Ment
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I'll browse anekdot.ru again. I choose it specifically because, from my observation, few people look at it; usually, they go to bash or demotivators for humor. I tried to censor it, but if anything, please don't blame me: I am not the author.
Mikhail Afanasyevich Bulgakov was a doctor by profession, but became famous as a writer. This is what happens when a doctor has legible handwriting.
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A curious blunder happened in the government yesterday: money allocated for healthcare was accidentally spent on healthcare.
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I discovered a nasty property of my mobile phone. It's off, the battery is dead, but the bastard still finds the strength to make sure the alarm goes off.
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Once, by accident, Old Man Hottabych caught a golden fish. And so they look at each other in silence—it's a stalemate situation.
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Today I'm sitting at my computer... A spider crawled out of an old plastic computer speaker, looked around, and crawled back into the speaker... My first thought—Dr. Web... Checking for updates..
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A blunder happened today... I went to an official reception in honor of Fiji's Independence Day. The dress code said smart casual. I threw on the first sports polo shirt I found with "London 2012 Olympic Games" written on the belly and "United Kingdom Polo Team" on the back.
When, for the fifth time at the reception, words were spoken about celebrating not just independence, but FREEDOM from Great Britain, I felt uncomfortable... And when warriors in national costumes jumped onto the stage and started dancing dances with spears and axes, I preferred to put on my jacket...
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ACCURATE FORECAST
Yesterday, that is 19.09, in the cartoons section there was a work titled "The Cycle of News in Nature"; this topic reminded me of a real story told by a neighbor. In the second half of the nineties, while he was a student at one of the radio engineering institutes, he did an internship at a paging company. For example, let's call it "Page-Telecom".
For those who don't remember, many companies, besides transmitting personal messages like "Vasya, call mom" and "Petya, come out to the yard to drink," had additional services broadcasting exchange rates, weather, traffic jams on the city's main roads, etc.
Some will surely ask: why didn't they use the Internet in the primitive situation described below? Well, let me tell you, back then the Internet was, to put it mildly, not quite like it is now. I think even the well-known Yandex didn't exist then. And some of my classmates thought that the Internet was a secret Pentagon network and that to get in, you had to be a professional hacker.
January 1st, people are slowly "recovering" from New Year celebrations, company operators are "recovering" from transmitting endless "Happy New Year" messages. This very information needs to be entered into the system responsible for transmitting news information. Everything is clear with traffic jams; the GIBDD is vigilant and informing. (Of course they'd be vigilant on the morning of January 1st). Exchange rates, oil price growth trends, etc., are learned from a radio station broadcast. The weather is learned from the same radio station, only the forecast isn't being transmitted. They tuned into other radio stations—there's no weather anywhere; probably the meteorologists are still celebrating. But something must be transmitted; some picky clients turn up, saying "the service is paid for, but information isn't arriving, I'll sue, you'll pay a penalty." For a couple of hours they turned the radio receiver tuning knob and waited for the weather. They were as silent as partisans. The person left in charge goes to the window, looks at the sky, opens the vent, sticks his hand out the window. He says: "write—it's minus 3 now, cloudy, north wind three meters per second, minus 10 expected in the evening, black ice." They entered this into the system, and messages were sent to subscribers.
The time for the next radio news arrives. Announcer: "...and now for the weather. It is currently minus 3.... minus 10 expected, black ice." The office almost in unison: "Holy crap, Petrovich, how did you guess???" The radio announcer continues: "We thank the company Page-Telecom for providing the weather forecast."
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For sale: Toyota Land Cruiser 105 SUV, 2005 release, excellent condition, prepared for long expeditions. Price — 200 dollars. Self-pickup from N 64° 19,178 E 74° 25,610. Landmark — a radio station antenna sticking out of the swamp. Condition of sale: you must later tell us how you managed to get it out of there.
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Two security guards are standing at the checkout in a supermarket, and they wave their hands at everyone who leaves through the checkout. At the same time, with a smile, they repeat: - The Teletubbies say goodbye. The Teletubbies say goodbye! To the question "why is that?", there was a short and clear answer: - A gambling debt is a matter of honor!
