Ment
Auto-translated
anekdot.ru:
A passenger who tried to fly away by his own means was detained at one of the airports in Holland.
------------
In an Odessa school:
- Monya, what do you know about Archimedes' principle?
- My Uncle Fima drowned for violating that law.
-------
The sign "Do not enter, it will kill!", understood literally in all the world's languages, simply means to a Russian person: "Just be careful there once you get in!"
------
The Tsar is holding a military review. At the end, he asks the soldiers if they are satisfied with everything. Recruit Rabinovich complains:
- Your Majesty, I am Jewish, and therefore I am forbidden from living where I want, attending university, and my family is starving.
The Tsar says:
- And you think it's easy for me? The ministers steal, anarchists throw bombs at me...
- Your Majesty, let's just bolt to America together!
----------
- It's a good thing I wasn't born in the 17th century.
- Why?
- I would have kicked the bucket long ago.
---------
In one of the foreign screen adaptations of "War and Peace," Napoleon surveys Moscow from a hill and sees the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour, built in the 1830s to commemorate the victory over himself.
--------
Two Odessa residents meet:
- Semyon Markovich, my dear, you haven't forgotten that you owe me fifty dollars?
- Not yet, Lazar Solomonovich, but give me a little more time, and I will indeed forget about it.
--------
A Mercedes pulls up to a hardware store. A distinguished man gets out and approaches the seller:
- Do you have plastic crosses for laying floor tiles?
- Yes, of course.
- Give me 20-30 thousand...
- Why do you need so many?
- Well, the boss's bees died—he ordered them to be buried in a Christian manner.
---------
The year 2008. The newly elected President of the RF, Dmitry Medvedev, caught a Golden Fish and made three wishes: Bilan's victory at Eurovision, victory over the Canadians in hockey, and victory over the Dutch in football. The fish granted everything and asked: "Why are your wishes so strange? Usually, tsars and presidents ask to win a war, build a new capital, or make their state great." Medvedev: "Wait, that was an option?!!!"
---------
Did you know that superstitious surgeons leave a coin in the patient's stomach at the end of an operation so that they will return again?...
--------
- Dad, if you fill an animal skin with something, does it become a stuffed animal?
The father, glancing at his wife in a fur coat:
- Correct, son, a stuffed animal.
----------
- The Serpent regretted tempting Adam and Eve.
- Why?
- When Eve ate the apple, she saw in the Serpent not only an animal, but also a belt, a wallet, and a handbag.
---------
Labor? It turned a monkey (!) into a human?
Laziness turned a human into a monkey.
A hardworking monkey climbed a tree for a banana.
But a lazy one took a stick and knocked the hardworking one down. Along with the bananas.
Having eaten her fill of bananas, she thought—it's good to be human.
-------
A visitor climbed into the enclosure to feed the tiger, and it must be admitted, he succeeded.
---------
An acquaintance told me this situation; he said it happened back in his student days. In their pedagogical institute's dean's office, there was a secretary—a lady with a temperament of medium rat-like own—named Galina Gavrilovna. A struggling student on the verge of expulsion was running around the institute like a madman, trying to "pass" everything he could in a short time, as he really didn't want to be expelled. And so, in a rush, he bursts into the dean's office for another exam sheet and loudly calls out to the secretary: "GORILLA GOVNILOVNA!!..." The secretary's huge sad eyes and the stifled laughter of the entire dean's office signaled to the poor student that he had made a mistake. Deciding to fix the situation in one go, he blurted out: "Oh, I mean, GOVNILA GORILLOVNA..." The dean's office collapsed.
The student, by the way, finished the institute normally, but he still remembers the secretary's eyes with deep remorse...
-------
A FOURTH-year student at an industry university solved a physics problem poorly.
They started analyzing it... - is this the volume of the cylinder? - well, yes...
- And what does the volume of a cylinder equal?
- "two-pi-r"
(pause due to some confusion) - That's the circumference...
