Here are some more:
- Have you served?
- Yes! Reserve Generalissimo!
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I just got a spam message: "I live in the house opposite, here is my link *link address*. Let's get to know each other." I replied that I live opposite the morgue and such acquaintances frighten me.
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- Education and medicine will now be paid for by the population.
- That won't work! According to the constitution, we have a right to free...
- The constitution is also paid for now.
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Children say:
- Never leave a dog to guard your lunch (Yasha, 8 years old).
- If you want to be given some expensive thing, ask your grandma and grandpa (Misha, 12 years old).
- Never tell mom that her diet isn't working (Lena, 9 years old).
- Don't tease your little sister when she has a tennis racket in her hand (Kolya, 8 years old).
- Never tell your little brother that you aren't going to do what mom told you to do (Alyosha, 11 years old).
- Never spit on a roller coaster (Sasha, 9 years old).
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A guy is leaving the parking lot and leaves a note: "Do not take this spot, I'll slash your tires!". He comes back—an asphalt steamroller is in his spot, with an awl nearby and a note: "Good luck!".
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Soviet times of general shortage. A married couple comes out of Lenin's Mausoleum.
- You fool! - the husband says to his wife in frustration.
- Vasya, well who knew?! - she almost cries, - look at that queue!
I thought they were giving something away here!
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- Daughter, come over here.
- Mom, Dad. Ahhh, okay, I get it. Found the cigarettes? Did the school call? If you're about the money—I'll return everything. Dad, the drugs in the closet aren't mine, those are for sale. Come on, guys. If the police came, they can't prove anything. No body—no crime.
- Did you break the vase?
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At the psychiatrist:
- Come in, my dear fellow! Your name, surname?
- Vladimir Putin.
- Interesting case! I've heard all kinds of delusions, but this... Well, and how long have you had this?
- Since birth. Same first name and last name. Maybe you'll actually ask what is bothering me?!
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In 1985, I was vacationing on a steamship voucher somewhere all the way in Tajikistan.
From Dushanbe to the boarding house, it's another 100 kilometers of driving.
And there I met a lovely career-driver named Yura Evgrafov.
Also from Murmansk. Not in the sense of being a brown-noser, but in the sense that he operated a "BelAZ" dump truck, hauling something from a nickel quarry.
The rest is in his words.
...So that's how it went with us. If someone's wife and children go on vacation, it means the house is common ground. The friends bring the booze, the host provides the snacks and the house itself.
And so the guys stocked up thoroughly after payday and settled in at one place. They settled in so thoroughly that by the sixth day they had eaten all the same grains of the host. And yet, "give us some snacks!" It was a deal.
He would have provided them, but since 7 PM all the shops were locked; they wouldn't open until 10 AM.
And so the host stands at the kitchen entrance, scratching his head, scanning the kitchen space with his eyes. And suddenly his gaze hits something. And it clicks in his head:
"Guys, you want some pancakes?"
"Why were you quiet, you bastard?! Bring your pancakes!"
Recipe: the host peels off a kombucha fungus into thin slices and fries them on both sides (thankfully sunflower oil was available).
Only how much of that fungus is there for such a crowd. About three hours later, a remake:
"Hey, what about snacks... What, you're holding back again?"
And again, a survey from the door of empty shelves. Everything had been cleaned out. A three-liter jar of fungus (the liquid was used as a drink), half a bottle of oil, a pack of salt, and a trash can. (It's called a trash can now, but back then it was called a slop bucket. G.M.) And it clicks again.
"How about some mushrooms, brothers?"
"Bring them!"
Recipe: the kitchen door is closed tightly. Potato peels extracted from the bucket are finely crumbled, washed in a colander, and fried well. And so a full pan of "mushrooms" was already on the table.
And they went down well. Especially with vodka. They even praised them. Of course, mushrooms.
A delicacy.
The mushrooms also flew fast, but the host managed to hold out until the shop opened...
P.S. Yura should be over 60 now. If anyone knows who I'm talking about, let me know.
Me or him. It would be good to see each other. While we still breathe...
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WHERE ARE THE BLACK GUYS???
This wonderful story was told by a friend.
About our mutual friend.
An ex-special forces soldier (though they are never really "ex"), 120 kg and nearly 2 meters tall, once saw six black guys snatch a handbag from his neighbor. The one with the bag prudently bolted, while the others "kind of took up a defensive position, saying not to interfere..."
