Andrej Babiš

Andrej "Bureš" Babiš
Babiš.
12th and Upcoming prime minister of Czech Republic (again), December 6, 2017 - December 17, 2021
In office December 6, 2017 – December 17, 2021
Personal details
Born	September 2, 1954 Bratislava, Czechoslovakia
Political party	ANO! - Bude Líp (YES! - It will be worse)
Spouse(s)	Monike Babiš, StB, Agrofert, Communism
Children	Andrej Jr. Adriana Vivien Frederik
Residence	who knows
Alma mater	Economical University of Bratislava
Occupation	Son of a bitch, communist, populist
Website	www.anobudelip.cz

Andrej Babiš is a prominent Czech politician and businessman. He was born in Slovakia in 1954 and later became one of the wealthiest individuals in the Czech Republic. Babiš founded and leads the political movement ANO 2011, which initially focused on anti-corruption and government efficiency. He served as the Prime Minister of the Czech Republic from 2017 to 2021.

He is often referred to as the Czech equivalent of Donald Trump. Both figures share a strikingly similar path from the world of business to politics, leveraging their status as wealthy outsiders to appeal to populist sentiments. Like Trump, Babiš built his fortune before entering politics and used his image as a successful businessman to portray himself as someone capable of running the government more effectively than traditional politicians. Both have faced accusations of corruption, conflicts of interest, and legal investigations, yet maintain significant public support among voters disillusioned with the political establishment.

Childhood and early career

Babiš when he was 18 years-old. What a punkster.

Andrej Babiš was born in 1954 in Bratislava, back when Czechoslovakia was still trying to decide whether communism was a political system or an elaborate prank on its own people. Growing up in a rather "fortunate" family—his father being a high-ranking diplomat—young Andrej didn’t exactly suffer the joys of queuing for bread or watching TV on a set that might catch fire at any moment, like many of his future voters did. Instead, Babiš spent parts of his childhood abroad, living in such places as France and Switzerland, far from the glorious gray blocks of socialist realism.

If you think this foreign experience opened his eyes to the freedoms of the West, think again. Despite the exposure to capitalism, Andrej chose the path less traveled—straight into the embrace of the StB, the infamous Czechoslovak State Security. Yes, Babiš wasn't just a businessman in the making, he was also allegedly a secret informant for the StB under the code name "Bureš", a fact that would haunt him later when trying to explain how exactly he went from dining in Western Europe to cozying up with Czechoslovakia’s secret police. But hey, every great businessman has to network, right?

Babiš’s early career, fittingly, involved working for foreign trade companies under government control—because, of course, when you're a well-connected young man in a communist regime, the state isn’t just going to let you work at the local coal mine. By the late 1980s, he was already climbing the ranks of PZO Petrimex, a state-owned foreign trade company dealing in chemicals. As luck (and connections) would have it, this would later serve as the launching pad for his empire, Agrofert—a conglomerate he grew during the wild post-communist privatization period like a capitalist phoenix rising from the ashes of Marx’s failed dream.

Babiš as Politician

ANO! tent in Česká Lípa.

Andrej Babiš’s political career is like a masterclass in how to take a system already rigged in your favor and somehow convince everyone that you’re an underdog fighting against it. After spending decades building his business empire, Agrofert—because what else is a former state trading company executive supposed to do when communism collapses?—Babiš decided that being one of the richest men in the Czech Republic wasn’t quite enough. Why stop at owning most of the country’s agriculture, chemicals, and media when you can also run the entire government?

So, in 2011, Babiš founded ANO 2011, which stands for Action of Dissatisfied Citizens (because, of course, it’s the “dissatisfied” billionaires who are the real victims here). His political movement wasn’t really a political party in the traditional sense—more like a PR stunt wrapped in a populist bow, designed to capture the disillusionment of everyday Czechs while being bankrolled by someone who definitely wasn’t spending his evenings worrying about rising grocery prices.

Babiš quickly styled himself as the anti-politician, because nothing says “man of the people” quite like a guy who owns half the country’s economy. His platform was simple: I’m not corrupt because I’m already rich. A genius move, really. Why would a man with so much wealth need to engage in shady deals? (Spoiler: because rich people often like to stay rich, if not get richer.) He railed against the traditional political elites, those who supposedly ran the country into the ground—never mind that he was deeply embedded in the very same system for decades. It’s like a burglar breaking into your house and then offering to sell you a security system.