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Also from grandpa's stories. End of summer 1944, the war is nearing its logical finale. The Germans have nothing left to gain, but they fight brutally. Ours, however, are no different. There is a brief lull on the front; a tank brigade is stationed in a fairly large Polish village. This village had a large railway station and was located at the crossroads of important roads. Columns of infantry, armored vehicles, and supplies were constantly moving through it. As grandpa recalled, because of this, there were more SMERSH agents and security officers in the village than ordinary soldiers.
Evening. At the edge of the village stands a huge, very tall and spreading oak tree. Two tank officers are walking. They are arguing about who shoots better.
- What are you telling me, I got the "Voroshilov Sharpshooter" back in '38!
- Big deal! I've been hunting with my father since I was seven; we hit squirrels in the eye!
- In the eye, yeah! Do you dare to hit that crow over there?- and he points to a crow sitting on the aforementioned oak. The distance is considerable.
- Easy! Hey, soldier, give me your rifle!- he addresses some random soldier. He cycles the bolt, aims... Bam!
The crow lets out a contemptuous "Caw" and flies away. The crown of the oak stirred, and a German in a camouflage jumpsuit with a face smeared green fell to the ground. A fatal wound on his chest... A portable radio station was found on the tree, which he used to transmit messages about the movements of our troops. A stupid death for a saboteur...
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Inspired by stories about missionaries and other door-to-door visitors.
Once someone rang my doorbell too. I was in a lyrical mood. Automatically, I go over, open it, and see before me half of a gypsy camp.
Something starts sounding like "we aren't from around here... we missed the train" and then this whole rabble goes quiet and, with eyes the size of saucers, tumbles away from the third floor. The ones in back are pushing the ones in front. Panic! Not understanding anything, I close the door. And only seeing myself in the mirror do I begin to understand the reason for what happened... The thing is, I had returned from fishing the day before. The catch was just right. That's exactly what I was gutting when the doorbell rang. A two-meter buff guy, bald-shaven, with three-day stubble, in a blood-splattered tank top, with a cleaver and blood-stained hands :)\
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Women as they are.
A Moscow acquaintance has a younger sister, a girl of rare, phenomenal beauty. She realized her uniqueness back in school, but believed that for complete perfection, a few small touches were still missing.
The story itself. At 18, Nastya was hit by a car. Very badly: she was thrown into the oncoming lane, and an oncoming car drove right over her skull at full speed. Blood, shock, brains smeared on the asphalt, a sleepless night for the resuscitation team and neurosurgeons. To the doctors' credit, they did the impossible, not only saving her life but fully restoring both appearance and functionality. But at that moment, the girl hovered between life and death for over a day—much closer to the latter than the former.
In the middle of the operation, the doctors decided to briefly bring the patient out of anesthesia: longer anesthesia threatened irreversible changes. And so Nastya emerges from oblivion. She remembers absolutely nothing, ringing emptiness in her head, pain in all parts of her body. She sees the ceiling of the operating room and the faces of the surgeons leaning over her. And she says:
- Size three, please. And Botox in the lips.
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Medics are special people. And their humor is special. I would even say unique. And recently I was convinced of this once again. In general, the preamble: I felt some suspicious lump in my chest, and immediately all sorts of horrors entered my head, especially since a colleague my age (29) recently died of cancer... I went to the doctor; he looked and said—yes, something is clearly wrong there, looks like a tumor, need to do a full examination, anything can happen. I actually start shaking, after which the doctor (a man around 40) asks sympathetically:
- Excuse me, of course it's none of my business, but you seem to be upset about something?
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I think this story can be categorized as—extreme audacity.
My acquaintance opened a small children's clothing store; naturally, she got into debt, every penny was accounted for, the appearance etc. of every piece of clothing was in her memory, and then a few days after opening—a theft. They stole pants of one size, a jacket, and something else, a sweater I think, well basically enough to dress a child. My acquaintance grieved; she didn't know what to do, although the money wasn't much, it was hurtful to tears. And then after a couple of days, a lady appears with those stolen clothes (the acquaintance remembers the clothes, such ones hadn't been sold yet, they only had time to steal them) and declares—"You see, they didn't fit, could you exchange them for another size..."
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I heard a story from the participant himself. This was in the mid-90s. There was some event on some square in St. Petersburg. Plenty of students, a concert is planned after the event. There are VERY many people, pressing in from all sides so that you can't even lift an arm.
