George Keats had trained 20 years for this moment. He had mastered the Russian language in its native accent. He learned all of Russia's customs and social graces. He memorized Moscow streetmaps and knew every back-alley there was. He swore that he could even think like a Russian.

The big day finally came, and he was parachuted to the outskirts of Moscow at night. He emerged by daybreak, and hopped onto a bus going to the city center.

"Comrade. How much for a ticket to Red square?", he asked the conductor in authentic Russian.

"5 Rubles, Comrade American", came the reply.

Keats was stunned. Perhaps the conductor was just being a smart-ass. He hopped off the bus and asked a passerby for directions to the closest bar.

"It's just around the block, Comrade American."

Keats' doubts grew immensely. Not knowing what to do, he went inside the bar and ordered a glass of Vodka.

"Want some Borscht to go with it, Comrade American?", the bartender asked.

Keats threw a fit.

"What's the matter with you people? I dress just like you, I speak just like you, I even THINK just like you! Why does everyone keep calling me American?"

"Well Comrade, it's because you're black."