What happened next is easy to describe. One against five—even for a special forces soldier, let's say, is somewhat problematic. Although the finale was clear in advance—hospital, trauma ward. For EVERYONE!!!
Moreover, Romka got off with a concussion and bruises, but things were much worse for the black guys—numerous fractures, mostly in the joints.
The doctors, as always, distinguished themselves with humanity and understanding. They put everyone in one room!!! Which was exactly designed for six people.
Further, the story is in his name.
I come to my senses, poke an eye out from under the blanket... OPA! And on the neighboring beds are those creeps, each half in plaster!
I blinked.
Didn't help. Definitely them.
I start getting up—untangling myself from the blanket. I stand up. I look. YOOO... but no one is there! Have I gone off my rocker? Uh... how can they not be here—they were just here!
I stand up.
Well, my head is spinning and coordination isn't quite right... maybe they injected something?
Aha, now we're getting constructive. I need to go find out what they injected.
I go. I catch the duty nurse and demand the "medical history." I decipher the doctor's scribbles—no, nothing like that was injected... where did the hallucinations come from?
I return with the goal of scouting the area. Yes, someone had been lying on the beds. Even the mattresses are still warm. So no hallucinations. But where did everyone go? Well... let's go look.
Bending over (to check under the beds) with a battered head was somewhat problematic, as was inspecting the ventilation windows. But from the increased brain activity, the brains actually felt better. The search operation continued. I caught a doctor.
- Who was lying HERE...?
- They were brought in with you. Black guys.
- And where did they put them?
- Where are they going to go in plaster? You broke everything for them! Yes, the cops will be here soon, they want to talk to you...
Further confirmation that it's not hallucinations, but...!!! Where did the black guys go? In plaster? And the cops... they'll probably say I threw them out the window, and then I have to prove I don't even know where the window is here... The worst part is that I remember yesterday's events perfectly.
Assessing the situation, I start feeling completely healthy and eager to find the black guys just as proof that I didn't kill them. Only beat them. In self-defense.
I set the entire trauma staff on edge. I instruct them. A sweep of the territory. Nurses are scouring the rooms at a fast pace, checking even in the bedside tables.
The doctor ran to shake down the gatekeeper—well, five black guys in plaster are hard not to notice. And then the cops arrived. Well, great!
Truth is, the cops turned out to be normal guys and understood the situation.
They joined the search.
The black guys were found. In a bathroom locked from the inside, or more accurately—in the tub itself, where they had crammed five of them together with their "plaster" and even covered themselves with dirty laundry. They camouflaged themselves like that.
They also found a translator.
He explained that when they saw that I WAS GETTING UP... they also recovered quickly.
I was discharged, and the black guys were returned to their beds.
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Not mine, stole it from a trucker))
Rostov, this evening, 21-30. Favorite parking lot behind Mega. With full bags from Finn-Flair and Sportmaster, I approach my car. Their parking tow truck is hanging around it. Interestedly, I stop, light up, and stare. The guy is fussing with towing straps.
- Listen, what do you want to do with her?
- Tow her away...
- Ahhhhh... I see... But why?
- She's parked crooked....
I look. The tractor-trailer is clearly in the parking space, like it was measured with a ruler..
- No way, man. Seems straight to me.. I don't get what you want from her. Maybe the person doesn't have a passenger car, so they came to the store in this. Isn't the prey too big for your little truck?
- Seems like I can tow it.... He's probably sleeping inside, or pretending, see, the curtains are closed. And I'll make three thousand off him, then Moderated: PROFANITY in message
хуй
he'll prove that he was parked straight (sliding the ropes under the rear axle while wriggling on the ground)
- Nooo, man, you won't tow it like that.....
- Why not?
- Because it's probably on the handbrake....
- So what? I worked on a GAZon, their handbrake is on the rear axle.
- Sure, sure.
The winch motor howls, the rear part lifts up on pads. Then the ropes snap.
- Man, that
Moderated: PROFANITY in message
нихуя
won't work. The car is from 2007, it has a handbrake on both axles... Disc brake...
The guy moves to the front and, crawling on his belly, puts two more ropes under the front axle.
- No, man, it won't work. See, the bumper here is plastic? Well, I'll break your head over it much sooner than you turn on that winch.
- Is this yours?
- Mine, whose else (pulling the keys out of the ignition lock) Now call whoever gave you the order to evacuate this car and the duty director of the shopping center. Because as a customer
Moderated: PROFANITY in message
ебать
I'm going to screw you guys big time, with a call to the traffic police.