In 2013, ANO’s anti-establishment shtick caught fire, and Babiš’s party won enough seats to join the government, positioning him as the country’s new political star. Not bad for a guy whose idea of connecting with the common folk was probably wondering if his foie gras was fresh enough that morning. Fast forward to 2017, and Babiš became Prime Minister, officially making the Czech Republic’s government his newest acquisition—just another thing to manage alongside his agro-chemical empire.

From day one, Babiš ran the country like a CEO on a cost-cutting mission. Government meetings? Those were just boardroom sessions where efficiency and control were the priorities—unless, of course, those meetings involved the European Union poking its nose into his affairs. You see, Babiš had a little issue with the EU. The fact that Agrofert kept getting sweet EU subsidies despite him being the Prime Minister raised some eyebrows. Enter the "Stork’s Nest" scandal—a cute little tale where Babiš allegedly funneled European funds meant for small businesses into his luxury resort, all while keeping a straight face and claiming innocence. “What’s corruption?” asked the man who seemingly found a way to stretch conflict of interest laws to their breaking point.

Two sons of bitches.

Of course, Babiš wasn’t about to let a little thing like accusations of fraud and conflicts of interest get in the way of his political agenda. He pulled the classic populist playbook: deny everything, blame everyone else, and double down. Anyone questioning him? Clearly, they were part of a witch hunt, probably orchestrated by political rivals or, better yet, those pesky Brussels bureaucrats who just didn’t appreciate a good “small business” success story. It wasn’t just politics—it was a full-on soap opera, with Babiš cast as both the victim and the hero of his own narrative.

And let’s not forget his approach to media control. Why deal with pesky journalists when you can just own the newspapers and TV stations? In 2013, Babiš acquired two major Czech newspapers and a radio station, which, in case you missed it, is the subtle dictator’s move of ensuring no bad press ever reaches the public. “Free press? Sure, as long as it’s saying good things about me,” seemed to be the underlying message. It was the perfect ecosystem: create problems, get good PR from your own media, and then solve the problems—usually by blaming them on someone else. Trump would’ve been proud.

As Prime Minister, Babiš loved to present himself as a “man of action” who would bulldoze through the inefficiencies of government. His favorite phrase might as well have been, “I’ll fix it myself,” though what he really meant was, “I’ll fix it, and if it happens to benefit Agrofert, well, isn’t that convenient?” His so-called managerial style wasn’t about leading the nation—it was about consolidating power and running the country like it was another subsidiary in his corporate portfolio.

But the cracks started to show, especially as he became embroiled in multiple legal investigations, including the big one—the EU subsidy fraud case. European auditors pointed out that, shockingly, having the Prime Minister also being the owner of a massive conglomerate receiving EU subsidies was, well, a bit problematic. His response? Same as always: deny, deflect, and blame everyone else.

By 2021, after a year of pandemic mismanagement and mounting scandals, Babiš’s image as the all-powerful businessman-politician began to falter. His party, ANO, lost the general election, and Babiš had to begrudgingly step down as Prime Minister. But like any good billionaire with an ego the size of his fortune, he didn’t just fade into the background. No, Babiš remains a major player in Czech politics, always ready for a comeback, lurking like a corporate villain in the wings, waiting for his next acquisition—whether it’s a company or a country.

In the end, Andrej Babiš’s political career is less about public service and more about self-service. It’s a masterclass in how to game the system, manipulate public opinion, and maintain power, all while convincing people that you’re just one of them. After all, when you already own half the country’s economy, why not go for the government, too?

2023 presidental elections

"I will not drag Czechia into war! I am a diplomat, not a soldier."

Andrej Babiš’s 2023 presidential campaign was an absolute gift to satire—a political performance so clumsy and full of gaffes, it felt like a sitcom episode. The Slovak-born billionaire, businessman-turned-politician, who somehow kept reminding everyone that he’s not a politician, seemed to treat the presidency as if it were another venture in his corporate empire. Except this time, his pitch wasn’t a new product, but something much grander: world peace. And, of course, making sure that no one really knew what the "pátý dodatek" was.

