Posts from Fun Auto-translated

Epitaph on the grave of Zmey Gorynych: "He was born to fly, had a heart of fire, spoke three languages, and appreciated feminine beauty."
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- Tell me, if a husband cleans his nails with a screwdriver, can you call him an idiot?
- Well, only if it's a Phillips-head!
- Another one...
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The first thing a Chukchi visiting Moscow couldn't understand was why everyone kept saying "however" to him while smiling slyly...
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A hare is walking through the forest and sees a bear selling gum:
- Bear, give me some gum.
- Answer 3 questions correctly and I will. First question: from what year to what year was the First World War?
- From 1914 to 1917.
- Who participated in the Second World War?
- Hitler and Stalin.
- How many stars are in the sky?
- Scientists don't know yet.
- Take the gum.
The hare walks through the forest and meets a wolf.
- Where did you get the gum?
- The bear is selling it beyond the same birch grove. He'll ask you 3 questions. The answer to the first is from 1914 to 1917. To the second - Hitler and Stalin. To the third - scientists don't know yet.
The wolf goes to the bear.
- Ask your questions.
- What year were you born?
- From 1914 to 1917.
- Who are your father and mother?
- Hitler and Stalin.
- Are you an idiot?
- Scientists don't know yet.
Galya.
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British scientists have discovered that all other scientists have long been laughing at their discoveries...
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You guys have jeeps, yachts, planes over there...
In our village, the one whose water hasn't frozen is the same as a big shot.
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The algorithm of a navigator with a "traffic" function:
1. Find a route to the nearest dead-end traffic jam.
2. Wait until the user in the dead-end jam curses, screams, cries, laughs, turns the navigator off and on several times, and starts falling asleep...
3. Suggest "cutting" 5 meters of the dead-end jam by turning into the nearest gas station.
If the user turns into an alley/U-turns and thus escapes the dead-end jam:
1. Issue a warning: You have left the route!
2. Find a route to the nearest dead-end traffic jam.
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Everyone has read the "Do not feed the lions" sign on the cage at the zoo. Only the janitor knows that on the other side it says "Do not eat humans."
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The other day in the news, they said that Deputy Zhirinovsky, speaking in the Duma, really went after one of his colleagues. "...young strong deputies gathered from both sides..." They show a Stone Head with the comment "Deputy Valuyev HUMANEly decided not to interfere in the conflict."!!!!!

He should have interfered, perhaps...
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Once upon a time, when trees were big and prices were small, my parents picked up a fluffy smoky kitten. There was no question about the name: Dymok (Smoky) and Dymok.

And a couple of weeks later, the author of these lines was born. Therefore, the rest is from my parents' words.

Dymok and I grew up together, and I couldn't imagine it being any other way, as his presence was beside me throughout my entire endless life, until I was three. The cat slept with me instead of a soft toy, finished my semolina porridge, and I was caught a couple of times trying to treat myself from the cat's bowl.

But cats in private houses don't live long, and eventually find adventure for their rear-end assets. Either they get caught in a trap, or poisoned somewhere, or torn apart by dogs, or shredded by own kind.
That's how Dymok disappeared one day when I was three. At first, I wailed and pestered everyone with the question "Where is Dymok?". Then I searched all the sheds, attics, and the garden (for those times—a huge unexplored territory for a three-year-old giant). Eventually, they calmed me down with a fairy tale about how he went to a land where there are many, many mice, and that he is happy now.

A few months passed. Late autumn, first frosts (in the 60s, frosts still occurred in November). Mom is getting ready for work, putting on her warm coat and gray fur hat for the first time this year. Suddenly someone tugs at her coat and, looking intently from her eyes to her hat, asks in a sly voice:

"Mom. Where is Dymok?"
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The biggest lottery win for me was my life.
It went like this: my parents already had two daughters, but my father desperately wanted a son. And so Mom was pregnant for the third time and planning to have an abortion, because moving around military towns in Soviet times following the officer ranks of a beloved husband with three children is more costly than with two.
But Dad bet that this time a boy would definitely be born and he would teach him football and billiards, and take him fishing. He starts begging Mom, saying he'll do anything in the world if she just has the third child.
And she happens to blurt out: "Win a Volga in the lottery with one ticket—then I'll have it."
Dad rushes to the nearest kiosk, buys one instant lottery ticket and... jumps for joy with wild screams - VOLGA!!!
Mom had to give birth to me :) Though, I turned out to be a girl after all. Oh well, but I still play billiards pretty well.
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In the Polar Urals, many trailers (called "balks") remained after geological surveys; they can be found in many valleys and even on passes. Since windows and doors were broken long ago, balks fill with snow in winter, sometimes the snow inside doesn't melt all summer. The dream of a skier exhausted by wind, cold, and this whole Ural region is to find an intact balk in livable condition. Or at least bring it to that state by shoveling out the snow. And so we found a whole mini-settlement of such houses right on the pass. Plenty of snow inside. But in one of the balks, there was still a gap between the snow and the ceiling. And a stove pipe stuck out—all signs pointed toward an upcoming warm night's sleep. But first, several cubic meters of snow had to be moved, and beforehand, it had to be determined if this made sense. And so one of my friends, a highly rational man, lay on his stomach and crawled into the darkness. It was very narrow. He courageously pushed forward. Suddenly something stopped him. Since in childhood my friend spent a long time and productively doing caving, this was nothing new to him. He exhaled properly and tried to push forward. In vain! Stuck! Another attempt—no way! He lay there, recovered his breath, started freezing. No panic! Another attempt—no!
Stuck!!! It took another 15 minutes before it dawned on him.
Later he recalled that the thought was killingly simple.
"Skis! My God, I forgot to take off my skis!"
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Pieced together from many memoirs. October '41, five of our armies were surrounded near Vyazma. Summoned from Leningrad, Zhukov searches among the Moscow marshes for the front commander Marshal Budyonny. The road to Moscow is open; a column of German armored vehicles rushes along the Warsaw highway. A company of cadets from the Yukhnovskoye school placed several anti-aircraft guns across the highway and fired direct fire. The German column grumbled and rushed around via a forest path. At first they were doing well, but then a sleepy light rain started. They were only a couple of kilometers away from the highway with their clever maneuver. A German tanker managed to write in his diary - "stuck up to our ears in mud. We aren't driving, we're digging. If only the frosts would come!" When the tanks were buried up to the turret, the frosts hit...
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About Anfiska

In our kindergarten there is one little thing, Anfiska; our lockers are next to each other. Well, it doesn't stop at lockers; they also sleep side by side. In short, such bed-and-locker relations.
Anyway, that's not what this is about. Not about the relations.
So, this little thing, Anfiska, she has two dads. Papa Erik and Papa Vitalik. They take her to the garden in turns. That's exactly how she calls them: Papa Erik and Papa Vitalik.
Fine. The more dads, the better. After all, it directly affects the number of gifts. Some have none, but Anfiska has two. Let her be.
The distribution of dads across the planet is generally quite uneven. Sometimes thick, sometimes thin. It often happens that there are two dads. Or none. Anfiska has two, so what's the big deal?
Another thing is that Anfiska also has two moms. On one hand, with two dads, this seems perfectly normal. On the other hand—quite atypical. Their names are Mama Sveta and Mama Lena. They also take turns in the watch of delivering Anfiska along with the dads. They have some kind of complex sliding schedule, maybe twenty-four hours on three off. Moreover, if Anfiska's dads differ sharply from each other (one is dark-haired, the other red), and don't cause identification problems, then Anfiska's moms are like two drops of water, and I still get confused about who the duty mom is today until Anfiska says her name.
But most often, Anfiska is brought to the garden by her grandmother. Don't be scared, the grandmother is always the same one. Although with the number of parents God endowed Anfiska with, I can't even realistically imagine the number of grandmothers and grandfathers.
And least often, Anfiska is brought by Uncle Seryozha. Uncle Seryozha is either a friend or a driver for one of the dads. I don't know which one specifically. "Driver-of-another" says Anfiska. Uncle Seryozha is a big silent type. In all these years, I haven't heard a single word from Uncle Seryozha. He communicates with Anfiska using his head and ears.
He greets her upon meeting with his whole body. Once he returned to give back a toy Anfiska had forgotten. He stood in the doorway of the group. Well, finally, I thought. Now Uncle Seryozha will say his first word. And what did he do? He just clapped loudly. All the children, including Anfiska of course, immediately turned around.
At the same time, he is definitely not mute. I once clearly heard him cursing the driver of a car that blocked his exit.