The guy leaves with dignity. Honestly, I wait for him 15 minutes, write a note on the windshield as follows:
"Car keys are in the blue plastic toilet for drivers under the ramp for entry into the Leroy Merlin unloading zone. Sincerely, a regular Mega customer". I wait another five minutes, take and drown the keys in the promised place and bail. On the way back from the city, out of pure curiosity, I stop by there again. With satisfaction, I note: the little tow-trucker is in the same spot, there's fussing and a flashlight beam in the toilet. It worked.
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I'm standing on the platform, waiting for my electric train.
Most platforms, if anyone isn't aware, are fenced with a three-meter fence.
At the point where the fence meets the metro building with turnstiles, in the upper third there is a small gap due to the arched profile of the fence. Through this gap, two fare-dodging bodies try to penetrate onto the platform. One of them slips through the gap, and the second one gets stuck. After several lunges, the body breaks free from the trap and utters the sacramental phrase.
- Well [censored], seriously, [censored] have become so arrogant, you can't even fit through...
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About the bloody tsarist regime.
Just heard on the radio. There was (late 19th — early 20th century) a very famous composer, author of romances, Nikolai Kharito. His most famous romance is "The chrysanthemums in the garden have long since faded."
So, as a student, he received several years of exile for free-thinking and there contracted an early stage of tuberculosis. And what do you think—those satraps, tsarist oprichniks and stranglers of freedom, considering his fame and popularity, as well as health problems, replaced his exile with treatment for 3 years at resorts in Switzerland, counting this time toward the term of exile.
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A friend's neighbor married a German and flew off to Deutschland. They live without worries, but sometimes they feel drawn back to their historical homeland to visit parents, see friends...
One day they gathered as a family and came. The husband had never been to Russia; neither the banya nor vodka-accordion-salmon were known to him. My friend is a sociable person, always friendly with neighbors, has his own little house in the village with a banya-river-brooms-moonshine... In short, they took the German through the full program.
Evening of another "processing" day.
The tipsy German, wrapped in a sheet and eating lard with onion, starts a dialogue:
- Kolya, I count Russian wife - most best wife in world!
- Warum?
- Here German wife you gav-gav-gav, you her (shows a punch from above) bum-bum-bum, she phone immediately: "Hallo, polizei?" And ich bin handcuffs, prison, ai-ai-ai...
And Russian wife you gav-gav-gav, you her bum-bum-bum, she you GAV-GAV-GAV! - you her bum-bum-bum, she you BUM-BUM-BUM. You lie in corridor nicht consciousness, wake up - covered with blanket where fall. Nicht polizei, nicht prison... Russian wife - most best wife in world!
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From correspondence:
""the Portuguese told me that some guy has a kind of super-hacker code, with which you can download for FREE! all sorts of expensive textbooks and scientific articles. I asked to see this miracle of hacker thought. Imagine my surprise when I was proudly shown the only word in Cyrillic saved in a special txt file, with instructions in Portuguese to copy this code into the Google search bar before the query. This word was: "Download" "
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Another story. Told by guys I trust, so it's probably true.
In Siberia it's cold for us, and therefore at one time mink ushanka hats became fashionable, and the trend was that the ear-flaps must definitely stand up like a little house. So, there stands a master of sports in athletics at a bus stop—I think even a Russian champion of some year. He stands, thinks, smokes, since he quit sports and moved to coaching work at the university. A young guy runs up to him, rips the hat off his head and bolts. Our master slowly finishes smoking and gives chase. And after some time, he realizes with surprise that the distance is not closing, but even increasing. Realizing this, he yelled at the top of his lungs: "Kid, forget the hat, come to my training sessions at the university!!!!!"
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I saw another scam on a job site about "Text typists wanted." Well, for a laugh I wrote—saying I want to work, what needs to be done? A letter comes: so and so, to start working, you need to pay 45r. for some services there. I write back: something got cheaper, before they paid 300-500r. for this scam. And I added: maybe I should get into this racket too. I send it, not hoping for a reply. I look—they replied: don't bother—the profits from this crap are very small :)
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1988. MFTI dormitory. Among the hungry students, black representatives of the rodents of science stand out profitably.
Black guy: - How you.. cook pelmeni?
Student: - Bought pelmeni? It's all simple. Put water on gas, salt it.
When it boils—throw in the pelmeni. Those that float up first are low quality, you give them to me, - I'll feed Kuzya (the cat). Collect the rest after 10 min.