- Then it's "two-pi-r-squared"
- ...
FURSENKA!, this "specialist" will be running a nuclear reactor at the control panel in two years (because there is simply no one else) — do you think your family will manage to move far enough away?!
:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D
---------
An acquaintance told me this at work today. From the first person:
I bought a "Far Eastern" salad in a plastic box. I came home, dressed it with mayonnaise, and was about to eat. Then my cat approaches me, clearly wanting to smell this masterpiece of culinary art.
I put him on the table and pushed the container closer – here, look. I don't mind.
The cat approached, started smelling, and then suddenly and sharply went "Buuuuuueeeeeeee" right into the salad.
I sit there thinking, maybe it wasn't fresh, and it's a good thing the cat threw up in there?
----------
TRANSLATION PECULIARITIES.
Israel. Driving to work. A cop on a motorcycle is ahead. Everything is standard, siren in place. There is a large inscription on the big black luggage rack. I read it. Literally: "Stay away from me!"
Correctly — KEEP YOUR DISTANCE!
I wish every Russian traffic cop's car had such an inscription!
---------
I remember my first husband had a friend—a miserable young man, his mother died early... they lived together with his father in a large three-room apartment in Mnevniki. The son was into "politics"—fighting the regime—while the dad was a big boss... rarely appeared at home... and only hung out when he was on a binge. And so we visit him, and jumping around the apartment is... a wild hare. A big one, damn it. We say to him: oh, wow! Cool! How long have you had a hare?
- About six months already!
- Do you take him for walks?
- Why? The apartment is large, there's room to jump..
- And what do you feed him?
- I get rabbit food at the pet store, and also carrots-beets type of thing...
He takes it himself...
- And where does he shit in your place?
- Why? Does he have to? Ahhhh... well, he shits somewhere... I haven't stepped in any crap yet... probably DIGS somewhere...
--------
Once, an elderly professor from our department was given a large gas pistol for his birthday, skillfully made to look like a .45 caliber Colt. We were all slightly tipsy after the departmental feast—the department is predominantly male—and this Colt started passing from hand to hand. My turn came to play with it. They gave it to me for half an hour. I examined it, turned it over, clicked it—well, that was about it, my imagination ran dry... not like I'm going to scare the cleaners with it. But returning it before the time was up also felt kind of a pity. In short, I tucked it into my belt, under my jacket—and went about my business.
And in the corridor, the head of the neighboring department stops me. He leads me into his office. We sat down and discussed some pressing matters. Then the conversation drifted to more general topics. And then he asks me: tell me, what is the secret of your popularity among students, eh? Tell me!
And suddenly I see that his facial expression changes slightly, and his eyes slowly widen and focus somewhere around my waist. Naively deciding that my fly was open, I looked down—and immediately understood the cause of his confusion. The flaps of my unbuttoned uniform jacket had gradually parted, and from behind the trouser belt, accordingly, a huge Colt handle protruded. And then the head of department said gloomily:
- Uh... well, okay, you don't have to answer. It's clear enough.
-----------
I live in Tel Aviv. The local people are wild, zero upbringing, which I was convinced of once again. My daughter and I went for a bike ride through the park. The park is huge; we rode along the paths from our house all the way to the sea, the weather was great, the views magnificent. On the way back, there's a place where the bike path comes right up to a parking lot; on the path itself are bollards, quite close to each other, and the path between them is half asphalt, half dirt, with a small curb. The ground is wet after a light rain. From the side of the parking lot, some own-faced scumbag comes riding straight at us on a scooter, first to my daughter, asking something without any ceremonies like "excuse me" or "please," but she ignored him, and this scumbag pushes straight toward me... for me, passing between the bollards is a whole other story, and here it's wet, narrow, and this scumbag is cruising... well, I tumbled off my bike...... I fell on my hands, stood up, but!! This scumbag still reached me, and still asked his question while I was lying on the ground... what is that, some nonsense, while someone is lying on the ground, it's the perfect time to ask questions...