And he had a newspaper folded in four in his back jeans pocket, which were being given away for free at the metro at that time. The pocket was noticeably bulging.
And so. In the words of the participant.
I feel someone reaching into my back pocket, and I can't move—so squeezed in. And I whisper back: "There's a newspaper there!"
In response (whispering): "Thank you!"
:)))
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A long story, but I liked it:
Yesterday, the corpse of a cow was found in the center of city N. But first—about events from 2 years ago (it will be funnier to read about the cow later).
So, Story №1
You'll answer for the goat...
The occasion happened in summer, exactly during the days of a special event in the city with the arrival of big personas. All services were on high alert; the day before, the city was practically licked clean and planted with flowers. The animal control service (ACS) was also given a clear task: "If we see even one stray dog—you're fired to [censored]."
The task was solved by launching the SOE plan (system of [censored] notification—one (!) phone call is made to the zoo and information about the planned cleanup action is leaked as a "big secret," with special emphasis on the fact that they only called her alone out of friendship, so she should hide her dogs and tell no one anything. And that's it. In 2 hours the city is clean). The SOE plan has its own side effects. Then for another whole month journalists bash the cruelty of the authorities in all media, listing the number of dog victims and injured wide-eyed children. And we sit and laugh. Because we know the truth about HOW the dogs were removed from the streets by the time of the holiday.
Then you can calmly patrol the streets along the routes of the motorcades and disperse "stray" pet dogs.
I got distracted...
And it just had to happen that a goat jumped out onto the main street exactly on the route of the government motorcade and was hit by a car!
The corpse was promptly picked up, and that's where the "problems" began—what to do with this goat next?
To remove the goat for disposal, the veterinary service (VS) must provide a certificate that the deceased goat was vaccinated against 4 diseases, otherwise it won't be accepted. But here is the trouble: before death, the goat didn't have time to report the presence of necessary vaccinations (mainly anthrax - note), nor its residential address.
And then the VS makes a decision brilliant in its idiocy—it gives an instruction to the ACS to remove it for disposal as a stray dog! For added convincingness, the goat's horns were sawn off. Waiting until the end of the working day at the same disposal plant, the ACS, with a bottle of vodka for the watchman, unloaded the "hornless dog" at the disposal plant.
Then the VS is struck by inspiration a second time!
An owner might be found and demand explanations as to what happened to his property! Physical evidence is needed. They call the ACS, demanding the goat back. The latter explain that they won't go for the goat because:
1) 2) 3)
The goat does not exist. The goat was submitted in documents as a dog.
The document was issued by them on a strict reporting form, by the way.
The watchman is already drunk as a lord and won't open up
4)
No one is stupid enough to dig through corpses in the dark at night looking for a goat.
The VS is struck by inspiration a third time! They draw up an act "About what happened" and write a letter to the police: "We request that you establish the identity of the owner of the goat hit on such-and-such date at the intersection of such-and-such streets."
The next day frankly resembled a madhouse.
The director of the disposal plant was finding out from everyone—where the hornless goat came from.
The cops were finding out from VS and ACS who hit whom, asking to clarify the number of the car that hit the pedestrian, and why the driver—the owner of the vehicle—was called a goat in the official letter. The owner of the goat was found; he came "with an attack" to the VS and caused a total shitstorm there. According to the owner, it was the best goat in the whole world and turned out to be super pedigree, expensive, beloved, etc. etc.
VS calls ACS and suggests they take part in negotiations, since the latter's experience in communicating with [censored] is practically non-existent, and they messed up the goat together. They had to answer for the goat.
People from the UVD arrived at the same time. In the presence of the cops, the owner of the goat immediately remembered that the Russian language consists of more than just swear words. And the ACS representative, not knowing why himself, probably out of fear (or perhaps due to the nightly wake for the innocently killed goat), lets slip one of the "trump" clichés often helping ACS when communicating with zoo[censored]: "So your goat, you say? How wonderful that you found us on your own! Here is the letter—we were already about to put out a search warrant! The thing is, your goat hit a veeeeeery expensive government foreign car. He just called and asked to tell the respected police officers that according to preliminary calculations, the damage caused by the goat amounts to up to 400 thousand rubles. He asked for the owner to stay; they'll be coming for him soon. So you'll answer for the goat!"