Let’s start with the infamous ČT1 debate. Here, Babiš was supposed to show that he had what it took to lead the nation. But instead, it played out like a slapstick comedy. When the moderators asked serious questions, Babiš looked like a student caught unprepared for a final exam, attempting to wing it with confidence. And then came the legendary NATO Article 5 question. When asked if he would honor the Czech Republic’s obligation to defend its allies in case of attack, Babiš answered with the diplomatic equivalent of a belly flop: "No, I wouldn’t." The reaction was instant—viewers were stunned, while Petr Pavel, his opponent, sat there with a look of stoic disbelief, as if internally repeating, Stay calm, don’t laugh.

Good Soldier Petr Pavel was also a communist, but he had to (because he wanted to be a general)

Pavel, a retired general who had spent his life in the military and working with NATO (but also career communist, but not in a same was as Babiš), was the polar opposite of Babiš. While Babiš floundered with vague rhetoric about peace and prosperity, Pavel remained calm and sharp, delivering his answers with the precision of a general crafting a battle plan. Babiš looked like a guy who got lost on the way to a board meeting, while Pavel was the man who had probably led a real one during a crisis. In a room where serious leadership was on display, Babiš’s performance felt like watching someone attempt stand-up comedy, only to realize halfway through that it was supposed to be a TED Talk.

Babiš’s answer on NATO wasn’t just a blunder—it was a spectacular moment of political self-sabotage. Here was a man who, just a few minutes earlier, had declared that he would bring peace to Europe. “No wars under Babiš!” he proclaimed, as if by sheer force of will, he could singlehandedly rewrite international relations. Never mind that he had no clear plan—he was banking on the idea that simply saying he wanted peace would magically make it happen. It was almost charming how he seemed to believe in his own oversimplified vision of world politics, like a child drawing a smiley face on a map and declaring global harmony.

And then there was pátý dodatek (NATO Aritcle 5 question), that glorious moment when Babiš confidently referenced the U.S. Constitution’s Fifth Amendment... or at least tried to. No one could quite figure out what he was talking about. His expression was priceless: a mix of certainty and utter confusion, like a man who had just walked into a room and couldn’t remember why he was there. He probably thought he was impressing everyone with his legal acumen, but in reality, it was more like watching someone try to explain quantum physics after skimming a Wikipedia article.

Meanwhile, Petr Pavel sat through all of this with military precision—calm, composed, and clearly unimpressed. Pavel, with his silver hair and perfect posture, looked every bit the seasoned general who had been preparing for this moment his entire life. His responses were measured and serious, making Babiš’s chaotic, ad-libbed answers look even more out of place. It was a battle between a man who had spent decades working in the defense of his country and a businessman who seemed to think that running a nation was no different than managing a supermarket chain.

Babiš tried to position himself as a man of the people, often awkwardly reminding voters that he wasn’t a politician—just a regular guy who happened to be a billionaire. He spoke of "struggles" that sounded more like boardroom problems than anything the average voter could relate to. It was as if he thought telling everyone, “I know how to run a business” would automatically translate to “I know how to run a country.” But even here, his attempts to connect were overshadowed by his lack of concrete ideas. Every time he mentioned peace or his economic genius, it felt like a new episode of The Office, with Babiš as the bumbling boss who just couldn’t get it right.

The whole thing reached its zenith in that final ČT1 debate. Babiš, fidgeting with vague answers, tried desperately to outshine Petr Pavel, but instead ended up looking more like a contestant on a game show who’d accidentally hit the buzzer without knowing the question. Pavel, on the other hand, delivered his answers with the cool efficiency of a man who had been there, done that, and wasn’t about to let Babiš’s floundering derail his mission.

In the end, the contrast between Babiš and Pavel was a gift to anyone who loves political comedy. Babiš was a whirlwind of contradictions: a billionaire who claimed to understand the common man, a self-proclaimed peacemaker who didn’t know how international defense worked, and a businessman who kept insisting he wasn’t a politician—even while running for the highest political office in the land. Petr Pavel, meanwhile, stood as the embodiment of stability, seriousness, and preparation.