--------
A story about "Do a good deed and it will catch up with you." Once upon a time, long ago, I happened to work as a welder in a large organization. There was piecework pay there. The rates were such that if you worked honestly, you'd be guaranteed to starve to death within 2 months. Therefore, everyone engaged in padding the numbers, but they slogged away without even lifting their masks from their faces. Now for the story itself: Since it was during the communist era, all production sites had student interns who simply had to be taught the trade. We had such a student. And the most interesting thing is that he really wanted to learn welding—he passionately desired it. But piecework... No one wanted to waste time training the poor student; everyone drove him away, shouting—"don't get in the way of work, you radish." I felt sorry for him, especially since not so long ago I was a student myself. So I gave him some advice. Listen, student, during lunch you aren't in anyone's way; take the holder, electrodes, and go to the scrap metal pile—weld as much as you want there and you won't be in anyone's way. Fortunately, back then no one counted either electrodes or energy. From then on, everything settled; the student sparkled with his welder on the scrap pile, didn't bother anyone, and thanked me at every convenient opportunity. Everyone was happy. The idyll continued until it came time to load the scrap metal for smelting. In short, they set up wagons for loading, brought in a crane, slung the load, started lifting... but no luck, the pile doesn't even think about moving. What the hell, maybe it got caught on something. They go to check and are quietly stunned. The whole pile is WELDED together, moreover, every single piece is welded to another. The management isn't just indignant; they simply cannot understand who, and more importantly WHY, did this. A scandal brews, arguments begin, and it turns out that this was the work of the student, who immediately and without any remorse says that I practically forced him to do it. In short, the result: All the workers are laughing and teasing at every opportunity, and I "die" with a gasoline cutter on that ill-fated pile, cursing both the student and my own kindness with the foulest words. Damn, I spent three days cutting it into pieces, the damn conscientious student. Well, at least they didn't charge us for the wagon downtime. So much for a good deed....
--------
ABOUT FEFA THE LAMB
Muskoxen are lambs that are the size of an ox. The last major remnant of the Ice Age. Back then, many things around were very large, fierce, horned, and toothy. These lambs got used to defending themselves against creatures compared to which a saber-toothed tiger is a small kitten. They would still fight back now, but all their nightmares died out long ago, except for the smallest one—man. The defense method is apparently inherited genetically, because it's quite absurd. Upon the appearance of a hunter, muskoxen instantly form a tight circle; the horns of the most powerful rams protrude outward as a solid palisade, thick and curved. The spirited youth invariably end up inside this ring along with the ewes, even if they try to poke their heads out. Those who are stronger push all the little ones back and hold the front as best they can. A proven method, but a blessing for the hunter. They shot the muskoxen calmly, one by one, for as many cartridges as they had. The rams held out steadfastly, even until the end. Muskox herds were wiped out across Canada in their time, then they began to be restored from surviving Russian ones. In our country, it's sometimes just great that nothing is ever properly brought to an end.
But that's just the prologue; the tale is ahead. One day my son requested one. Children love scary tales. It's as if they feel what kind of planet they were born on. I don't know what advanced pedagogical thought thinks about this, but my childhood company grew up on unadapted texts of Andersen's fairy tales. They are creepy even for an adult to read, and easier for a child. Girls perhaps need to be protected from a young age with pink nonsense—they will become all-knowing by youth anyway. But it's better to explain to a boy earlier that there are the stupidest situations in life when you need to stand where you stand, even if you are capable of running away faster than those around you.
I told my son then about muskoxen, and about the beasts that surrounded them, and about the people who wiped them out. But a tale should still embellish reality. Into my narrative, a lamb named Fefa crept in on its own. He was the smallest in this herd, but already very large, shaggy, and clumsy. Fefa ended up in the center of the shot-down herd and survived under the bodies—there must be some kind of meaning in this ram's stubbornness.