Everyone has long grown used to this number of Anfiska's close relatives; no problems.
Actually, no. It happened once. When a new teacher came to our group, Anna Borisovna. They searched for her so long and were so happy when they found her that in their joy they simply forgot to mention the number of Anfiska's parents. And so for two weeks we enjoyed watching how her face gradually lengthened with the appearance of each new Anfiska dad or mom. When Mama Lena picked up Anfiska in the evening, but Uncle Seryozha brought her in the morning, Anna Borisovna's left eye would start to twitch. (Later it was fine, it passed)

In short, that's how it is.
Anyway, this isn't about moms and dads after all, it's about Anfiska.
You know, there's an expression—the tail wags the dog.
Well, this tail, Anfiska, she doesn't just wag the dog. No. She mocks this "dog" in every way, torments her, shreds nerves, bossy-boots her, and vilely ridicules her.
This little booger has mastered all the techniques of the most disgusting manipulation.
Apparently, despite the apparent well-being of the relations, there is a hidden competition between families for Anfiska's attention. And she makes great use of this.
Mama Lena dresses her, for example, and then Anfiska screams indignantly.
- Why did you tie the scarf under the jacket!!! Mama Sveta always ties mine on top! Otherwise I could easily catch a cold!
Mama Lena's eyes become big and frightened, and she starts frantically re-tying the scarf. After that, you can do whatever you want with Mama Lena; she is completely demoralized. I, observing this, know perfectly well that, first of all, Anfiska doesn't give a damn how her scarf is tied. And secondly, I remember perfectly that she said exactly the same thing to Mama Sveta yesterday.
Or for example, Papa Vitalik ties bows for her in the morning. He puffs and sweats, trying with his palms to handle each of Anfiska's head's thin webs of hair and ribbons.
- Blue on the left, pink on the right! - Anfiska ridicules joyfully after waiting until the bows are finally tied. - And how did you tie them?! Re-tie them now! Why are you dawdling? Do you know how Papa Erik ties bows? Zip, and that's it! And he hangs the jacket on that hook over there, not this one! What, are you just clueless?
Papa Vitalik shrivels up and starts to fuss. His hands and chin tremble; it's unpleasant to look at him. Well, I don't look. When I observe all these Anfiska jumps and affectations, my hands start to itch. Little monster. I simply can't imagine how one can tolerate such a thing. If it were up to me, this little scrap would be marching in formation and saluting by the third day. Now if anything, putting small vile blots in their place—I wouldn't need any other food, just give me the chance.
The mockery usually ends the same way. Nina Palna appears.
- Anfiska?! You'll get it from me, you little brat! Now move it to the group!
Anfiska tucks her tail and all her arrogance flies off her like dandelions in the wind. You can't fool Nina Palna.
We had many teachers change, but the nanny Nina Palna is as immovable as New Year's. Nina Palna doesn't coddle anyone for long. Everyone is afraid of her. Even lumpy porridge and fish soup are eaten with pleasure to the bottom (everyone-everyone, including, I think, even the kindergarten director). For Anfiska's numerous parents, the appearance of Nina Palna is like a lifebuoy for a drowning person. They sigh in relief and wipe sweat from their foreheads. I think in their souls they simply idolize Nina Palna. I don't know what they do at home without her, how they deal with this little monster.

So that's the way the same-kitten-pies go. That's the kind of curious friend the kid has.
And then, just before New Year's, we gathered for a New Year's performance at the ice palace.
For company, we invited a buddy, Genka. So it wouldn't be boring.
We agreed with his parents.
Well, everything was discussed, and I was just about to go get the tickets. And suddenly the kid says - why doesn't Anfiska come with us too?
- No!!! - I said quickly. - No, in no case!
The kid got upset. That is, he didn't say anything of course; if not, then not. But he was saddened.
I don't like it when the kid gets saddened. More accurately how? Most of all in life I don't like it when the kid gets saddened.
And I thought. Yes, maybe I am not courageous enough, and even somewhere a faint-hearted person. But I've lived, tasted everything, I served in the army after all, stood on the parade ground in thirty-degree frost, and once I was even actually killed. Do I really fear staying for three hours with some little slip of a girl? That would be shameful.
And I said - damn it, fine. Let Anfiska come!
- Hurray! - shouted the kid. This reconciled me to the inevitable for a while.
Besides, in my soul I still hoped that one of her parents would go with us. Two adults are better than one. I am a naive person, raised on Soviet principles of kindness and justice. I didn't think that Anfiska's parents were significantly younger and raised on completely different principles.
- Great! - they said. - Just wonderful! Will you pick her up from home, or should we bring her somewhere?
Unfeigned joy rang in the voice at the possibility of getting rid of the domestic tyrannosaurus for even three hours. I realized there was no help to be expected.

At night, on the eve of the performance, I had a nightmare. As if I, driven to despair by Anfiska's twists and turns, take her by the hands and feet, spin her over my head, and let go. She flies over the stadium arena, over the heads of the spectators, and lands like a rag doll in the opposite stands. "My God! What have I done!" I think. And meanwhile over the arena, on those huge screens, Anfiska's mocking face appears, and from the loudspeakers throughout the stadium her vile "Ha-ha-ha! Who throws like that? Now Mama Sveta..." blares out.
I woke up in a cold sweat.
And we started getting ready.

Mama Lena brought Anfiska to the stadium. They stood by the car, and Anfiska was habitually telling her off about something. Regarding her hairstyle, as I understood it.
- Is it warm in your car? - I asked.
- Yes, normal...
- Then maybe you'll change her here? In the foyer there is god-knows-what going on. And you can't get into the cloakroom at all.
- Of course! - said Mama Lena and looked at Anfiska.
- I don't want to change in the car! - she squeaked defiantly and pouted her lip.
Then I sat down and said quietly.
- Did I ask what you want? You have four and a half minutes. If you don't make it, you go home. That's it, time starts now.
Anfiska dove into the car, and Mama Lena stood there looking at me like I was a yeti.
- Four and a half minutes. - I repeated
- Oh, sorry! - she realized and dove after Anfiska.
Then I wrapped the changed child in my jacket, took her under my arm, and marched into the building. The performance was starting.

You know what? I've seen all kinds of children. And I love observing various little scraps.
But listen! I have never, ever in my life encountered such an obedient and calm child.
She didn't throw tantrums, didn't grumble, and didn't talk back. She ate sweet popcorn, although she asked for salted. She drank mineral water instead of cola silently.
She watched the boys while I stepped away for snacks, and quietly recounted the missed events on stage to me. And during the break...
Listen, during the break, when the kid was rolling like mercury through the foyer, she just stuck like gum to my leg and didn't peel off for a second. Which greatly simplified my life, since I only have two eyes.
In short, this was anyone but that Anfiska I knew.
The one who every morning sawed at the nerves of those around her with a rusty chisel "And I will NOOOOT wear these pink tiiiights! I already said, I'll only weaaar blue ones! Is it really so hard to remember?!"
I didn't like all this; I was waiting for a catch. I was focused, tense, and ready at any moment, at the slightest attempt to test my authority, to flatten this little slip with a couple of pre-prepared sharp phrases.
Alas. She didn't give me a single chance. Didn't give the slightest reason.

Then she asked to go to the bathroom; we walked through empty echoing passages and chatted about this and that. And while washing hands, she suddenly asked.
- Doesn't Nikita have a mom?
- What makes you think so? - I laughed. - Of course he does!
- It's just that she never comes to the garden.
- Well, she has other things to do. That's why I always take Nikita.
- Lucky him! - she sighed.
- How is it lucky? - I laughed again.
- No one argues about who takes the child to the garden tomorrow.
Then she looked at me in the mirror, thought and thought, and added.
- Because of that, they forgot to pick me up three times. And the teacher took me home with her. Just don't tell anyone.
- I won't. Did you cry?
- Only the first time. After that, I already became an adult.

* * *
After the New Year holidays, the first thing we saw entering the dressing room was Anfiska. She stood on a stool at attention, and opposite her, also at attention, stood Papa Vitalya with a phone in his hand.
- Ready? - asked Anfiska.
- Ready! - answered Papa Vitalya.
Then she commanded loudly.
- Four and a half minutes! Time starts now! Whoever doesn't make it goes home!
And she started undressing very quickly.
Sad Papa Vitalya obediently stared at the timer.

* * *
I remembered this story yesterday when picking up the kid from kindergarten.
The group under the guidance of an art teacher sat and were finishing drawing cards for February 23rd.
Then we were dressing, and the kid said.
- I have just a little bit left there, to finish coloring the tank.
- And I've finished everything! - boasted Anfiska, who was spinning around nearby.
- Wow! - I said. - You already drew two cards?
- Why two? - she wondered.
- Well how many? You have two dads. You need two cards.
Anfiska thought for a moment, pouted her lip, and said in a vile screeching voice.
- My goooood! With you men, there are always suuuuch prooooblemss!
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I'm playing the computer game "Akinator". The program guesses the word you thought of by asking various questions. So, at one point in the game I was asked: "Does your character have a brain?". I answered: "No" (since I had thought of the word "jack") and immediately received the next question: "Does your character wear a bra?"...

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A Story About a Cat
ru-cats.livejournal.com/19218540.html

Dear fellow cat owners, I've come to you for advice.

There is a cat. The cat weighs ten kilograms.
There is a bed. The bed has a high soft headboard 10-15 centimeters wide.
And there are the cat's owners, who sleep in this bed.

At night, the cat jumps onto the headboard and walks along it. The cat has a nightly promenade. But since the cat was a cow in a past life and carried some characteristics into its current incarnation, on the fourth or fifth lap, it loses its balance and splats downward.
If I'm lucky, the cat falls nearby. If not, ten kilograms of cat land on my head, and for some reason, always backside first.


Question: how do I break the cat of this habit?

The following have been tried:
- sticky tapes laid out on the headboard. (In the end, we spent half the night peeling them off a frantic cat; we almost left him without a scalp).
- ylang-ylang scent, which the cat dislikes. (The cat didn't give a damn that it was a scent he disliked).
- large amounts of tangerine peels (The cat disdainfully knocked the peels onto my head, and in the process, fell down after them himself).

