Skaya," he added quickly. He poked a bony figure at one of the pigeons rattling around the cages fighting over birdseed.
"You can haveskaya the hotdog man." Putin's answer was ice cold. Rehearsed.
Rasputin's eyes widened and he sucked air through his teeth in appraisal. "A powerful sacrifice will make a powerful effect," the words both a boast and a warning. "What is it you wish to do?"
"I want some people to think that I am making their kids gayskaya."
I would also have accepted "ski"