I told that tale many years ago and long forgot about it. And before New Year's, I was sorting through my son's childhood drawings with him and came across a strange comic—a huge graceful beast with thick horns is tracking hunters, lifts their tents on its horns, and stomps their guns into splinters. The faces of the hunters are distorted with terror; they all run for their lives as far away as possible. And a large threatening inscription in uneven letters: "FEFA HAS GROWN UP!"
---------
Yesterday I stopped near a grocery store, parked right by the entrance. Trash had accumulated in my pockets—some receipts, a cigarette pack—I gathered it and threw it in the bin.
I noticed that a 5000 ruble note had stuck to the empty cigarette pack flying into the bin. Nothing you can do; I had to climb in.
At that moment, a mother comes out of the store with a boy aged 6-7; the mother is delivering a monologue: "What will happen if you don't listen to me."
- .... and if you don't listen to me, you'll eat from the bin, like this uncle here.
The uncle pulled 5000 rubles out of the bin, straightened them, looked at them against the light, and said:
- Don't believe her, boy; a couple of months in the bins and you'll save up for a BMW.
He got into his BMW and drove away.
--------
Essay
I want to become a programmer when I grow up big, because it is a cool job and simple. That's why there are so many programmers in our time and they keep increasing.
Programmers don't need to go to school; they need to learn to read in computer language so that they can talk with the computer. I think they should be able to read too, so they know what's going on when everyone is in a panic.
Programmers must be brave so as not to be afraid when everything gets mixed up so much that no one can figure it out, or if they have to speak English in a foreign way, so they know what needs to be done.
Programmers should have good eyesight so they can see through clothes and not be afraid of secretaries, because they have to work with them. I also like the salary that programmers get. They get so much money that they don't have time to spend it all. This happens because everyone considers a programmer's job difficult, except for programmers, who know how simple it is.
There is nothing that I don't like, except that girls like programmers and everyone wants to marry them, and therefore women must be driven away so they don't interfere with work.
I hope I don't have an allergy to office dust, because I have an allergy to our dog. If I have an allergy to office dust, I won't become a programmer and will have to find a real job.
----------
An acquaintance of mine—a visiting student girl—bought herself a pretty decent smartphone. In the phone book for the contact "Dad," she set a photo of the city's chief of criminal police in uniform. For the contact "Uncle" — a photo of the district prosecutor. For the contact "Brother" — a huge OMON officer.
This phone has been stolen from her three times already, but all three times it was dropped back.
----------
A man went into the forest to relieve himself—he saw a bear...
There is no other way to start our story. My friends and I were driving to the dacha to steam in the sauna. We were traveling along the Cherlak tract of the Omsk region. I was behind the wheel, and my friends had already opened some beer. We had driven not far from the post, about 12 kilometers, when my friends needed "to relieve themselves." To my suggestion to go near the roadside, the answer given was "What are we? Completely wild?" Well yes, of course, programmers, the elite of society. In short, we turned at the nearest junction. While they dispersed for their "business," I decided to examine a pile of car tires (to take to the dacha and decorate the paths). In short, I lingered. After a few minutes, I heard a wild crash; rushing to the car, I froze.
From around the bend, at full speed, in a cloud of dust, a tank flies out and rushes toward the car. In the last meter, sacrificing a couple of birch trees, it swerves and flies past.
Apparently, it warned the column, because the following ones drove slower and turned in advance.
Five steel monsters passed by; the sixth was a BTR. A red sergeant-major rolled out of it.
First, he asked about our condition using profanity, then he asked via radio using profanity who was responsible for installing signs and barriers, cursed the first tank for speeding, and apologized using profanity. He got into the BTR and drove away.
The first word from my friends I heard only in the sauna. And somehow they no longer want to go to my dacha.
And generally, "gifts" regularly fly in from the firing range—either a blank crashes into the lake or trees in the grove fall. And that's not counting the constant roar of bursts and explosions. That's how we live...