What else can be done? I've already tried sleeping with a spray bottle under my pillow. The cat bolts, then returns.

ru-cats.livejournal.com/19238701.html
Two days ago, I posted a cry for help in the community.
I received many responses. Two were put into action immediately.
As promised, here is the report.

I love simple and easy-to-implement ideas. Therefore, suggestions to nail a shelf to the bed, to the cat, or to my own head so that it would be convenient for him to fall on, were postponed for later.

To start, I took six balloons from my child, blew them up, and wedged the knots between the wall and the bed. It looked very beautiful. My husband and I admired them and went to sleep.

In the middle of the night, a shot rang out. Half-asleep, I decided that my husband had shot the cat (although the only weapon in our house is a water pistol).
When we turned on the light, the cat was sitting on the floor surrounded by shreds of a blue balloon, squinting discontentedly. He was given a kick, the balloons were shifted, and we went back to sleep. This was our strategic error, proving how little we know about cats.

He popped the second and third balloons about twenty minutes later and scampered off, laughing mockingly. My husband insistently asked me to clear everything away and end the experiments for today. While I was hiding the balloons in the closet, the cat crept up to the largest one and swiped it with his paw.

The bottom line: minus four balloons, minus two hours of sleep, minus eight meters of nervous fibers between two adults. Plus entertainment for the cat.

Then we moved to plan B. The entire headboard was lined with several layers of foil so that it would crinkle louder. I assured my husband that he could now sleep peacefully: the cat definitely wouldn't go near the foil—he'd be afraid.

Well, that's almost what happened. The cat came a couple of hours later after we fell asleep. He jumped from the closet onto the foil. The foil crinkled, the cat got terrified, shot up into the air, and landed on my husband.

The bottom line: minus ten meters of foil, minus forty drops of motherwort for two adults. Plus entertainment for the cat.

ru-cats.livejournal.com/19428775.html
So, I had a problem that I brought to the community.

After the foil and balloons failed, I started thinking in another direction: how to keep the cat out of the bedroom at night.

First, a cat repeller was used. Unfortunately, the cat didn't understand it was a repeller. My husband, however, did; he grimaced, sniffed around, and eventually asked me to air out the room. So now I have a husband repeller—if anyone needs one, I can give it away.

A basin of water turned out to be roughly the same kind of stupidity. We put it there with the calculation that the cat would splash around and forget about the bed (he loves water).
The calculation was half-correct: the cat splashed, but he didn't forget the bed.
At night he came galloping to us, shaking wet paws. Half-asleep, it seemed to me that he had twenty-two of them. With ten of them, he stepped on my face; with the rest, he ran across the blanket and sheet. Finally, he gave my husband a loud kiss on the nose, poking him with a wet muzzle that was dripping water.

After that, my husband said to hell with the interior, he agreed to the shelf.

In the evening, he brought a varnished board with a lip, fussed over it for two hours, cursed the innocent bed, and finally attached it. I wanted to say that it's better for a cat to fall on us than this contraption (no one would have come out of under it alive). But I looked at my husband's face and decided to stay silent. Fine, I thought, we'll sleep one night—and then I'll take it down just to be safe.

Additionally, before bed, the child ran in and piled his toys on it. I waved it off and didn't start an argument because I was wondering which relative would raise the child if we were buried under the shelf.

(It must be said that my worry was unnecessary: as it turned out, my husband had nailed it for good).

At night, the cat came to the shelf. He strolled leisurely to the middle of the shelf and touched one of the toys with his paw.
This happened to be an interactive "Zhu-Zhu Pets" hamster.

At the touch of a cat's paw, the hamster switched on. It exclaimed invitingly:
"Abuzyuuuu-zy!" and ran at the cat, glowing with love.

I would gladly tell you what happened next. But I won't lie: we didn't see it. And in general, we didn't see the cat again until morning. The hamster reached the edge of the shelf and committed suicide like a lemming, jumping from the cliff into the basin of water.

Result: we took down the shelf.
A guard hamster now sits on the headboard.
The cat doesn't enter the room. And if he happens to see the hamster through the open door, he puffs up to the size of a manul and retreats in terror.
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They installed a barrier at the entrance to our territory. The system there is tricky and complicated! A SIM card is inserted into the corresponding block of the barrier, which in terms of functional capabilities corresponds to a mobile phone. You call this number, and if your phone is registered in its contact database, the barrier opens. No key fobs are needed, and the possibilities are wider—for example, a friend arrives, has no fob, and cannot get into the parking lot on the territory. He calls you, you call back the SIM number (even from another city!), and the barrier opens. But the SIM's memory isn't infinite; a hundred contacts and that's it! It was filled to the brim with new contacts. And people continue to demand new phone numbers from which they can open the barrier. Some for a driver, some for a translator or a lover.
And the residents are mostly foreigners, every other one an employee of foreign companies and consulates! And everyone is eager to start an international scandal, especially the journalists. I received instructions—take readings (compile a list of existing contacts on the SIM), determine who is who, delete the unnecessary ones, and add new, particularly persistent ones in their place.
I took out the SIM, put it in my own phone, tasked the security guard with opening and closing the barrier manually, and began to compile the list with great difficulty. Meanwhile, I was chatting with our drinkers—basically, I got distracted. A call, I answer, silence in response. An unfamiliar number. Shrugging, I hang up.
And so it happened twice more. It's getting irritating! I go to the bathroom, and at the most inconvenient moment, the mobile rings again. I thought something very bad about the person who was pestering me like this. At that moment, it didn't occur to me that the SIM in the phone wasn't mine at all. I think: what kind of asshole is calling from an unknown number?
I've had enough! I pick up the mobile—"GO [CENSORED]!!!" and in response, with a distinct Asian accent—"Slagbauma? How go to [censored]???????" Apparently, the guy finally decided once more to hear what answer comes to his unsuccessful calls.
The story didn't end there. After laughing it off somewhat, I finally finished the list and, conducting investigative actions with the help of other office employees, managed to establish the ownership of half the phones. There was nothing for it—the rest had to be called, and from that same SIM.
Of course, people were stunned at first! Almost everyone had this number saved in "contacts" as "barrier," and people were genuinely baffled, trying to figure out how a dumb piece of iron could call them and what questions it had for them???? On the other hand, after hearing the essence of the matter, they talked about themselves without hesitation—since I was calling from this number, it meant I really was doing this for official reasons. During one more call, I didn't have time to say anything. I only heard—"Eeee... Slagbauma? You yourself are fool, [censored] and... eee.. [censored]!!!" I don't know how much longer the poor Asian's Russian vocabulary would have lasted, but I doubled over, wiping away tears of silent laughter. I came to my senses only when my colleagues started shaking me by the shoulders and asking where I got such potent weed.
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Children sometimes knock you for a loop.
My daughter (7 years old) asks: Mom, what are the paints made of that they used to color the world?
Me: ???? I don't understand, explain.
Her: Well, look, before, when you were little, everything was black and white: the grass, the trees, the people, and everything-everything... I know, I saw it in photos, grandma showed me... And then they colored everything, and everything became colorful.
So, what are those paints made of?
I'm floored—imagine that, looking at old black-and-white photos and thinking the whole world was like that! And then it was colored.
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Arriving in a northern hole in 1997, I found out that there was no hint of internet there, so I thought, Fido users must definitely be around. A week's search showed that "FIDO" was a very unfamiliar word there, because it really is an exceptional hole. In desperation, I put this ad in the local newspaper: "Looking for a node that will take a point."

I thought whoever knows—will understand; whoever doesn't—doesn't need to. But I was deeply mistaken. Judging by the onslaught of calls that followed, all of eastern Yakutia consisted of Fido users. And at that time, I was sent on a business trip. My wife answered the calls, and I had explained the basics of Fidonet to her. While relaying the content of the calls, she cried. And I cried. Very many people wanted to "take" (the ad said "take," therefore it's free!) this very "point." They asked what size it was, if it was fluffy or not, what it ate, etc. And MOST IMPORTANTLY, no one asked: what on earth is a POINT?
I got the impression that everyone had once kept such a "point" at home, fed it, pampered it, and played with it in the evenings. And they probably considered themselves "nodes":)) Not a single call to the point. There was no Fidonet there.

Petka and Vasily Ivanovich are running away from the Whites. They come to a high and very long fence. Petka says: - Vasily Ivanovich, let me lift you up, and you run away. - No, let me lift you up, and you run away. They argued, and Vasily Ivanovich gave in. He lifted Petka up, and he himself ran along the fence. He ran to the village, and there were only women there. And all of them were pregnant. Vasily Ivanovich dressed up, made a belly out of pillows. The Whites arrived. They lined everyone up on the street. The senior one approaches the first one and asks: - Who are you waiting for? - A boy. - Execute her. He will be a partisan. To the second one: - Who are you waiting for? - A girl. - Execute her. She will be a partisan. It's Vasily Ivanovich's turn: - Who are you waiting for? - An elephant. Want to see its trunk?

SaintFox posted several funny hero-themed pictures on the portal:
http://vk.com/album-3472742_152517913

If something is missing somewhere, it means something else exists somewhere.

Stupid advertising is not made by stupid people – it is made for stupid people.

Not every piece of crap becomes noble guano with age (S.E. Lets).

There are few decent people left – sometimes you lie with all your might, and almost no one believes you.