Listening to this nonsense, people's faces changed. VS slid under the table—over years of close cooperation with ACS he had gotten used to even worse things; the cop's face stretched and he frantically tried to make any sense of it at all; and the poor goat-owner rapidly turned from crimson-red to pale-gray and asked for the toilet. He never returned from the toilet.
He bolted [censored].
The cop said: "No, I've heard you're all [censored] here, but to this extent?"
VS said: "And if he hadn't fallen for it, what would we have done?"
ACS said: "Why don't we just go to the neighboring cafe and drink some beer? Let's commemorate the little goat."
In the cafe, however, ACS whispered in VS's ear: "And if he hadn't fallen for it, then YOU would have answered for the goat. We were hauling a dog to the disposal plant."
Story №2
About the cow...
Thursday, March 13th Place of action - ACS
Damn those devils for answering the phone 2 minutes before the end of the working day! We had sworn off it! Now the working day (for the umpteenth time) faces the prospect of smoothly transitioning into a working night!
On the other end of the phone, a [censored] voice asked: "Are you the ones who handle corpse collection?"
- Yes, we are.
- City Emergency Service. Please take a request. In the center of the city square next to a cafe lies the corpse of a cow. Who took the request?
- I did, [censored]. Thanks for the call.
I call VS. Report. I hear: "[Censored]! Where do you find them, [censored]?"
We laugh.
The goat came to mind. Over the phone we sketched a plan for further actions, which actually consisted of me going to this park to verify the real existence of a dead cow in the city center, where there is no private sector at all within a 5 km radius. I go. I find the cow.
The funniest part—people walk past, glance briefly at the cow and keep moving. Well yeah! What am I even surprised about? After all, dead cows in the city center are a common sight!
19-30 I call VS. Report. Gently remind them that:
farm animals are exclusively their competence;
of course, one could assume it's a very large Chernobyl dog, but we won't be able to load it into our cars or unload it, and I won't sign up for dismemberment in the city center;
yes, I know I'm a faggot, but it's time to move to a more constructive conversation considering past mistakes.
20-30 Decided that the following must be done:
- call duty doctors at the vet lab for an immediate study of part of the cow for anthrax (to issue a vet certificate for disposal);
- involve the head of the district administration to solve the issue of finding a tow truck, its unobstructed passage to the cow, loading the cow, delivering it to the disposal plant under our escort, unloading the cow;
- involve the environmental protection committee (for what the hell—I don't know, but I think for protecting that very environment from a dead cow).
21-30 We arrive at VS. Call everyone, send faxes in pursuit.
22-00 A duty vet from the lab was found and said an ear needs to be brought.
23-00 We are in the park. Cut off a cow's ear, took it to the lab.
23-45 Arrived at VS to coordinate the actions of services for the evacuation of the cow.
Received 2 faxograms.
1- The head of the K** district administration informed us that by his order it was established that the cow lies 1 m beyond the border of his district and we need to contact the L*** district.
2- The environmental protection committee informed us that the presence of a cow's corpse in the park cannot in any way have a negative impact on the environment provided its timely removal from this very environment, which they wholeheartedly wish for us.
00-00 We are [censored] in the L*** district. Decided to wait for the analysis result, then think about how to act further.
Friday, March 14th
00-45 Our vigilant "better halves," not having waited for us for dinner, brought food.
01-00 Went to a billiard hall to kill time so as not to fall asleep. Visited the cow on the way. It's lying there, the bastard.
03-30 Received the expertise results.
04-30 Decided to chip in from our own pockets.
5-00 park.
Reached the head of the L*** district so he could give the command to let us in and pay for tow truck services from our own funds
6-00 Entered the park.
The cow is gone. They stole the cow!!!! We have a quiet hysteria.
6-15 Called in turn the heads of the K** and L** district administrations. Both were haggard. Firstly, we didn't let them sleep; secondly, they spent the whole night barking at each other—defining the borders of their administrative districts.
However, learning about the absence of the cow, both became very lively in asking—what kind of weed were we smoking?
To which we put forward our own suggestion. Maybe the two of them chipped in and secretly dragged the cow to the P*** district? Just in case, called back the lab to ask if they really brought a cow's ear at night? Was there even a cow?
6-20 Found the hooves. VS suggested making amulets out of them in memory of what happened [censored]. ACS suggested hanging a pair of hooves on each person's groin—to walk around the city jingling as a reward for the work done.