A passenger who tried to fly away by his own means was detained at one of the airports in Holland.
------------
In an Odessa school:
- Monya, what do you know about Archimedes' principle?
- My Uncle Fima drowned for violating that law.
-------
The sign "Do not enter, it will kill!", understood literally in all the world's languages, simply means to a Russian person: "Just be careful there once you get in!"
------
The Tsar is holding a military review. At the end, he asks the soldiers if they are satisfied with everything. Recruit Rabinovich complains:
- Your Majesty, I am Jewish, and therefore I am forbidden from living where I want, attending university, and my family is starving.
The Tsar says:
- And you think it's easy for me? The ministers steal, anarchists throw bombs at me...
- Your Majesty, let's just bolt to America together!
----------
- It's a good thing I wasn't born in the 17th century.
- Why?
- I would have kicked the bucket long ago.
---------
In one of the foreign screen adaptations of "War and Peace," Napoleon surveys Moscow from a hill and sees the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour, built in the 1830s to commemorate the victory over himself.
--------
Two Odessa residents meet:
- Semyon Markovich, my dear, you haven't forgotten that you owe me fifty dollars?
- Not yet, Lazar Solomonovich, but give me a little more time, and I will indeed forget about it.
--------
A Mercedes pulls up to a hardware store. A distinguished man gets out and approaches the seller:
- Do you have plastic crosses for laying floor tiles?
- Yes, of course.
- Give me 20-30 thousand...
- Why do you need so many?
- Well, the boss's bees died—he ordered them to be buried in a Christian manner.
---------
The year 2008. The newly elected President of the RF, Dmitry Medvedev, caught a Golden Fish and made three wishes: Bilan's victory at Eurovision, victory over the Canadians in hockey, and victory over the Dutch in football. The fish granted everything and asked: "Why are your wishes so strange? Usually, tsars and presidents ask to win a war, build a new capital, or make their state great." Medvedev: "Wait, that was an option?!!!"
---------
Did you know that superstitious surgeons leave a coin in the patient's stomach at the end of an operation so that they will return again?...
--------
- Dad, if you fill an animal skin with something, does it become a stuffed animal?
The father, glancing at his wife in a fur coat:
- Correct, son, a stuffed animal.
----------
- The Serpent regretted tempting Adam and Eve.
- Why?
- When Eve ate the apple, she saw in the Serpent not only an animal, but also a belt, a wallet, and a handbag.
---------
Labor? It turned a monkey (!) into a human?
Laziness turned a human into a monkey.
A hardworking monkey climbed a tree for a banana.
But a lazy one took a stick and knocked the hardworking one down. Along with the bananas.
Having eaten her fill of bananas, she thought—it's good to be human.
-------
A visitor climbed into the enclosure to feed the tiger, and it must be admitted, he succeeded.
---------
An acquaintance told me this situation; he said it happened back in his student days. In their pedagogical institute's dean's office, there was a secretary—a lady with a temperament of medium rat-like own—named Galina Gavrilovna. A struggling student on the verge of expulsion was running around the institute like a madman, trying to "pass" everything he could in a short time, as he really didn't want to be expelled. And so, in a rush, he bursts into the dean's office for another exam sheet and loudly calls out to the secretary: "GORILLA GOVNILOVNA!!..." The secretary's huge sad eyes and the stifled laughter of the entire dean's office signaled to the poor student that he had made a mistake. Deciding to fix the situation in one go, he blurted out: "Oh, I mean, GOVNILA GORILLOVNA..." The dean's office collapsed.
The student, by the way, finished the institute normally, but he still remembers the secretary's eyes with deep remorse...
-------
A FOURTH-year student at an industry university solved a physics problem poorly.
They started analyzing it... - is this the volume of the cylinder? - well, yes...
- And what does the volume of a cylinder equal?
- "two-pi-r"
(pause due to some confusion) - That's the circumference...