If people remember the talented artist Savil and his toucans, here are some more of his sketches, quite amusing:
New – Matrix.
Several old short drawings.

anekdot.ru:
A passenger who tried to fly away by his own means was detained at one of the airports in Holland.
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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!"
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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.
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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.
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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?!!!"
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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?...
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- 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.
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- 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.
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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.
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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...
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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
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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?
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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!
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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...
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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.
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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...
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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....
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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!"
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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.
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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.
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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...

Here are a few funny poems about my nickname: http://sir-drake-ii.livejournal.com/25202.html

anekdot.ru:
A sleeping child is not only cute, but finally!
------
I signed up for online courses for private detectives. I transferred the money to them—and never heard from them again. Now I'm thinking: either I was robbed, or this is my first case.
----
How can you teach children good manners when Tarzan walks around naked, Cinderella comes home after midnight, Batman speeds at 450 km/hour, and Snow White actually lives with seven dwarfs?
-----
Hunters on a break.
- So we once went duck hunting. Before starting, we had a few drinks. I'm standing chest-deep in water, ducks fly by, so I take them from the knee...
------
A medical student asks his chess-player friend if he thinks talent is hereditary.
- Unlikely, - the latter answers. - Take Capablanca, for example. Have you heard anything about his father?
- Absolutely nothing.
- And about his mother?
- None either.
- Well, there you see.
- To be honest, I've never heard of Capablanca either.
--------
A husband is bathing the baby and shouts from the bathroom:
- Katya, he's eating the foam!
A couple of minutes later:..
- Katya, it actually tastes good!
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I'm standing on the balcony at night, smoking. I hear "meow-meow" from below. Well, I thought I'd answer: meow!
- meow I -meow
- Come on, man, stop it! I'm looking for my cat!
- o_O
-------
Never say: "I made a mistake," better say: "My, how interesting that turned out..."
-----
Do you also scream at the things you stub your toe on?
-------
Dad is putting his daughter to sleep. Half an hour later, Mom looks into the room:
— Well? Is she asleep?
— Yes, Mom, she's asleep.
------
A deer that got its antlers caught in wires in the city started running along route 17.
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I decided to boil some pelmeni for lunch. To add aroma, I thought of adding a bay leaf.
Searching on the shelf, I found some dried leaves. Deciding it was what I needed, I threw them into the pot.
As a result, the pelmeni tasted like eucalyptus.
I ate and cried, gentlemen, I ate, cried, and felt like a koala!
------
- Dad, buy me a chocolate bar!
- You're too old for sweets now.
- Really? Does that mean I can drink, smoke, and bring boys home?
- Which one do you want, dark or milk?
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An exam. The professor:
- Now, let's begin. Who knows enough for a 5?
A few timid hands go up; the professor takes their gradebooks and marks
EXC.
- Well, who knows enough for a 4? - more hands now; satisfied students get GOOD
and leave. The same happens with SATs. As a result, several students remain in the room,
tearing their hair out over their indecision.
- So, you know enough for a 2. That means you want a retake.... Well then,
a retake. Who knows enough for a 5?
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Silly laws of California, USA

Animals are prohibited from having sex in public view within 500 meters of the nearest tavern, school, or church.

Baths and saunas are prohibited by law in this state.

Women are prohibited from driving a car while wearing only a housecoat.

Driverless cars are prohibited from exceeding speeds over 60 mph (approximately 90 km/h).

Alhambra
Local law prohibits leaving cars on the street overnight unless the owner has a special permit for it.

Arcadia
The law states that peacocks have right-of-way on all streets and even on highways. If a peacock decides to cross a busy highway, all cars must let it pass.

Baldwin Park
It is prohibited to enter a pool on a bicycle.

Belvedere
Local law prohibits dogs from appearing in public places if they are not leading their owner on a leash.

Despite the fact that similar laws exist in other states, the wording here is interesting.

Blythe
Cowboy boots may only be worn by citizens who actually have at least two cows on their farm.

Cathedral City
It is prohibited to sleep in a parked car.

No one is allowed to enter the "Fountain of Life" on a bicycle.

Chico
Anyone who wants to throw hay into a street trash can must first obtain a license from the city for this.

It is prohibited to store untreated animal skins that emit an unpleasant odor in one's home.

Playing bowling on city sidewalks is prohibited.

Driving a herd of cattle through the streets of this city is prohibited.

City residents are prohibited from creating gardens or growing vegetables on municipal streets and public roads.

The law prohibits anyone from detonating any nuclear charges within city limits. Violators, should any ever appear, face a fine of $500.

Dana Point
It is prohibited to use the toilet if the window in that toilet is open.

El Monte
The law prohibits using children's sandboxes as ashtrays.

Eureka
It is prohibited to sleep on the road.

The law prohibits mustachioed men from kissing women.
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In the central Norwegian newspaper "Aftenposten" dated March 7, 2012, on page 13, a small article was printed with the following content:
"The State Nature Administration informed the head of the Oslo-Akershus district (the capital and nearest suburb) that on Monday, within city limits, a wolf killed a dog—a laika, one of those used for moose hunting (there is probably a more correct name for the breed, but I don't remember it now). The Storting (local parliament, like our Duma) recognized Oslo and most of its suburbs as a habitat for wolves. That is, the Storting decided that wolves can exist and reproduce in this area since there isn't too much conflict between grazing sheep and wolves. Wolves usually do not pose a threat to people and dogs, but in some cases they may attack dogs. The district head's environmental protection department will monitor the situation. (I don't know, maybe we should chip in for the funeral of the prematurely eaten dog?)"
Yeah, it makes you think. My 3 kilograms of dog love to be walked at odd hours. I repeat, we are talking about the capital of Norway. However, during these walks, I have personally seen a doe with two calves, a fox (repeatedly, and she stood there looking from the dog to me—as if saying, won't you give it up? Why do you even need it?), and some deer my own height. A happy family of badgers lives peacefully in my garden behind the house—I'm just waiting for them to wake up soon after winter hibernation. By the way, if anyone doesn't know—these are cute fluffy animals almost knee-high and 40 centimeters wide, who tend to attack rather than run away in case of an unexpected encounter. And now wolves too...
They'll write in the newspaper later: "Wolves ate a dog along with its owner. Usually they don't eat them. But sometimes they can. We will monitor the situation."
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LUCKY TICKET

What I want to tell you now is something I observed back in those distant years when a bus fare cost five kopecks, and conductors in public transport were unheard of. I was traveling somewhere in a half-empty bus, and at one of the stops, a little man entered the cabin. He looked—to put it mildly—quite simple. But he attracted the passengers' attention with his luggage: a large bayan hung from his neck. Of course, maybe it wasn't a bayan but some kind of accordion, I can't say for sure since my knowledge in this matter is very limited, but I will call it a bayan.
The man dropped a nickel into the fare box, tore off a ticket, and sat in a free seat. For several stops, looking at his ticket, he performed some complex calculations—sometimes bending fingers, sometimes raising his eyes to the ceiling, apparently hoping to see the ready answer there. Finally, the thought process ended, and the man's face lit up—the result of the calculation pleased him greatly. So much so that he even stood up from his seat, and having victoriously surveyed the cabin, announced to everyone present: - "My ticket is just the thing! It's a lucky one!"
The bus was standing at a stop with the door open at that moment. And then the little man looks carefully out the window, then at the wide-open door, and from the expression on his face, it becomes clear that this is his stop. To the hiss of the closing door, he lunges forward. And, God knows, he would have jumped out if not for the bayan hanging on him. As a result, the man was slammed by the door around the chest. But this desperate man had no intention of giving up: he braced his feet against the steps and, puffing like a hedgehog, began to struggle with effort toward freedom. At that very instant, the driver opened the door…
A champagne cork—that's what came to mind when I saw this unusual flight. Like a human rocket, the little man with the bayan flew out of the bus. Only the soles of his boots flashed in the air. The sound of the body hitting the asphalt was terrible. Looking through the window of the departing bus, I saw that the poor fellow sat on the ground with a bewildered look, rubbing his bruised head, while the bayan lay about three meters away from him.
If this misfortune had happened today, it can be said with certainty that half of the bus passengers, savoring the details, would have been filming him on mobile phones, anticipating posting the "juicy" video on the internet. And the others would have laughed like hyenas. But that time there was silence in the bus. And only an elderly fat man in glasses philosophically suggested: - "He probably made a mistake in his calculations..."
---------
An acquaintance of mine told me this over Skype.