Eh, I love my city!
Mikhail Afanasyevich Bulgakov was a doctor by profession, but became famous as a writer. This is what happens when a doctor has legible handwriting.
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A curious blunder happened in the government yesterday: money allocated for healthcare was accidentally spent on healthcare.
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I discovered a nasty property of my mobile phone. It's off, the battery is dead, but the bastard still finds the strength to make sure the alarm goes off.
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Once, by accident, Old Man Hottabych caught a golden fish. And so they look at each other in silence—it's a stalemate situation.
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Today I'm sitting at my computer... A spider crawled out of an old plastic computer speaker, looked around, and crawled back into the speaker... My first thought—Dr. Web... Checking for updates..
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A blunder happened today... I went to an official reception in honor of Fiji's Independence Day. The dress code said smart casual. I threw on the first sports polo shirt I found with "London 2012 Olympic Games" written on the belly and "United Kingdom Polo Team" on the back.
When, for the fifth time at the reception, words were spoken about celebrating not just independence, but FREEDOM from Great Britain, I felt uncomfortable... And when warriors in national costumes jumped onto the stage and started dancing dances with spears and axes, I preferred to put on my jacket...
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ACCURATE FORECAST
Yesterday, that is 19.09, in the cartoons section there was a work titled "The Cycle of News in Nature"; this topic reminded me of a real story told by a neighbor. In the second half of the nineties, while he was a student at one of the radio engineering institutes, he did an internship at a paging company. For example, let's call it "Page-Telecom".
For those who don't remember, many companies, besides transmitting personal messages like "Vasya, call mom" and "Petya, come out to the yard to drink," had additional services broadcasting exchange rates, weather, traffic jams on the city's main roads, etc.
Some will surely ask: why didn't they use the Internet in the primitive situation described below? Well, let me tell you, back then the Internet was, to put it mildly, not quite like it is now. I think even the well-known Yandex didn't exist then. And some of my classmates thought that the Internet was a secret Pentagon network and that to get in, you had to be a professional hacker.
January 1st, people are slowly "recovering" from New Year celebrations, company operators are "recovering" from transmitting endless "Happy New Year" messages. This very information needs to be entered into the system responsible for transmitting news information. Everything is clear with traffic jams; the GIBDD is vigilant and informing. (Of course they'd be vigilant on the morning of January 1st). Exchange rates, oil price growth trends, etc., are learned from a radio station broadcast. The weather is learned from the same radio station, only the forecast isn't being transmitted. They tuned into other radio stations—there's no weather anywhere; probably the meteorologists are still celebrating. But something must be transmitted; some picky clients turn up, saying "the service is paid for, but information isn't arriving, I'll sue, you'll pay a penalty." For a couple of hours they turned the radio receiver tuning knob and waited for the weather. They were as silent as partisans. The person left in charge goes to the window, looks at the sky, opens the vent, sticks his hand out the window. He says: "write—it's minus 3 now, cloudy, north wind three meters per second, minus 10 expected in the evening, black ice." They entered this into the system, and messages were sent to subscribers.
The time for the next radio news arrives. Announcer: "...and now for the weather. It is currently minus 3.... minus 10 expected, black ice." The office almost in unison: "Holy crap, Petrovich, how did you guess???" The radio announcer continues: "We thank the company Page-Telecom for providing the weather forecast."
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For sale: Toyota Land Cruiser 105 SUV, 2005 release, excellent condition, prepared for long expeditions. Price — 200 dollars. Self-pickup from N 64° 19,178 E 74° 25,610. Landmark — a radio station antenna sticking out of the swamp. Condition of sale: you must later tell us how you managed to get it out of there.
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Two security guards are standing at the checkout in a supermarket, and they wave their hands at everyone who leaves through the checkout. At the same time, with a smile, they repeat: - The Teletubbies say goodbye. The Teletubbies say goodbye! To the question "why is that?", there was a short and clear answer: - A gambling debt is a matter of honor!
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Also from grandpa's stories. End of summer 1944, the war is nearing its logical finale. The Germans have nothing left to gain, but they fight brutally. Ours, however, are no different. There is a brief lull on the front; a tank brigade is stationed in a fairly large Polish village. This village had a large railway station and was located at the crossroads of important roads. Columns of infantry, armored vehicles, and supplies were constantly moving through it. As grandpa recalled, because of this, there were more SMERSH agents and security officers in the village than ordinary soldiers.