- Then it's "two-pi-r-squared"
- ...
FURSENKA!, this "specialist" will be running a nuclear reactor at the control panel in two years (because there is simply no one else) — do you think your family will manage to move far enough away?!
:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D
---------
An acquaintance told me this at work today. From the first person:
I bought a "Far Eastern" salad in a plastic box. I came home, dressed it with mayonnaise, and was about to eat. Then my cat approaches me, clearly wanting to smell this masterpiece of culinary art.
I put him on the table and pushed the container closer – here, look. I don't mind.
The cat approached, started smelling, and then suddenly and sharply went "Buuuuuueeeeeeee" right into the salad.
I sit there thinking, maybe it wasn't fresh, and it's a good thing the cat threw up in there?
----------
TRANSLATION PECULIARITIES.
Israel. Driving to work. A cop on a motorcycle is ahead. Everything is standard, siren in place. There is a large inscription on the big black luggage rack. I read it. Literally: "Stay away from me!"
Correctly — KEEP YOUR DISTANCE!
I wish every Russian traffic cop's car had such an inscription!
---------
I remember my first husband had a friend—a miserable young man, his mother died early... they lived together with his father in a large three-room apartment in Mnevniki. The son was into "politics"—fighting the regime—while the dad was a big boss... rarely appeared at home... and only hung out when he was on a binge. And so we visit him, and jumping around the apartment is... a wild hare. A big one, damn it. We say to him: oh, wow! Cool! How long have you had a hare?
- About six months already!
- Do you take him for walks?
- Why? The apartment is large, there's room to jump..
- And what do you feed him?
- I get rabbit food at the pet store, and also carrots-beets type of thing...
He takes it himself...
- And where does he shit in your place?
- Why? Does he have to? Ahhhh... well, he shits somewhere... I haven't stepped in any crap yet... probably DIGS somewhere...
--------
Once, an elderly professor from our department was given a large gas pistol for his birthday, skillfully made to look like a .45 caliber Colt. We were all slightly tipsy after the departmental feast—the department is predominantly male—and this Colt started passing from hand to hand. My turn came to play with it. They gave it to me for half an hour. I examined it, turned it over, clicked it—well, that was about it, my imagination ran dry... not like I'm going to scare the cleaners with it. But returning it before the time was up also felt kind of a pity. In short, I tucked it into my belt, under my jacket—and went about my business.
And in the corridor, the head of the neighboring department stops me. He leads me into his office. We sat down and discussed some pressing matters. Then the conversation drifted to more general topics. And then he asks me: tell me, what is the secret of your popularity among students, eh? Tell me!
And suddenly I see that his facial expression changes slightly, and his eyes slowly widen and focus somewhere around my waist. Naively deciding that my fly was open, I looked down—and immediately understood the cause of his confusion. The flaps of my unbuttoned uniform jacket had gradually parted, and from behind the trouser belt, accordingly, a huge Colt handle protruded. And then the head of department said gloomily:
- Uh... well, okay, you don't have to answer. It's clear enough.
-----------
I live in Tel Aviv. The local people are wild, zero upbringing, which I was convinced of once again. My daughter and I went for a bike ride through the park. The park is huge; we rode along the paths from our house all the way to the sea, the weather was great, the views magnificent. On the way back, there's a place where the bike path comes right up to a parking lot; on the path itself are bollards, quite close to each other, and the path between them is half asphalt, half dirt, with a small curb. The ground is wet after a light rain. From the side of the parking lot, some own-faced scumbag comes riding straight at us on a scooter, first to my daughter, asking something without any ceremonies like "excuse me" or "please," but she ignored him, and this scumbag pushes straight toward me... for me, passing between the bollards is a whole other story, and here it's wet, narrow, and this scumbag is cruising... well, I tumbled off my bike...... I fell on my hands, stood up, but!! This scumbag still reached me, and still asked his question while I was lying on the ground... what is that, some nonsense, while someone is lying on the ground, it's the perfect time to ask questions...