My boyfriend went to work in America and went to a local cell phone store to buy a SIM for an iPhone (for those who might not know, it's smaller than a regular one). There they informed him that a SIM for an iPhone costs 50 dollars, while for regular phones it's 15. They argued for about 20 minutes.
- Well why??? - my beloved was straining. - What the hell is the point???!!!
- Excuse me, sir! - the American replied imperturbably, - those are our rules, sir.
- Fine, - mine sighed, - give me a regular one for 15.
The manager was somewhat surprised but sold him the SIM.
- And scissors too, please!
The American was even more surprised but asked no questions (democracy in the country, after all :)), and handed my dear one the scissors.
My beloved imperturbably, before the eyes of the stunned American, cut the SIM without even measuring it carefully and inserted it into his iPhone. And... voila, everything works!
The other was in shock: - What, it works?!!!!
Mine imperturbably: - Of course! Why wouldn't it work..
I still respect Russian people..:)))

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– At one time, starting pistols were banned in theaters. It was strictly mandated to use prop weapons on stage and to trigger the shots from behind the wings.
In one theater, a bound Komsomol member stands at the edge of a quarry, while a fascist aims a pistol at him.
The stage manager behind the scenes hesitated. The shot didn't come. The fascist waited and waited, and in confusion, scratched his temple with the barrel of the gun.
At that very moment, the stage manager's clapper snapped! Being an artist of the realistic school, the "fascunist" dropped dead.
Then the Komsomol member, realizing all responsibility for the finale now rested on him, shouted "I won't be taken alive!" and threw himself into the shaft.
Curtain.
------
Some welders decided to celebrate a colleague's birthday. To avoid getting caught during the workday, they stuffed their overalls with rags, tied the welding torch to the hand, and left the dummy up high to create the appearance of work in progress. The wind blew, the electrode holder swayed, the dummy pretended to weld—while the welders were drinking. The bosses came out of the cafeteria; everything looked normal, everyone was busy. And then a gust of wind blew the dummy off from a height of 70 meters. All the bosses clutched their hearts and ran toward it. A welder, seeing this scene, climbed down, threw the dummy away, and lay down in its place. The bosses arrived and saw the welder stand up, dust himself off, and say: [censored] I'm never going back up there!!!!
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For the collection on rats.
An acquaintance told me this. It was back in the 70s—of the last century now—he was working as a blaster on road construction. Many things were simpler in those years, but that's not the point. It was a warm summer day, and there was an occasion, so a company of blasters settled in the shade of a warehouse. The warehouse, naturally, contained everything a "blast-gang" is supposed to have. How much they had drunk doesn't matter; they spoke quietly so as not to attract attention. Then someone noticed a rat crawl out from under the warehouse wall. Every man has at least a drop of hunter in him, and there were actual hunters here; in short, they caught the creature. Professional blasters, while tipsy, couldn't think of anything better than to douse it in diesel fuel and set it on fire. The rat first ran in circles around the clearing and then dove into the warehouse. They sobered up instantly. First everyone jumped up, then they flopped back onto the grass. As my acquaintance told it, the first thought was—run. Then each of them mentally calculated the amount of explosives stored there, and it turned out the blast would be slightly smaller than in Hiroshima, so there was no point in running. No one knows how long they sat there—time seemed to stop. Glancing at each other, they all rushed to the warehouse doors, tore off the lock somehow, and burst inside. It smelled of burnt fur, but nothing had exploded or caught fire. They searched the entire warehouse thoroughly but found no rat anywhere. An engineer ran up:
- What are you doing! Why did you tear off the lock? What are you doing here?
- Well, we're just sitting here; we smell something burning from the warehouse, and by the time you run for the key or explain things, it might blow.
The engineer sniffed the air and started running through the warehouse himself. In short, as you can imagine, no one confessed then.
------
I had something similar in Denmark.
Around 3 a.m. on the main street of a provincial town, my son (19 years old, tall—important) and I came across a hedgehog. We thought it would be crushed [censored], so my son took off his t-shirt and wrapped it up (a big, prickly hedgehog). We brought it home. And then what? We decided to take it to the police station. We took a plastic basin with handles, put it inside, and carried it. The station was at the end of a dead-end street, and the lighting was poor. We saw the silhouettes of two uniformed men by the door. My son held the basin out at arm's length. I acted as the one for negotiations with authority. But I didn't know the language, let alone "hedgehog," especially in Danish. As we approached, I said something loudly, pretending it was English. The policemen got spooked and followed protocol: an Esperanto-style shout of "stop!" and they stepped aside. We stopped. "What do you have in your hands?" - "A basin" - "And in the basin?" -"Who [censored] knows what this is called?" - "Put the basin on the ground, step aside, and don't move!" - "OK". One cop stayed on guard, while the other cautiously, almost on tiptoes, approached and looked into the basin. Catharsis. Everyone who was in the station came out—about five people.
They laughed for a long time. They gave us a city map with a marked spot where we should release the hedgehog and drew a route. They expressed gratitude orally on behalf of the Queen, but finally told us not to touch hedgehogs anymore. Let them be crushed, because there are too many of them now.
-------
Told by a man who gave me a ride home.

About 2 years ago in St. Petersburg, they were relaying asphalt on Grazhdansky Avenue. Naturally, no one thought about logistical flows, so the unimaginable was happening—not even just in terms of traffic jams, but in the sense that it was unclear how to get around at all. I'm driving home around 10 p.m. and realize that all the temporary signs are sending me as far from my destination as possible, and then, as luck would have it, a patrol car tails me... Well, I think: bastards—they're waiting for me to break a rule so they can shake me down for money. So after another unsuccessful attempt to turn where I needed to, I stop and get out of the car... The patrol officers stopped too... I gather my courage, approach them, and say:
- Do you know how to get out of here?
I get the answer:
- Listen—we've been driving around for 20 minutes ourselves; we thought you were a local and followed you—hoping you'd lead us out!
------------
A true story, but not mine; an acquaintance told it about her son.
In their Akademgorodok, there was an astronomical site in the summer—anyone could come by and look through a telescope at the celestial bodies for free, and even get a consultation from the student astronomers on duty. Well, as it started to get dark, a small crowd of people wanting to see through the telescope formed, mostly parents with children. A full moon rose over the horizon. Five-year-old Ilyusha commented:
- The moon has risen; it's round, like a cat's eye.
Well—he wasn't the only child from an intellectual family here, this is Akademgorodok after all, and another boy, slightly older, authoritatively declared in response:
- A cat's eye isn't round at all.
But Ilyusha isn't so easily swayed; his mother is a physiologist, and she never refuses to answer his childhood questions, so regarding the structure of eyes and various other organs, he's better equipped than some ten-year-olds.
He calmly replied:
- If you pull it out—it's round.
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I have a friend, a guy who is 100% restless and reckless—preamble.

We are driving in my car through Kharkiv looking for a house with a specific number; we are traveling along Poltavsky Shlyakh (those who know, know). After the bridge, there are cops. I think I'll park and ask where house number so-and-so is... I slow down near a young cop, while another one slightly to the side further up the street is chatting actively on his mobile... well, I opened the passenger window and asked through Drulya something like: Where is this street, where is this house... he tries to explain something but deflects, saying the senior knows better... the one who's talking on the phone... we roll up to him, and before I can ask, my buddy shouts out the window—listen, Captain, the young guy has no change from his cell, give us fifty [kopeks/rubles], the other looked in his pockets without stopping his conversation, pulled out a fifty, unclipped it, Drulya took it, and we drove off... then I avoided that road for a week...

I don't even know if that's a good thing or not.
-------
Today, before my eyes, a pack of dogs decided to cross the avenue.
They had some chance, but the avenue is very wide. The lead dog, the most determined, waited for a gap and shot through it like a bullet. The others tried to follow but hesitated. And so they scrambled in the middle of the road under the wheels, like a flock of sheep. Screeching brakes, drivers swearing—horror. The last dog, the largest, was an indeterminate breed based on a German Shepherd. He stayed on the shoulder, barked strictly at everyone, and trotted perpendicularly—along the sidewalk. Into the pedestrian underpass...
-------
About teeth and heredity

Yesterday, after some fussing here and there, I went with the kid to the dentist.
This was as part of the medical exam before school.
Checking teeth before school is priority one. Everyone knows you can't do anything in school without good teeth. The kid has very good teeth (knock on wood). Unlike his father. Well, he doesn't chug liters of coffee at night and doesn't smoke three packs. So his teeth evoke healthy envy. I didn't even have such teeth at his age. And no holes.
The most important thing, of course—no holes.
The gaps between the teeth come from his mother. Good teeth from Grandpa Vitya, but gaps from mom. (From me—two crowns, for those who understand)
I don't even know what's more important for a boy. In my childhood, I had no gaps, and I always envied those who did. With a gap, you can make a good clicking sound and spit long and satisfyingly. While making a contemptuous face. Especially when it hurts. It comes off as quite manly. Otherwise, no matter how hard you try, if it hurts—your face looks sour anyway. But if you have a gap, you click, spit contemptuously, and suddenly the look is different. Brave, slightly foolish, and dashing. People with such an expression were always respected, in all times and in any company.
The kid doesn't know how to click and spit yet, well, he's not even going to school yet. When he goes—they'll teach him. That's what school is for.

So, we go to the dentist, and the kid is so curious about where-what-why.
I explain.
They'll check your teeth to see if everything is okay. If it is—they'll give you a certificate. If not—they'll take you behind the clinic and shoot you.
He laughs. He asks—and how will they check? How exactly will they check?
I say—they'll give you a special copper wire. If you can bite through it, everything is okay. If not—pack your things.
He laughs again. But now, not very confidently. You can tell that while he's laughing, he's mentally calculating whether he can bite through it or not?

This is a kind of test for a sense of humor. Because God forbid he inherited his sense of humor from his grandmother. Then being shot behind the clinic would be the most humane option. Because living with such a sense of humor is just torture.
I've already told you about his grandma's sense of humor, Tatyana Ivanovna. And possibly more than once. Because well, one could write a book about it. A veeeery thick one. Before, when they didn't tape my mouth shut before visiting the mother-in-law, I didn't pay much attention to this. And I used to joke. Yes, there is such a predicament—my jokes aren't always and not entirely understood (for some reason). But with Tatyana Ivanovna, I always tried to joke in a gentle mode, even trying to emphasize with my face that "right now I am indeed joking." Until I was told that Tatyana Ivanovna is a person who lacks a sense of humor as such. Like an appendix, for example. An appendix is either there or it isn't. That's how Tatyana Ivanovna's sense of humor is. No matter what face you make, it's not there, and that's it. No intermediate options.