Evening. At the edge of the village stands a huge, very tall and spreading oak tree. Two tank officers are walking. They are arguing about who shoots better.
- What are you telling me, I got the "Voroshilov Sharpshooter" back in '38!
- Big deal! I've been hunting with my father since I was seven; we hit squirrels in the eye!
- In the eye, yeah! Do you dare to hit that crow over there?- and he points to a crow sitting on the aforementioned oak. The distance is considerable.
- Easy! Hey, soldier, give me your rifle!- he addresses some random soldier. He cycles the bolt, aims... Bam!
The crow lets out a contemptuous "Caw" and flies away. The crown of the oak stirred, and a German in a camouflage jumpsuit with a face smeared green fell to the ground. A fatal wound on his chest... A portable radio station was found on the tree, which he used to transmit messages about the movements of our troops. A stupid death for a saboteur...
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Inspired by stories about missionaries and other door-to-door visitors.
Once someone rang my doorbell too. I was in a lyrical mood. Automatically, I go over, open it, and see before me half of a gypsy camp.
Something starts sounding like "we aren't from around here... we missed the train" and then this whole rabble goes quiet and, with eyes the size of saucers, tumbles away from the third floor. The ones in back are pushing the ones in front. Panic! Not understanding anything, I close the door. And only seeing myself in the mirror do I begin to understand the reason for what happened... The thing is, I had returned from fishing the day before. The catch was just right. That's exactly what I was gutting when the doorbell rang. A two-meter buff guy, bald-shaven, with three-day stubble, in a blood-splattered tank top, with a cleaver and blood-stained hands :)\
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Women as they are.
A Moscow acquaintance has a younger sister, a girl of rare, phenomenal beauty. She realized her uniqueness back in school, but believed that for complete perfection, a few small touches were still missing.
The story itself. At 18, Nastya was hit by a car. Very badly: she was thrown into the oncoming lane, and an oncoming car drove right over her skull at full speed. Blood, shock, brains smeared on the asphalt, a sleepless night for the resuscitation team and neurosurgeons. To the doctors' credit, they did the impossible, not only saving her life but fully restoring both appearance and functionality. But at that moment, the girl hovered between life and death for over a day—much closer to the latter than the former.
In the middle of the operation, the doctors decided to briefly bring the patient out of anesthesia: longer anesthesia threatened irreversible changes. And so Nastya emerges from oblivion. She remembers absolutely nothing, ringing emptiness in her head, pain in all parts of her body. She sees the ceiling of the operating room and the faces of the surgeons leaning over her. And she says:
- Size three, please. And Botox in the lips.
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Medics are special people. And their humor is special. I would even say unique. And recently I was convinced of this once again. In general, the preamble: I felt some suspicious lump in my chest, and immediately all sorts of horrors entered my head, especially since a colleague my age (29) recently died of cancer... I went to the doctor; he looked and said—yes, something is clearly wrong there, looks like a tumor, need to do a full examination, anything can happen. I actually start shaking, after which the doctor (a man around 40) asks sympathetically:
- Excuse me, of course it's none of my business, but you seem to be upset about something?
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I think this story can be categorized as—extreme audacity.
My acquaintance opened a small children's clothing store; naturally, she got into debt, every penny was accounted for, the appearance etc. of every piece of clothing was in her memory, and then a few days after opening—a theft. They stole pants of one size, a jacket, and something else, a sweater I think, well basically enough to dress a child. My acquaintance grieved; she didn't know what to do, although the money wasn't much, it was hurtful to tears. And then after a couple of days, a lady appears with those stolen clothes (the acquaintance remembers the clothes, such ones hadn't been sold yet, they only had time to steal them) and declares—"You see, they didn't fit, could you exchange them for another size..."
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I heard a story from the participant himself. This was in the mid-90s. There was some event on some square in St. Petersburg. Plenty of students, a concert is planned after the event. There are VERY many people, pressing in from all sides so that you can't even lift an arm.
And he had a newspaper folded in four in his back jeans pocket, which were being given away for free at the metro at that time. The pocket was noticeably bulging.