--------
A story about "Do a good deed and it will catch up with you." Once upon a time, long ago, I happened to work as a welder in a large organization. There was piecework pay there. The rates were such that if you worked honestly, you'd be guaranteed to starve to death within 2 months. Therefore, everyone engaged in padding the numbers, but they slogged away without even lifting their masks from their faces. Now for the story itself: Since it was during the communist era, all production sites had student interns who simply had to be taught the trade. We had such a student. And the most interesting thing is that he really wanted to learn welding—he passionately desired it. But piecework... No one wanted to waste time training the poor student; everyone drove him away, shouting—"don't get in the way of work, you radish." I felt sorry for him, especially since not so long ago I was a student myself. So I gave him some advice. Listen, student, during lunch you aren't in anyone's way; take the holder, electrodes, and go to the scrap metal pile—weld as much as you want there and you won't be in anyone's way. Fortunately, back then no one counted either electrodes or energy. From then on, everything settled; the student sparkled with his welder on the scrap pile, didn't bother anyone, and thanked me at every convenient opportunity. Everyone was happy. The idyll continued until it came time to load the scrap metal for smelting. In short, they set up wagons for loading, brought in a crane, slung the load, started lifting... but no luck, the pile doesn't even think about moving. What the hell, maybe it got caught on something. They go to check and are quietly stunned. The whole pile is WELDED together, moreover, every single piece is welded to another. The management isn't just indignant; they simply cannot understand who, and more importantly WHY, did this. A scandal brews, arguments begin, and it turns out that this was the work of the student, who immediately and without any remorse says that I practically forced him to do it. In short, the result: All the workers are laughing and teasing at every opportunity, and I "die" with a gasoline cutter on that ill-fated pile, cursing both the student and my own kindness with the foulest words. Damn, I spent three days cutting it into pieces, the damn conscientious student. Well, at least they didn't charge us for the wagon downtime. So much for a good deed....
--------
ABOUT FEFA THE LAMB
Muskoxen are lambs that are the size of an ox. The last major remnant of the Ice Age. Back then, many things around were very large, fierce, horned, and toothy. These lambs got used to defending themselves against creatures compared to which a saber-toothed tiger is a small kitten. They would still fight back now, but all their nightmares died out long ago, except for the smallest one—man. The defense method is apparently inherited genetically, because it's quite absurd. Upon the appearance of a hunter, muskoxen instantly form a tight circle; the horns of the most powerful rams protrude outward as a solid palisade, thick and curved. The spirited youth invariably end up inside this ring along with the ewes, even if they try to poke their heads out. Those who are stronger push all the little ones back and hold the front as best they can. A proven method, but a blessing for the hunter. They shot the muskoxen calmly, one by one, for as many cartridges as they had. The rams held out steadfastly, even until the end. Muskox herds were wiped out across Canada in their time, then they began to be restored from surviving Russian ones. In our country, it's sometimes just great that nothing is ever properly brought to an end.
But that's just the prologue; the tale is ahead. One day my son requested one. Children love scary tales. It's as if they feel what kind of planet they were born on. I don't know what advanced pedagogical thought thinks about this, but my childhood company grew up on unadapted texts of Andersen's fairy tales. They are creepy even for an adult to read, and easier for a child. Girls perhaps need to be protected from a young age with pink nonsense—they will become all-knowing by youth anyway. But it's better to explain to a boy earlier that there are the stupidest situations in life when you need to stand where you stand, even if you are capable of running away faster than those around you.
I told my son then about muskoxen, and about the beasts that surrounded them, and about the people who wiped them out. But a tale should still embellish reality. Into my narrative, a lamb named Fefa crept in on its own. He was the smallest in this herd, but already very large, shaggy, and clumsy. Fefa ended up in the center of the shot-down herd and survived under the bodies—there must be some kind of meaning in this ram's stubbornness.