Due to ignorance of this simple fact, various troubles occurred at first, and there were even victims.
Take Jack, for example.
Tatyana Ivanovna had a dog, a shepherd named Jack. Also without a sense of humor, by the way. He died later, fortunately. Why fortunately? Because if there is a doggy heaven in the skies, Jack got in directly, without limits and out of turn. For that, it was enough for him to simply say—I'm from Tatyana Ivanovna. And that's it.

Anyway, I once came back from fishing, sitting in the kitchen having lunch.
Three of us at home: me, Tatyana Ivanovna, and Jack.
So I'm eating lunch, Tatyana Ivanovna is by the stove, and Jack is in the hallway. He's also eating, for company. Not so much hungry as he's afraid I might swap plates. Because our food is basically the same, but there's significantly more meat in his bowl. For some reason. And always!
So we're sitting, eating, and Jack occasionally scratches himself. It was apparent that Tatyana Ivanovna felt awkward about this uncultured behavior during a meal, about these scratchings.
And she says:
- Oh, what haven't I tried with these fleas. I bought one medicine, then another... Nothing helps! He just keeps scratching and scratching.
I say:
- Tatyana Ivanovna, for heaven's sake! What medicines?! That's all a complete scam!
- Really? But how then?...
- Simple! You take the vacuum cleaner...
- Oh, come on! - Tatyana Ivanovna waves her hand and giggles just in case. Just like the kid did recently when I mentioned the wire.
- Well, laugh, laugh. And keep giving your money to charlatans. Have you seen Syoma scratch?
- No... - she thinks. - I haven't!
- Exactly! And Syoma's fur is nothing like your big lug's. Eh?
Tatyana Ivanovna makes an interested face. She trusts the black terrier Syoma significantly more than me. And not without reason.
- Well, go on?... - she says hopefully.
At this point, I realize the hook is already behind the lip; it's time to set and calmly reel in. And as I finish my soup, slowly, with a sense of self-//dignity and appropriate pauses, I share the secrets of dog breeding.
- Well? Vacuum cleaner on full power and go for it. Morning, evening, and after walks. Especially thoroughly here and here. Three days—and not a single flea. The main thing is don't forget to clean the dust bag after each procedure. Only when you shake out the bag, don't shake it immediately; let it lie. So the fleas can jump out. Otherwise they'll all jump on you, and you'll bring them right back.

It's a good thing we left the next day, and I only know the rest from Grandpa's stories. In telling it, Grandpa peppered his emotional speech with swear words like dumplings with pepper. So I'll put it in my own words.
At first, Jack snapped and tried to bite. First the brush, then the owner. But against Tatyana Ivanovna with a vacuum cleaner, even a Bengal tiger is a tiny bug. Cornered, Jack whimpered, shrieked, and peed himself. With the apparatus running at maximum power, none of this was audible. During the execution, Grandpa simply plugged his ears and ran to the garage, swearing loudly. It all ended abruptly on the third day. Left alone at home, Jack entered the bedroom where the torture device was stored under the bed, and... Nothing remained of the hose. Only the plug remained of the cord. Mangled remains of brushes lay across the room. The vacuum cleaner as such no longer existed. And for another week, Jack shat plastic fragments. Strangely, but nonetheless, his fleas disappeared too! Apparently, dog blood spoiled so much from the vacuum torture that it became unfit for food.

Understand me correctly, I didn't expect such a resolution at all. The thing is that phlegmatic Syoma reacted to the vacuum completely differently. As soon as he heard the humming, he would sprawl on the carpet and stick out his belly, rolling under the brush like shashlik on a skewer. He liked this procedure very much. To vacuum the room, I had to kick him into the kitchen. So I had no malicious intent whatsoever. A joke was just a joke. Who knew Jack would turn out to be such a nervous pesticide?
We bought them a new vacuum later, of course, no problem. But the scar in Tatyana Ivanovna's soul, as they say, remained for life.
Now, I hope you understand even a little bit why I'm so concerned about the child having a sense of humor? With such heredity.

We reached the clinic.
In the office were two old ladies. Well, ladies clearly of retirement age: the doctor and the nurse.
It's clear all the youth have run off to private clinics. I wonder if these will last until they retire, who will be left?
I handed them the kid and said:
- May I... wait in the hallway?
- Why is that?
- Well, I have this...
- What "THIS"? - one asks sternly over her glasses, looking up from filling out a chart.
- This... how do you call it... abstinence syndrome! - I say with a smart look, using the first medical term that came to mind. - Basically, your machines make me nauseous.
- Ah! - looking respectfully and softening her face, she nods understandingly. - Abstinence, that's understandable. Of course! Sit in the hallway then. Maybe you need a pill? How are you feeling?
People with abstinence syndrome—I noticed long ago—especially those who know and can articulately pronounce this term, for some reason enjoy the understanding and sympathy of elderly medical workers.
- No, thank you! - I say and slip out the door.

Seven minutes later, they returned the kid to me safe and sound, and even with all his teeth.
- What are you teaching the child, father! - the doctor shouted at me, holding the kid by the shoulder.
- What's wrong? - I wondered.
- What on earth is this copper wire?
- I was joking. - I said meekly, making a guilty face.
- "Joking," he says! We know such jokers! A father brings in his child, and all the incisors are chipped. We ask—what happened? And he says—Ah! That's how I open beer for daddy when we watch football!
- I don't drink beer. - I say.
- Watch me! - the doctor threatens with a finger. - The boy has very good teeth; such teeth must be preserved.
- Thank you, we will preserve them.

When we passed the security guard, tossed the shoe covers into the ashtray, and finally stepped out into the fresh air, I grabbed the kid by the scruff of his neck, shook him well, and asked threateningly:
- Why did you tell the grandma-doctor about the wire, you little pig, eh?
The kid didn't answer, but his face spread into a wide, satisfied smile, and a neat little hole appeared in the gap between two incisors.
- You need to learn how to click.
- How do you click?
- I'll show you at home. Just don't tell your mother.
- I won't.

He won't. He said "I won't," and he won't. He wouldn't have anyway. You can't squeeze an extra word out of him. I haven't yet figured out who he inherited this secretive nature from. Perhaps from the late Great-Grandmother Nina. We'll figure it out; there's time.
---------
My father had a good friend—Uncle Gena. I don't know how they met, but they were friends for a long time. Unremarkable in appearance, Uncle Gena was a remarkable unlucky man. In the sense that he had bad luck. Not always, but exclusively during fishing trips.
He had bad luck with water—for example, when men walk across a frozen river—everyone gets through, Uncle Gena falls into a hole; he wants to show off a new Chinese thermos—he pours hot tea on himself and drops the thermos on the ice—goodbye mirror flask...
He had bad luck with fire too—once, just before returning to the car from a distant river, the men warmed themselves by the campfire one last time. It was about seven kilometers (oh, fans of winter fishing...) along the wind-swept riverbed. Everyone was frozen through, except Gena, who walked at the rear and smirked—why are you all so cold?!... Gennady's heat resistance was simply explained—his new padded jacket was quietly smoldering on his back. The stronger the wind, the warmer he got... Or take this: he decided to show everyone that the new Polish tent bought through connections was fireproof—the result was a puddle of melted plastic where the tent had been. Naturally, everywhere and always, the catalyst for all events was vodka, which Gena loved dearly in nature (in the city, he didn't even drink on holidays).
The most significant streak of bad luck made him give up fishing for about five years: one day the following happened: during the day he fell out of a rubber boat, tore a new net, was scalded by hot broth from an exploding can of stew that he had put to warm over the coals and forgot to poke a hole in... in the evening he burned his boots in the campfire; somehow, inexplicably, dirt got into a can of navy-style pasta brought from home, but he really wanted to eat—or rather, have a snack—and Gena winced at the gritty crunch of soil, but he finished the can... in the morning it turned out that the pasta was untouched—in his intoxication and lack of lighting, the poor fellow had eaten a can of worms...
Rushing to brush his teeth, Uncle Gena, in haste and with a hangover, squeezed not toothpaste onto the brush, but a wonderful mosquito repellent—"Deta" (anyone remember that?). In an attempt to rinse his mouth, he poured a full mug from the pot of leftovers of tea brewed the evening before and drunk by him yesterday, and discovered at the bottom of the pot the lost socks from his burned boots.... The man's shock lasted about two hours....
As I already said, after this Uncle Gena quit fishing and vodka for a long time...
...He was a good guy. And he left on a good note—during one week he visited all his friends, paid off his debts, went to the sauna, put on his best suit, came home, kissed his wife, lay down on the sofa, and died...
Well... It's kind of sad...

I have sclerosis, I don't remember how I found it, maybe someone here gave me the link, but I decided to share it again here, it's a collection of cool graphs.

A joke for fans of World of Warcraft: An orc fan is talking to an undead fan: - Remember, the orphan week ended 2 days ago. Did you take any orphans? - Who are you talking about? I have enough children of my own. My Mortulus and Deathienne have a son, Postmortem, what a lazy bum, he just lies in the grave.

Changes lasting more than 15 minutes in a correctional facility are prohibited, as this time is insufficient to establish a stable criminal community.

It's high time to overwrite the foul language from the previous page. Standard: from anekdot.ru. Mostly stories; the writing dates vary widely.