Babiš didn’t win the presidency, but his campaign will be remembered—just not in the way he hoped. It was a beautiful mess of gaffes, misplaced confidence, and surreal moments, leaving the rest of us to enjoy the sheer spectacle of it all. If nothing else, Andrej Babiš gifted us a campaign that was part reality show, part political farce, and 100% unforgettable.

Good deeds

Andrej Babiš might be known for his business acumen and political career, but when it comes to "good deeds," well, that’s where things get tricky. He’s not exactly the type of politician celebrated for grand philanthropic gestures or heartfelt initiatives for the public good.

Sure, if you ask him, he might point to the jobs created by his companies or his supposed economic successes while in government, but many would argue that these were more about expanding his personal empire than about helping everyday people. His time in office was marked by scandals and controversies, from conflicts of interest with his conglomerate Agrofert to accusations of misusing EU subsidies.

If we’re really digging for good deeds, some might mention his government’s handling of certain aspects of the COVID-19 pandemic, but even that was a mixed bag, with many pointing out that his decisions were driven more by political calculations than genuine concern for public health.

So, when it comes to finding "good deeds" tied to Andrej Babiš, you might be left holding an empty bag—or perhaps just one filled with more questions than answers.

Bad deeds

This is his most know thing - Stork's nest.

Andrej Babiš’s political career is a masterclass in the art of self-serving opportunism, a saga where the line between public service and personal gain is so blurred it might as well not exist. If Donald Trump is America’s gold-plated icon of "politics as a personal brand," Babiš is his Czech counterpart, except with fewer golf courses and more agribusiness.

Let’s start with the glaring conflict of interest that defines his career. Babiš made a big show of "placing" his conglomerate Agrofert into a trust when he took office, as if that would magically separate him from his billions. It’s like trying to hide an elephant behind a shower curtain—it fooled no one. The European Union wasn’t buying it, either, slapping the Czech Republic with penalties because Babiš couldn’t keep his grubby hands out of the EU subsidy jar. Imagine running a country and still finding time to siphon off millions to your own business empire. You’ve got to admire the efficiency—if not the ethics.

And then, of course, there’s the "Stork’s Nest" scandal, which could be the title of a satirical political thriller. Babiš was accused of securing EU funds meant for small businesses to, surprise surprise, benefit one of his own companies. It’s the kind of corruption so blatant that you’d think he was daring the authorities to catch him. He didn’t get convicted, which, in his world, counts as a win. “See? I’m innocent,” he’d claim, as if simply dodging legal consequences is enough to prove moral superiority. It’s a bit like watching a bank robber get away and then boast about how clean his criminal record is.

His political style? Pure populism, cut straight from the Trump playbook. Babiš, one of the richest men in the country, somehow managed to convince people that he was against the elites. It’s almost laughable—like watching a wolf in a tailored suit tell the sheep he’s really one of them. He ran as the anti-establishment savior, all while sitting comfortably at the top of the financial and political food chain. And his solution to everything? Blame the system, blame the EU, blame the establishment—just don’t look too closely at the guy behind the curtain, raking in profits while the rest of the country deals with the fallout.

And let’s not forget how he handled the COVID-19 pandemic. Much like Trump, Babiš was a master of downplaying the crisis until it became impossible to ignore. At first, it was all “We’ve got it under control,” then, when things predictably spiraled, he was quick to point fingers. Not enough vaccines? That’s someone else’s fault. A botched response? It’s the health minister’s problem, not his. He played the political blame game with the finesse of a man used to getting away with everything—because, well, he often did.

But perhaps his crowning achievement in cynicism is the way he paints himself as the victim. Yes, a billionaire, with sprawling business interests and political power, somehow manages to portray himself as the underdog being persecuted by, you guessed it, the elites. Babiš complaining about the system is like a fox complaining that the henhouse is unfairly guarded. And yet, it worked. His voters bought into the idea that Babiš, of all people, was the one looking out for the little guy. It's a con so audacious that it almost deserves a slow clap.

In the end, Andrej Babiš didn’t just borrow from Trump’s playbook—he may have improved upon it. Where Trump leaned on populist theatrics, Babiš mastered the subtle art of profiting from the system while pretending to tear it down. His legacy is a reminder that in politics, you can be both the establishment and the anti-establishment if you spin it just right. And for Babiš, spinning the narrative—and filling his pockets along the way—was the real talent all along.