I told that tale many years ago and long forgot about it. And before New Year's, I was sorting through my son's childhood drawings with him and came across a strange comic—a huge graceful beast with thick horns is tracking hunters, lifts their tents on its horns, and stomps their guns into splinters. The faces of the hunters are distorted with terror; they all run for their lives as far away as possible. And a large threatening inscription in uneven letters: "FEFA HAS GROWN UP!"
---------
Yesterday I stopped near a grocery store, parked right by the entrance. Trash had accumulated in my pockets—some receipts, a cigarette pack—I gathered it and threw it in the bin.
I noticed that a 5000 ruble note had stuck to the empty cigarette pack flying into the bin. Nothing you can do; I had to climb in.
At that moment, a mother comes out of the store with a boy aged 6-7; the mother is delivering a monologue: "What will happen if you don't listen to me."
- .... and if you don't listen to me, you'll eat from the bin, like this uncle here.
The uncle pulled 5000 rubles out of the bin, straightened them, looked at them against the light, and said:
- Don't believe her, boy; a couple of months in the bins and you'll save up for a BMW.
He got into his BMW and drove away.
--------
Essay
I want to become a programmer when I grow up big, because it is a cool job and simple. That's why there are so many programmers in our time and they keep increasing.
Programmers don't need to go to school; they need to learn to read in computer language so that they can talk with the computer. I think they should be able to read too, so they know what's going on when everyone is in a panic.
Programmers must be brave so as not to be afraid when everything gets mixed up so much that no one can figure it out, or if they have to speak English in a foreign way, so they know what needs to be done.
Programmers should have good eyesight so they can see through clothes and not be afraid of secretaries, because they have to work with them. I also like the salary that programmers get. They get so much money that they don't have time to spend it all. This happens because everyone considers a programmer's job difficult, except for programmers, who know how simple it is.
There is nothing that I don't like, except that girls like programmers and everyone wants to marry them, and therefore women must be driven away so they don't interfere with work.
I hope I don't have an allergy to office dust, because I have an allergy to our dog. If I have an allergy to office dust, I won't become a programmer and will have to find a real job.
----------
An acquaintance of mine—a visiting student girl—bought herself a pretty decent smartphone. In the phone book for the contact "Dad," she set a photo of the city's chief of criminal police in uniform. For the contact "Uncle" — a photo of the district prosecutor. For the contact "Brother" — a huge OMON officer.
This phone has been stolen from her three times already, but all three times it was dropped back.
----------
A man went into the forest to relieve himself—he saw a bear...
There is no other way to start our story. My friends and I were driving to the dacha to steam in the sauna. We were traveling along the Cherlak tract of the Omsk region. I was behind the wheel, and my friends had already opened some beer. We had driven not far from the post, about 12 kilometers, when my friends needed "to relieve themselves." To my suggestion to go near the roadside, the answer given was "What are we? Completely wild?" Well yes, of course, programmers, the elite of society. In short, we turned at the nearest junction. While they dispersed for their "business," I decided to examine a pile of car tires (to take to the dacha and decorate the paths). In short, I lingered. After a few minutes, I heard a wild crash; rushing to the car, I froze.
From around the bend, at full speed, in a cloud of dust, a tank flies out and rushes toward the car. In the last meter, sacrificing a couple of birch trees, it swerves and flies past.
Apparently, it warned the column, because the following ones drove slower and turned in advance.
Five steel monsters passed by; the sixth was a BTR. A red sergeant-major rolled out of it.
First, he asked about our condition using profanity, then he asked via radio using profanity who was responsible for installing signs and barriers, cursed the first tank for speeding, and apologized using profanity. He got into the BTR and drove away.
The first word from my friends I heard only in the sauna. And somehow they no longer want to go to my dacha.
And generally, "gifts" regularly fly in from the firing range—either a blank crashes into the lake or trees in the grove fall. And that's not counting the constant roar of bursts and explosions. That's how we live...