And so. In the words of the participant.
I feel someone reaching into my back pocket, and I can't move—so squeezed in. And I whisper back: "There's a newspaper there!"
In response (whispering): "Thank you!"
:)))
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A long story, but I liked it:
Yesterday, the corpse of a cow was found in the center of city N. But first—about events from 2 years ago (it will be funnier to read about the cow later).
So, Story №1
You'll answer for the goat...
The occasion happened in summer, exactly during the days of a special event in the city with the arrival of big personas. All services were on high alert; the day before, the city was practically licked clean and planted with flowers. The animal control service (ACS) was also given a clear task: "If we see even one stray dog—you're fired to [censored]."
The task was solved by launching the SOE plan (system of [censored] notification—one (!) phone call is made to the zoo and information about the planned cleanup action is leaked as a "big secret," with special emphasis on the fact that they only called her alone out of friendship, so she should hide her dogs and tell no one anything. And that's it. In 2 hours the city is clean). The SOE plan has its own side effects. Then for another whole month journalists bash the cruelty of the authorities in all media, listing the number of dog victims and injured wide-eyed children. And we sit and laugh. Because we know the truth about HOW the dogs were removed from the streets by the time of the holiday.
Then you can calmly patrol the streets along the routes of the motorcades and disperse "stray" pet dogs.
I got distracted...
And it just had to happen that a goat jumped out onto the main street exactly on the route of the government motorcade and was hit by a car!
The corpse was promptly picked up, and that's where the "problems" began—what to do with this goat next?
To remove the goat for disposal, the veterinary service (VS) must provide a certificate that the deceased goat was vaccinated against 4 diseases, otherwise it won't be accepted. But here is the trouble: before death, the goat didn't have time to report the presence of necessary vaccinations (mainly anthrax - note), nor its residential address.
And then the VS makes a decision brilliant in its idiocy—it gives an instruction to the ACS to remove it for disposal as a stray dog! For added convincingness, the goat's horns were sawn off. Waiting until the end of the working day at the same disposal plant, the ACS, with a bottle of vodka for the watchman, unloaded the "hornless dog" at the disposal plant.
Then the VS is struck by inspiration a second time!
An owner might be found and demand explanations as to what happened to his property! Physical evidence is needed. They call the ACS, demanding the goat back. The latter explain that they won't go for the goat because:
1) 2) 3)
The goat does not exist. The goat was submitted in documents as a dog.
The document was issued by them on a strict reporting form, by the way.
The watchman is already drunk as a lord and won't open up
4)
No one is stupid enough to dig through corpses in the dark at night looking for a goat.
The VS is struck by inspiration a third time! They draw up an act "About what happened" and write a letter to the police: "We request that you establish the identity of the owner of the goat hit on such-and-such date at the intersection of such-and-such streets."
The next day frankly resembled a madhouse.
The director of the disposal plant was finding out from everyone—where the hornless goat came from.
The cops were finding out from VS and ACS who hit whom, asking to clarify the number of the car that hit the pedestrian, and why the driver—the owner of the vehicle—was called a goat in the official letter. The owner of the goat was found; he came "with an attack" to the VS and caused a total shitstorm there. According to the owner, it was the best goat in the whole world and turned out to be super pedigree, expensive, beloved, etc. etc.
VS calls ACS and suggests they take part in negotiations, since the latter's experience in communicating with [censored] is practically non-existent, and they messed up the goat together. They had to answer for the goat.
People from the UVD arrived at the same time. In the presence of the cops, the owner of the goat immediately remembered that the Russian language consists of more than just swear words. And the ACS representative, not knowing why himself, probably out of fear (or perhaps due to the nightly wake for the innocently killed goat), lets slip one of the "trump" clichés often helping ACS when communicating with zoo[censored]: "So your goat, you say? How wonderful that you found us on your own! Here is the letter—we were already about to put out a search warrant! The thing is, your goat hit a veeeeeery expensive government foreign car. He just called and asked to tell the respected police officers that according to preliminary calculations, the damage caused by the goat amounts to up to 400 thousand rubles. He asked for the owner to stay; they'll be coming for him soon. So you'll answer for the goat!"