Most know Quotes..

Here are some of the most well-known quotes by Andrej Babiš, with English translations and explanations of their meanings:

1. "Sorry jako."

English translation: "Sorry, like."

Explanation: This phrase became infamous when Babiš used it during a press conference in 2017, trying to dismiss a question about a potential conflict of interest. The phrase is now symbolic of how he sometimes avoids responsibility or brushes off criticism. It’s become widely used in a mocking or humorous context.

2. "Všichni kradnú."

English translation: "Everyone is stealing."

Explanation: This phrase reflects Babiš's rhetoric that paints all other politicians or government officials as corrupt, positioning himself as someone who is different, often claiming he is fighting against corruption. It resonated with many voters who were frustrated with the political establishment.

3. "Nikdy neodstúpim, nech si to všichni zapamatují. Nikdy!"

English translation: "I will never resign, let everyone remember that. Never!"

Explanation: Babiš said this during one of the scandals surrounding him, specifically when there were protests and calls for his resignation. The quote underscores his defiance and refusal to give in to public or political pressure.

4. "Mně patří Agrofert, ale Agrofert nepatří mně."

English translation: "I own Agrofert, but Agrofert doesn't belong to me."

Explanation: This paradoxical statement came after Babiš transferred his company Agrofert into a trust to comply with conflict-of-interest laws. He was trying to argue that while technically the company is in a trust, he no longer has control over it. The statement became a point of ridicule for its contradiction.

5. "Já jsem nikdy nelhal."

English translation: "I have never lied."

Explanation: This statement is often cited when discussing Babiš’s political persona. Given the number of controversies and accusations against him, this claim is often met with skepticism or irony.

He also said many other things, these are most known..

NATO Article no.5

Virgin Babiš is talking shit.....

During the presidential debate in January 2023, Andrej Babiš managed to step on an international landmine with his comment about NATO Article 5. When asked whether, as president, he would honor the commitment to defend NATO allies like Poland or the Baltic states in case of an attack, Babiš delivered a rather bewildering response:

Babiš's Response:

"I definitely don’t want war. I want peace. And in any case, I wouldn’t send our children and the children of our women to war."

Cue the collective facepalm. In just a few sentences, Babiš not only confused NATO’s entire defense strategy with some sort of “keep-the-kids-at-home” policy, but he also turned what should have been a straightforward commitment to defend allies into a bizarre statement that sounded more like he was campaigning for a world peace beauty pageant. Apparently, he thought Article 5 was an optional “RSVP” invite rather than the cornerstone of NATO.

.....But Gigachad Pavel is just saying the truth...

Petr Pavel's Reaction:

Sitting across from him, Petr Pavel, a retired general and former NATO official who might as well have "Article 5" tattooed on his arm, managed to keep a straight face—though the twinkle of disbelief in his eyes said it all. With the calmness of someone who had likely been preparing for this moment his whole career, Pavel turned to the moderator and said:

"Let me be clear. If our allies are attacked, we will defend them. That is what NATO is for, and that is what Article 5 guarantees."

It was like watching a seasoned teacher gently explain to a student that, no, the Earth is not flat. The contrast between Pavel’s unflappable commitment to NATO and Babiš’s deer-in-the-headlights answer couldn’t have been starker. Pavel’s remark was met with relieved applause from the audience, while Babiš’s earlier attempt continued to hang awkwardly in the air, like a bad punchline no one laughed at.

The Fallout:

As the debate wrapped up, Babiš seemed to realize he had just casually thrown NATO’s collective defense under the bus. His damage control came swiftly, but the excuse wasn’t any better than the original flub:

"Of course, I support Article 5. I just meant I don’t want war. Who would?"

Unfortunately, by then, the internet was already alive with memes comparing Babiš to someone accidentally skipping over the “terms and conditions” of NATO membership. Tweets flooded in, mockingly offering Babiš military strategy tips like: “If you see tanks, just tell them you want peace and hope they turn around.”

Meanwhile, Pavel—looking like the dad cleaning up after his overenthusiastic toddler—continued to calmly assure voters that, yes, NATO allies could count on the Czech Republic. Because, you know, defending your neighbors isn’t just something you think about if you feel like it.