Announcement:
"Free to a good home: ginger kitten, 6 months old, affectionate, playful, all vaccinations done, litter-trained, ideal for a family with children.
Or:
Husband, brunette, brown eyes, 35 years old, kind, sociable, good high-paying job, but cannot stand cats. Says that either he or the cat will live in the house."
Come, take a look, and choose whoever you like more!"
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My husband came down with the flu. I was planning to put drops in his nose; I entered the room with my son and waited for him to wake up. My son whispers: "Why are you waiting? Put them in while he's asleep." Husband, through his sleep: "It's too early to bury me—the body hasn't cooled yet."
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I liked an explanation on Facebook for ordinary Americans regarding "Raising the debt ceiling."
- So, imagine you come home, and something is wrong with the sewage in the neighborhood and your house is flooded with shit up to the ceiling. What are you going to do: raise the ceilings or pump out the shit?
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Anatoly:
That's nothing. We had mechanics who drove around the service area on a moped, with a second guy clinging to an office chair behind them. They'd accelerate the guy on the chair and then let go.
Once, some guy even flew out the gates and across the road to the gas station. Now, a man in a Lada 10 was absolutely stunned when a guy on a chair flew out of the service gates at breakneck speed right in front of him and headed for the gas station.
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With an Axe for Gold
This happened about a month ago. I urgently needed to buy two things—a good axe, powerful and heavy (for me, dear, to chop firewood for the sauna) and something beautiful and gold (for my wife, dear, to wear for beauty). My wife and I agreed to meet at the store, and on the way, I happened upon a hardware store where I chose an excellent three-kilogram splitting axe with a very long handle. I hoisted this cold weapon onto my shoulder and marched into the department store looking like a seasoned lumberjack.
You should have seen the security guard's eyes. First, he was floored when I simply walked in, and second—when I turned into the jewelry salon (just like that, with the axe). The saleswomen, by the way, were also floored, especially when I asked my wife, "Well, what are we getting?" By the way, her presence saved me from having to explain myself to the guard.
We did get the piece of jewelry eventually. For money, of course. By the way, this caused general astonishment. Since the salon didn't accept credit cards, I went with the axe to the ATM standing in the hall. There were about twenty people there, but when I approached, only five remained. The ATM, by the way, dispensed the cash instantly—probably floored too.
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My friend and I always used to ask Uncle Vanya to tell this story, usually while fishing, when we were cooking ukha over a campfire and after he'd had a bit of the soup, gotten tipsy, and started spinning fisherman's and hunter's yarns. Uncle Vanya was my friend's biological uncle, may he rest in peace. He was originally from central Russia, from some village, which is why he told his tales with a rural dialect, using "okanye" and "akanye," which gave the stories a special flavor. And we boys would ask him: "Uncle Vanya, come on, tell us the story about the 'horns'." And he would begin....
This took place sometime in the 60s.
We decided to go for some serious fishing once; we stocked up on potatoes for the ukha and "horns" (pasta, small curved tubes). And obviously, we took plenty of vodka. For bait, we dug up worms and collected bark beetles. By the time we caught enough fish, it had grown dark. At night, we lit a fire and began preparing the ukha; someone suggested adding the horns for richness, and so it was done. Of course, we drank along with the soup. The ukha turned out exceptionally tasty and rich... everyone praised the cook, only saying that the fish should have been washed better because sand occasionally crunched between the teeth, but no matter, the ukha was great. We ate all the ukha, even drinking what remained at the bottom of the pot, straining the sand through our teeth, but we drank it. We decided to fish again for the morning bite and went to sleep. At dawn we woke up, took the gear, but couldn't find the bark beetle bait. We searched everywhere—no bark beetles.
- Vanya, where did you put the bark beetles?
- They're lying there in the paper wrap.
- Which paper wrap?
- Well, in the newspaper wrap, in the backpack.
- There are only horns wrapped in the newspaper wrap here, and no bark beetles.
- That can't be, we added the horns to the ukha yesterday..., so the bark beetles should be there...
..silent pause
- Vanya, does that mean we... boiled... and ...ate the bark beetles in the ukha yesterday...?
....
- Turns out... damn... I couldn't tell in the dark..., they were wrapped in identical newspaper wraps.
- And I thought sand was crunching on my teeth... those were the heads of the bark beetles... crunching.
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In the 60s, a game became widespread at the Moscow Art Theatre (MXAT)—if one of the participants said "Hopkins!" to another, the latter, regardless of the situation they were in, had to jump. Those who failed to comply faced a large monetary fine. Most often, the MXAT luminaries used "hopkins," necessarily during performances, at the most dramatic moments. This ended when the Minister of Culture of the USSR, FURTSEVA, summoned the great "elders"—GRIBOV, LIVANOV, MASSALSKY, and YANSHIN. Shaking a stack of letters from spectators, she delivered a whole speech about Stanislavski's precepts, the role of MXAT in Soviet art, and the ethics of the Soviet artist. The misbehaving luminaries, holding every conceivable title, prize, and award, listened to the minister standing up. And suddenly Livanov softly said: "Hopkins!"—and everyone jumped.
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Two stories. Not particularly funny, but well characterizing the state of modern society.

Canada, Toronto.
A call comes into the police from a man reporting that his house was robbed right before his eyes.
That day, he returned from work slightly earlier than usual and saw a van driving away from his house. Initially, the victim paid no mind to it, thinking someone was just turning around on the narrow street and using his driveway. But when the man entered the house, there was no doubt—the house had been robbed.
The responding officer, after hearing the description of the van, decided it could still be caught and gave chase.
Finding himself on Highway 401, the officer indeed spotted a van matching the description.
Turning on the lights and siren, he attempted to stop the van, but shots rang out from the vehicle. The officer was hospitalized with severe injuries. The van escaped.
On the evening of the same day, the van that had fired the shots was found abandoned in a ravine. The subsequent investigation showed that the shooting van had nothing to do with the robbed house. Neither the house robbers nor those who shot the policeman were ever found. The policeman survived but was left permanently disabled.