Listening to this nonsense, people's faces changed. VS slid under the table—over years of close cooperation with ACS he had gotten used to even worse things; the cop's face stretched and he frantically tried to make any sense of it at all; and the poor goat-owner rapidly turned from crimson-red to pale-gray and asked for the toilet. He never returned from the toilet.
He bolted [censored].
The cop said: "No, I've heard you're all [censored] here, but to this extent?"
VS said: "And if he hadn't fallen for it, what would we have done?"
ACS said: "Why don't we just go to the neighboring cafe and drink some beer? Let's commemorate the little goat."
In the cafe, however, ACS whispered in VS's ear: "And if he hadn't fallen for it, then YOU would have answered for the goat. We were hauling a dog to the disposal plant."
Story №2
About the cow...
Thursday, March 13th Place of action - ACS
Damn those devils for answering the phone 2 minutes before the end of the working day! We had sworn off it! Now the working day (for the umpteenth time) faces the prospect of smoothly transitioning into a working night!
On the other end of the phone, a [censored] voice asked: "Are you the ones who handle corpse collection?"
- Yes, we are.
- City Emergency Service. Please take a request. In the center of the city square next to a cafe lies the corpse of a cow. Who took the request?
- I did, [censored]. Thanks for the call.
I call VS. Report. I hear: "[Censored]! Where do you find them, [censored]?"
We laugh.
The goat came to mind. Over the phone we sketched a plan for further actions, which actually consisted of me going to this park to verify the real existence of a dead cow in the city center, where there is no private sector at all within a 5 km radius. I go. I find the cow.
The funniest part—people walk past, glance briefly at the cow and keep moving. Well yeah! What am I even surprised about? After all, dead cows in the city center are a common sight!
19-30 I call VS. Report. Gently remind them that:
farm animals are exclusively their competence;
of course, one could assume it's a very large Chernobyl dog, but we won't be able to load it into our cars or unload it, and I won't sign up for dismemberment in the city center;
yes, I know I'm a faggot, but it's time to move to a more constructive conversation considering past mistakes.
20-30 Decided that the following must be done:
- call duty doctors at the vet lab for an immediate study of part of the cow for anthrax (to issue a vet certificate for disposal);
- involve the head of the district administration to solve the issue of finding a tow truck, its unobstructed passage to the cow, loading the cow, delivering it to the disposal plant under our escort, unloading the cow;
- involve the environmental protection committee (for what the hell—I don't know, but I think for protecting that very environment from a dead cow).
21-30 We arrive at VS. Call everyone, send faxes in pursuit.
22-00 A duty vet from the lab was found and said an ear needs to be brought.
23-00 We are in the park. Cut off a cow's ear, took it to the lab.
23-45 Arrived at VS to coordinate the actions of services for the evacuation of the cow.
Received 2 faxograms.
1- The head of the K** district administration informed us that by his order it was established that the cow lies 1 m beyond the border of his district and we need to contact the L*** district.
2- The environmental protection committee informed us that the presence of a cow's corpse in the park cannot in any way have a negative impact on the environment provided its timely removal from this very environment, which they wholeheartedly wish for us.
00-00 We are [censored] in the L*** district. Decided to wait for the analysis result, then think about how to act further.
Friday, March 14th
00-45 Our vigilant "better halves," not having waited for us for dinner, brought food.
01-00 Went to a billiard hall to kill time so as not to fall asleep. Visited the cow on the way. It's lying there, the bastard.
03-30 Received the expertise results.
04-30 Decided to chip in from our own pockets.
5-00 park.
Reached the head of the L*** district so he could give the command to let us in and pay for tow truck services from our own funds
6-00 Entered the park.
The cow is gone. They stole the cow!!!! We have a quiet hysteria.
6-15 Called in turn the heads of the K** and L** district administrations. Both were haggard. Firstly, we didn't let them sleep; secondly, they spent the whole night barking at each other—defining the borders of their administrative districts.
However, learning about the absence of the cow, both became very lively in asking—what kind of weed were we smoking?
To which we put forward our own suggestion. Maybe the two of them chipped in and secretly dragged the cow to the P*** district? Just in case, called back the lab to ask if they really brought a cow's ear at night? Was there even a cow?
6-20 Found the hooves. VS suggested making amulets out of them in memory of what happened [censored]. ACS suggested hanging a pair of hooves on each person's groin—to walk around the city jingling as a reward for the work done.
Eh, I love my city!