Takeaway:

In the end, Babiš’s stumble wasn’t just about a simple misunderstanding—it was a masterclass in how not to handle foreign policy. For someone running for president, the whole "maybe I’ll defend our NATO allies, maybe not" shtick doesn’t quite inspire confidence. Pavel, on the other hand, stood out like the adult in the room, subtly reminding everyone that when it comes to defense and international commitments, there’s really no room for improvisation.

StB career

Babiš's StB identification

Andrej Babiš's StB saga is like a surreal political comedy, with each chapter more absurd than the last. Let’s turn up the satire and dive deeper into the curious case of Agent Bureš—the man who claims he wasn’t spying on people but rather protecting the sacred art of socialist agriculture.

The Birth of a Hero: Agent Bureš Saves the Economy

Picture this: It’s 1986, and Andrej Babiš, a young and determined businessman, is summoned to a secretive meeting. But it’s not in some dark alleyway or abandoned building. No, Babiš arrives at what looks like a nondescript office that could have been mistaken for an agricultural bureau. Inside, his "handlers" from the StB brief him on his mission.

The atmosphere is tense. They’re not talking about taking down political dissidents or smuggling secrets to Moscow. No, this was about manure—literal, life-saving manure.

The agents lean in, speaking in hushed tones: “Comrade Babiš, our potato crops are in danger. The Western imperialists are sabotaging our supply of fertilizer. We need someone brave, someone with a deep understanding of trade, to ensure that Czechoslovakia’s fields remain fertile. Will you accept this mission?”

Without hesitation, Babiš stands up and salutes. “I will do whatever it takes to save the beets, comrades. This country deserves strong, socialist potatoes.”

And so, Agent Bureš was born—not in the shadows of espionage, but in the glow of a national mission to secure fertilizer and protect the country’s cucumbers. The StB entrusted him with ensuring that the nation’s cabbage remained crisp and that its wheat fields swayed proudly in the wind.

For years, Babiš protected Czechoslovakia’s economic interests from the nefarious forces of... capitalist fertilizer firms. It wasn’t glamorous work, but in his mind, it was heroic. Because what could be more patriotic than securing manure for the motherland?

The Great Confession on Show Jana Krause: “It Was Just Business”

Jump to 2011, and Babiš is sitting comfortably on the plush red couch of Show Jana Krause. Kraus, the sharp-witted host, couldn’t resist asking about Babiš’s alleged collaboration with the StB. The audience leaned in, expecting drama. But what they got was something entirely different.

"Mr. Babiš," Kraus begins, "there have been rumors that you were an agent of the StB, code name Bureš. Is that true?"

Babiš, ever the businessman, doesn’t miss a beat. He smiles and leans back, as if they were talking about a business meeting over coffee.

“Well, yes,” he says, "but it wasn’t what you think. I wasn’t part of the bad StB—you know, the part that spied on people and did all those nasty things. I was part of the good StB, the one that protected the economy.”

Kraus, amused but confused, asks, “The good StB?”

“Of course!” Babiš exclaims, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. “I was helping secure fertilizer contracts for the country. It was an essential job! Without me, Czechoslovakia’s zucchinis could have been ruined!”

The audience erupts into laughter, unsure if they’re watching a comedy skit or a serious political confession.

Kraus probes further, trying to understand. “So, you weren’t involved in any espionage? No secret meetings? No... reports?”

Babiš chuckles. “No, no, no. That wasn’t my thing. I wasn’t spying on dissidents or anything like that. I was focused on business. I was making sure our farmers had what they needed. Fertilizer, wheat, seeds, you name it. That’s what I did. I was like... the James Bond of agricultural trade.”

At this point, the audience is in stitches. Babiš, the fearless agricultural warrior, protecting the beets and potatoes from imperialist plots. The notion of him as a secret agent, but one who spends his days brokering deals for manure, is too absurd to believe—but there he is, presenting it with a straight face.

The Evolution of His Story: “It Wasn’t the Bad StB”

Over the years, Babiš’s explanation of his involvement with the StB continued to evolve, like a soap opera plot that just couldn’t stop twisting. First, it was a denial: “I never worked for them, I’m not on their list.” Then it morphed into a kind of half-admission: “Okay, maybe I was on their list, but I wasn’t a bad guy.”