Second story.
Canada, Toronto.
A young man commutes to work by subway every day. At some point, he notices a girl who takes the same route, and he begins to like her. The guy shows her attention, but is rejected. Not overly discouraged, he continues his courtship, and meeting her again, sits next to her and even places his palm on her hand. The unfortunate woman reports this to the police.
Not only the entire Toronto police force, but all of progressive humanity rises to search for the scoundrel. He is mentioned on the radio, printed in newspapers, and images from surveillance cameras are shown on television. About a week later, he is found and sent to prison on charges of sexual harassment and attempted rape.
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At the end of February, a good acquaintance invited me to his dacha for the weekend. Fresh air, clean white snow, a stoked stove, potatoes from a cast-iron pot, sauerkraut, pickled cucumbers, and of course, the "dear one" [vodka], chilled in a snowdrift. In short, a real man's vacation. Only he says I won't be alone, but with an American partner from work. He's on a business trip and I've been tasked with entertaining him for the weekend, so we'll show him real Russian exotic. Said and done. This genuine Anglo-Saxon turned out to be a decent guy, but terribly proper and, consequently, tedious. Moreover, he only consumed wine in minimal quantities. The whole village setting impressed him greatly. As a child of urbanization, he perceived simple things (an axe, felt boots, a samovar) with childish delight and pig-like squealing. We sat at the table, one, second, third shot, and the conversation smoothly flowed into politics. We told him about American imperialism, he told us about the tyranny of you-know-who, we asked him why Libya was bombed jointly with that rogue Sarkozy, he told us about dishonest elections. And suddenly he declares, "Do you know why Russia is such a rich country, yet its people live so poorly?" We nearly choked—such a dim-witted American, yet he knows the answer to the age-old question of the Russian man so easily. "You Russians cannot predict anything for the future. Tomorrow, both of you will feel terrible because you've already drunk far too much vodka, while I will sit on the porch and enjoy the winter sun and nature. For me, the weekend will be beneficial, but for you, it's just a regular binge." We didn't argue with him and soon went to bed. Morning came. The American woke up before everyone else and settled on the porch with an expression of complete happiness on his face. When we stepped out to survey the expanses of native nature, our faces were not fresh. "How's your health?" the American asked concernedly. "Either you bring no less than two liters of beer, or you'll have a problem explaining two whole corpses to the police," replied my comrade. The American turned pale. "I'm ready. No need for corpses. And no need for the police either." Result of the day: the village store two kilometers away from us. He walked there twice, as the first time he brought exactly 2 liters of beer. He cleaned the house. With a shovel, he cleared snow from all the paths, though nobody understood why. He wore himself out completely. Meanwhile, my friend and I spent the whole day sitting on the porch sipping beer and reflecting on the meaning of life and how we would remember this weekend for a long time. Naturally, on the way back, the American was behind the wheel, while we sang songs and teased our American colleague, who can forecast everything so wonderfully in this complicated life.
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Vertinsky was giving a concert in a small club in Minsk. Before the performance, he and the pianist M. Brokhes decided to test the sound of the piano. It turned out to be horrific. They called the director, who just shrugged. Sighing, he said: "Alexander Nikolayevich, this is a historical piano—even Chopin himself refused to play on it."
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Yesterday evening I gave a ride to some guy from VDNH to Perov... We're driving, word leads to word, he says he just moved from St. Petersburg, doesn't know Moscow. I ask, why'd you move? Well, he says with an important air... I sort of work at IBM, and I was sent here on a year-long assignment. And he starts rambling to me about his IBM, how everything there is [censored] and how everything here is bad. I say I understand why everything works at [censored] while here everything barely functions. Then he says in our department there are only foreigners, they work like bees, until 8-9 pm, and then the boss stands up and says—"Alright guys, let's all go to a restaurant! My treat!" And that's where you realize why corporate events, team building, and all that [censored] are needed! That's cool, he says! We can order pizza to the office for lunch and the company pays for everything, you realize the firm cares about you. And he sits there with a satisfied look)
I tell him... and I work on a construction site. I also have only foreigners in my department and they also work like bees until late. And when they start working poorly, I also buy them food)) And then they work well)
The guy asked to be let out.
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Moscow. A visiting troupe was performing "Taras Bulba" at the Mikhailovsky Manege. In the scene where Taras kills his son, Bulba spent an agonizingly long time trying to pull a snagged rifle off his shoulder, muttering: "Wait, Andriy, just now I shall kill you!" Poor Andriy waited patiently to be killed, but the rifle just wouldn't budge. Finally, untangling the strap, Taras exclaimed: "I sired you, and I shall kill you!"—and pulled the trigger... Not so fast, a misfire. "Wait, Andriy, I'll kill you now! I sired you, and I shall kill you!"—Taras Bulba wailed again, futilely pulling the trigger amid the Homeric laughter of the hall. Finally, someone backstage took pity and hit a board against the floor, simulating a shot... Alas, at that moment, the desperate Taras Bulba was already hacking his son with a saber.
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Yesterday I'm standing at a pedestrian crossing. Waiting for the green light. A guy is standing next to me. Just as the light turns green, a car stops at the crossing. The guy, muttering "[censored]" under his breath, opens the rear door, gets in, and immediately climbs out the other side and crosses the road.
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Story told by a grandfather. And not even mine—my wife's.
As it happened, the grandfather served in the Arctic Circle in the late 50s. I don't know exactly where. I know there was a port somewhere, and some zones they guarded. But the story isn't about that. As was customary, soldiers periodically went on guard duty. Because of the frosts, each soldier was issued a ration of drinking alcohol (70%) for warmth. As I understand it, they were allowed to drink it only in tiny amounts (supervised by an officer), and only during breaks. The soldiers drank the alcohol, of course, but as intended—only to warm up. Therefore, surpluses remained.
And often these surpluses were traded with the local population (Chukchi, Nanai, who knows who else) for various goodies. Once, the grandfather went for such an exchange to one Chukchi—a fisherman. They constantly took fish from him. Grandpa said there was a shed covered by a door. And the door was "locked" with a bent nail. Nobody stole anything. The native took the alcohol as usual and sent the soldier into the shed to gather whatever he needed. Suddenly, he runs up to the grandpa and says, "come along, I'll show you something interesting." So grandpa jumped out, and the Chukchi pointed to a hole in the ice in the river, on the bank of which the shed stood.
And a bear approached the hole. It wandered, sniffed, broke the crust of ice that had managed to seal the hole, and dove in. After a while, fish started flying out onto the ice. It's obvious—fish crowd around the hole, there's more oxygen there, just catch away. And after a couple more minutes, a fox appeared and started dragging this fish into the forest somewhere, hiding it. In short, while the bear was fussing, the fox stole all the fish and vanished. Well, the happy bear soon surfaces from the hole—he'd gathered plenty of food for himself. It's not often you find a hole in the ice in winter. But not so fast. No fish.
In short, the poor fellow started running around the hole howling for the whole neighborhood to hear, but it was too late. Taken. At this, the grandpa and the Chukchi prudently hid in the shed; there was no reason to anger an already enraged and hungry beast.
So the tales about the sly fox aren't lies.
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Soon is our common Victory Day holiday, and few in our countries were bypassed by this terrible war.
Thus, my uncle died in the war, my father's younger brother; an eighteen-year-old boy blew up a "Katyusha" rocket launcher together with himself, the one he fought on, so it wouldn't fall into enemy hands; he is buried somewhere near Volkhov.
Another uncle, my mother's sister's husband, lost a leg in Czechia, and on his chest was an iconostasis of medals and orders. And only cripples returned alive to the village, some without a leg, some without an arm; my father was lucky, he only limped a bit. And yet my grandfather, an ordinary peasant, was repressed and died in prison. His wife with small children was exiled to Siberia, from the Far East! But my father was taken into the army, even got into special forces, guarding the border. Despite this, the grandfather's sons worthily defended their homeland. They are no longer with us, and may their memory be bright.
And on the eve of the May 9th Victory Day holiday, I suggest one story from the military past, for back then, alongside tragic moments, comic situations also occurred. So.
In one of the villages of the Amur region, a Hero of the Soviet Union worked as an ordinary tractor driver, having received the award during the 1941-1945 war. He fought then as a tank driver. Obviously, he was constantly invited to various solemn events, especially those timed to patriotic dates. He spoke very reluctantly and hesitantly about what feat earned him such a high award. After all, in any case, he received it apparently deservedly: he was a simple private soldier, meaning there was a reason to give it. Only at the very end of his years did he finally confess how it happened, and that too while quite tipsy.
Here is the approximate account of his story. The war was already nearing its end, and a glimmer of hope appeared that it would soon finish. The members of the tank crew decided to celebrate their colleague's birthday, especially since there was a lull at the front, and they had saved a bit of alcohol from the "frontline" hundred grams, deciding to celebrate the holiday according to all the rules. And as is our custom, they hadn't saved enough, they needed to add more, but where to get it—there are no stores here. But someone's clear head remembered an overheard conversation about how scouts returning from beyond the front line reported the situation to the commander. From their report, it was evident that at the nearest railway station, cisterns were standing on the rails, and that two of them definitely contained alcohol. And here, to the misfortune of the Germans (and they no longer thought about the fact that they could be severely punished for unauthorized absence), our brave tankers decided to quickly dash to the station to refuel with alcohol.
Said and done. They quietly drove away from their position—it was summer and starting to dawn—and rolled toward the station, toward the coveted cisterns. They did all this covertly, so that not only our own, but also the Germans missed them. Well, they certainly didn't expect to see a Soviet tank in their rear. Panic broke out among the Germans—Russian tanks! As is known, fear makes eyes grow large. Our hero tells us, we immediately realized where we'd landed, but it was too late to turn back, so we had to shoot a bit, and the Germans became completely flustered, scattering everywhere. They abandoned everything and didn't even try to fight back; dressing on the fly, they piled into cars and bolted. The station was liberated, practically without a fight or losses!
Their commanders took advantage of this feat, ignored the tank's unauthorized absence, and presented everything in the necessary light: claiming the tank was specifically sent on reconnaissance, where the tankers performed this heroic act. Of course, they surely didn't forget about themselves either.
That's how, the hero says: it's shameful to admit, but he effectively received the Gold Star of a Hero due to a drinking bout.
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Real case.
Entry from a police patrol log: "Address NNN, reason for call: aliens kidnapped a child."
Entry for this call, marked an hour and a half later: "Those responsible for the kidnapping of the child have been detained and brought to the station; an explanatory conversation has been conducted with them."
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I worked as a gas station attendant for a while. One day, a fancy Mazda pulls up. A girl gets out and goes to the cashier. She pays, returns, and discovers that the key fob with the button to open the door is missing (it's on the keys in the ignition). She comes to me and asks for help, but I'm really busy. I found a wire in my pocket, bent it, and gave it to her so she could hook the latch from the inside. The window was open by about three centimeters. Five minutes later, I see a man lying on the lawn LAUGHING. I ask him what's wrong with him. And he tells me:
- Look at that idiot trying to open the door with a wire.
Well, I objected, saying that I was the one who advised her. After his explanation, I lay down beside him. She (the girl) is struggling, trying to hook the latch, AND THE SECOND ONE IS SITTING IN THE CAR DIRECTING HER!
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If you have goosebumps running across your body—identify their leader, the king-bump, and behead him. Without a leader, they will be demoralized and scatter.
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An experienced acoustician can determine a son's readiness for an exam with a single flick of the finger.
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For the fifth time in the last two years, Malevich's canvas "Black Square" has been stolen from the museum! And for the fifth time, the guard Uncle Vasya manages to restore the painting by morning!...
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xxx: My acquaintances bought a house built in America sometime in the 60s—there was a bunker under the basement built in case of nuclear war and the arrival of the Russians.
xxx: In short, the Russians finally arrived. And straight into the bunker!
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This happened several years ago in Moscow. I worked predominantly from home and at the most critical moment, as usually happens, the computer shut down and wouldn't turn back on. I didn't have time to go to some workshop, and besides, how do you find one without the internet?.. However, in the entryway, there were phone numbers for all sorts of services like "husband for an hour" and "we fix computers fast." I call. Home visit is almost free. Maybe 100 rubles. Soon, a neat, polite young man arrives. He quickly disassembles the computer, performs diagnostics, finds something burnt out, informs me of the cost—500-600 rubles, I agree, he quickly replaces it and says:
- You have a lot of dust here. Do you have a vacuum cleaner?
- Of course I do.
And I bring him a regular household vacuum cleaner.
In 2-3 minutes, he removes all the dust from the insides of the computer and reassembles it.
I look at him and think: "What a conscientious worker, hard to find people like this—I must definitely give him some money for a tip." After assembly, he fills out some papers, warranties, and hands them to me:
- That will be