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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