By 2020, Babiš had perfected his narrative. “It wasn’t that StB,” he explained in interviews with increasing exasperation, as though people were confusing him with someone else entirely. “You see, there were two kinds of StB. There was the bad StB—the one everyone fears. They did the nasty stuff, like spying on people and manipulating politics. But then there was my StB. We were the good guys, protecting the economy, making sure the socialist machine kept running. I wasn’t spying—I was defending our national interests. And by national interests, I mean fertilizer.”

This version of the StB that Babiš was associated with, in his telling, sounded less like a secret police force and more like a state-run chamber of commerce—an elite group of agents dedicated to the art of manure distribution, the unsung heroes of agricultural trade.

The Grand Finale: The Bureš Legacy

Today, Babiš’s alleged connection with the StB remains a point of contention, but in the grand farce of Czech politics, he’s become something of a folk hero. Not as the sinister Bureš, the secret police informant, but as the man who, according to his own version of history, saved the nation's potato fields from collapse.

In the world Babiš has spun, he’s not a spy—he’s a fertilizer warrior, a protector of beetroots and a defender of the people's produce. And in this satirical reality, he emerges not as a villain of history but as a misunderstood champion of the cabbage patches of Czechoslovakia.

So, the next time you hear his critics bring up the StB, remember: It wasn’t the “bad” StB—it was the good StB. And Babiš wasn’t your run-of-the-mill secret agent. He was something far more valuable: the savior of socialist vegetables.

Monike Babišová

Yup. Babiš couple with Trump couple. Two grumpy granpas with milfs.

Andrej Babiš and Monika were always a peculiar pair, a kind of real-life "Beauty and the Beast" without the fairy-tale ending. The "beast" in this case being a pudgy, permanently perplexed-looking oligarch with a knack for turning every political statement into a grumble, and the "beauty" being a polished MILF who looked like she belonged more in a glossy fashion magazine than on the arm of a man who exudes the charisma of an angry potato.

Their relationship was the stuff of tabloid legend—he, the billionaire whose idea of romance probably involved spreadsheets and tax loopholes, and she, the glamorous woman whose patience for this grumpy goblin was as unfathomable as her collection of designer handbags. They were like a Czech version of "The Donald and Melania" show, with Babiš playing the role of the aging tycoon and Monika as the picture-perfect accessory—sorry, "first lady."

The Trumps themselves supposedly approved of the couple, which makes sense given the shared aesthetics: political power dynamics, lavish lifestyles, and public displays of questionable affection that made even seasoned diplomats squirm. There was always something both forced and absurdly entertaining about the moments they were photographed together—Monika smiling radiantly, as if trying to distract the public from whatever garbled nonsense her husband was muttering, and Babiš wearing a facial expression that suggested he was thinking more about his lunch than his wife.

Two bitches. Both from Yurup, both in relationship with extremely wealthy fucks.

But in 2024, the news broke: Monika had finally hit the eject button on the Babiš-rocket. Maybe she’d grown tired of the relentless media attention, or maybe she’d just realized there were better things to do than be seen with a man whose favorite pastime was giving passive-aggressive interviews in every available Czech media outlet. Whatever the reason, she was out, like a canary fleeing a coal mine, leaving Babiš behind with his billions and his bad moods.

Now, Monika is presumably enjoying life on her own terms—hopefully with someone who knows that a compliment doesn’t include the words "efficient" or "cost-effective." Meanwhile, Babiš remains exactly where we left him: standing awkwardly in front of a microphone, talking about "the people" while sounding like a man who’s just been told his golf game has been cancelled.

Legacy

Speculating about Andrej Babiš's future, especially if he were to win elections again, offers plenty of fuel for political satire and debate. Will Babiš evolve, or will it be "more of the same"?

Babiš 2.0: Return of the King

Imagine it’s 2025. After a fierce campaign, Babiš emerges victorious once again, seizing the prime minister's seat with his characteristic self-confidence. But instead of reinventing himself as a visionary leader, Babiš continues to embody the very qualities that have made him a controversial figure throughout his career: business as usual, more populism, more control, and more... fertilizer.

He strides into the Strakova Academy (the prime minister’s office) with a swagger, ready to "make things work" just like he always promised. But the underlying philosophy of his governance remains familiar: What’s good for Babiš is good for the country.

With a comfortable majority in parliament, he rules with the same mix of self-interest and vague promises. Just like his previous terms, he paints himself as the "outsider" who’s here to fix everything that’s broken—despite the fact that he’s been running things for years.

The "Old Babiš": Business as Usual

If Babiš wins again, would it be any different? The skeptics say no. They speculate that his second—or third—round in power will look much like the first: more centralization, more reliance on his business empire, and a continued blurring of lines between public office and private gain.

Transparency? Expect it to remain as opaque as ever. "Yes, I own Agrofert," Babiš might say, "but don’t worry, it’s all in a trust fund!" Of course, the trust is run by people who are, let’s say, close to him. Critics claim that despite technicalities, Babiš is still calling the shots from behind the scenes, pulling the strings to ensure Agrofert thrives while he remains in power.

Populist Rhetoric? It will continue in full force. Whether it's demonizing the elites, painting Brussels as an enemy, or blaming his political opponents for any shortfall, Babiš knows his playbook. "I’m just a businessman fighting for the people," he says, while opponents wonder which "people" he’s really talking about. (Spoiler alert: the people seem to include his corporate allies.)

Media Control? Babiš’s relationship with the press will likely stay contentious. Remember, he already owns major newspapers, so his control of the narrative could get even tighter. Why let pesky journalists tell uncomfortable truths when you can publish your own version of reality?

The New Spin: "It Wasn’t the Bad Babiš"

Much like his previous legal battles with the Slovak Nation’s Memory Institute (where he downplayed his alleged collaboration with the StB), future Babiš could employ the same rhetorical gymnastics to justify anything questionable.

Criticized for policies that seem to serve his business interests? No problem. Babiš could claim, “I’m not part of the bad politicians, who enrich themselves at the public’s expense. I’m part of the good ones, who just happen to understand the economy.” In this version of events, Babiš the Prime Minister is just Babiš the tireless patriot, still defending the country’s economic interests—even if those interests overlap suspiciously with his own bottom line.

Accountability? Expect the same strategic sidestepping. When critics call him out, expect to hear lines like: "I’m not a politician, I’m a businessman who knows how to get things done." But now, after years in office, even his most loyal supporters might begin to ask: when does this non-politician finally become accountable for the country's problems?

Babiš: The Untouchable

By 2025, should he win again, Babiš may have reached a new level of political untouchability. His wealth, connections, and control over parts of the media make him difficult to unseat. Like Teflon, no scandal seems to stick, whether it’s EU fraud investigations, allegations of conflict of interest, or criticisms about his past. His secret? The ability to deflect every criticism as a political attack orchestrated by his enemies.

And if he’s faced with yet another scandal? Babiš will likely respond as he always does: with a shrug, a smirk, and the claim that he’s just trying to protect the people—from Brussels, from the elites, or from his political rivals.

The Final Twist: Babiš for President?

After exhausting the office of prime minister, the ultimate speculation revolves around whether Babiš could aim for an even higher office: the presidency. He might fancy himself as a Czech Macron (without the Europhile streak) or even a local Trump (sans the hair). As president, Babiš could hold court from Prague Castle, where his political reach would be more symbolic, but no less influential. The presidency would offer Babiš the best of both worlds—power without the day-to-day grind of governance.

He could spend his days hosting state dinners while letting his chosen successor run

the country. And if that successor happens to be someone with deep ties to his business empire? Well, that’s just a coincidence, right?

Conclusion: The Same Babiš, Just More of Him

If Andrej Babiš wins another election, there’s little reason to believe he will change his ways. He will continue to mix business with politics, present himself as the "outsider" even as he holds the highest offices, and craft narratives where he’s always the misunderstood hero.

His policies will likely serve his personal interests as much as the country’s, and his populist rhetoric will remain his key weapon. Whether this will lead to his political demise or a lasting legacy is the real question. But one thing seems certain: Andrej Babiš, if given another chance, will continue to be the same Babiš—just with even more power, control, and fertilizer.