I don't know if it's true or not, but they say the kind and compassionate Black guy carried the cat to the clinic. Because eating so many pelmeni and looking like a Buchenwald prisoner - clearly not a healthy thing...
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FROM ANOTHER DIMENSION
A few years ago, my friend and I went to do fitness. Well, we just felt like cheering up in late autumn. Natashka picked me up and said:
- Damn, we're definitely going to be late! Such traffic jams in the city...
- Let's go via the ring road. In THAT direction it'll definitely be better.
We went.
The thing is, neither I nor she had ever entered the required street from THIS side. Plus the darkness of a slushy November evening. Naturally, we turned slightly in the wrong place. Clearly the wrong place. We found it funny ourselves—getting lost in our own city, but something had to be done...
- Oh! - I notice some final stop for some buses. - Let's go there. We'll ask for directions.
We pull up. Sharply, with "preparation" for a U-turn; I jump out of the passenger seat and gallop toward the drivers—since we are late:
- Could you tell me, please, where we are?
The drivers turn around lazily, and as a huge favor:
- Well... in Voronezh.
"Thank you, your mother, we kind of know that ourselves." I decide to get back at the jerks.
I smile happily, looking back at the "DeLorean" (a 14th Lada silver metallic, but in the dark it'll do):
- Wow! And what year is it now?
- Uh... such-and-such.
- And the date?
- Uhhhhh... such-and-such... - and their faces stretch longer and longer.
I turn back to the car and scream:
- Natashka! We got here right! Even the time matches.
Back to the drivers, and I look at my watch:
- It's 19:54 now, right?
Cigarettes fall out of their mouths, and they themselves almost fall on their asses.
I—run to the car and hiss to Natalya—"Very sharp start, I'll explain later."
We found the fitness club, but the classes didn't go well. Just try to do something and laugh at the same time.
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ILYA MUROMETS
Twenty-five years have passed, but I still remember and never cease to be amazed by one strange man named Pototsky.
And it happened like this...
Pskov region, Air Defense training center.
Since the USSR hadn't collapsed yet, we had the full beauty of the reckless friendship of brotherly peoples in the barracks, but the main problems arose for us because of the Uzbeks. There were about thirty of them in our company, hence the problems—well, as problems... they gathered in bulk and regularly beat us, and from this naturally we had problems...
The Georgians stuck together, the Kazakhs also didn't let themselves be pushed around, but for us Russo-Ukraino-Belarusians, there was no one to stand up for us. We weren't needed by anyone, not even ourselves, so we endured regular raids from Tamerlane's army.
The most we could put up was about ten people (the rest of our warriors had urgent business...). So it didn't turn into epic battles, but a demonstration of the superiority of the Central Asian way of life.
But then, about a month and a half later, He appeared on the threshold of our barracks.
Not particularly tall, but he was certainly two meters, maybe slightly more.
Head huge as a horse's, belly protruding, and if you step back and look from afar, by proportions it seems he is small and chubby, but as soon as an ordinary person approached him, from their combination it became clear that in this life, not everything is yet clear to us...
He was originally from a remote Belarusian village and bore the proud name Pototsky.
By nature, he was a gentle and shy person, and this is not surprising, for otherwise some amorous Cro-Magnon would never have dared approach a Neanderthal—a distant ancestor of our Pototsky on the female line.
Pototsky for some reason was panically afraid of any authority, even sergeants; he was slow and completely unathletic, but with a mass of two hundred kilograms and strength like a werewolf—those were absolutely not his problems.
The unit commander called our company a Banderite detachment. Imagine it - a company of soldiers, behind whom marches a giant man dressed in a black prisoner's pea coat, gray trousers, on his head a small tubeteika in the form of a soldier's cap, and on his feet boots with cut-out backs. Of all necessary equipment, only the cap and size 48 kirza boots were found in the warehouse; as for the rest—he served for about three months in what he was drafted in, until custom-made Gulliver-sized uniforms arrived from the district.
I don't know why, but we became friends right away, although at first I was afraid to approach this huge man; I am very ashamed, but I was afraid he would bite me if he suddenly went crazy. This probably seems funny to you, it's just that you haven't seen Pototsky. But lion tamers will understand me...
The first time he surprised me was when the company received thick soldier skis for cross-country at the warehouse. A few lucky ones didn't get any and went back to the warm barracks to wait for the return of the tired hero-skiers.
Time was pressing, soon it would be the start; everyone was adjusting bindings and attaching heavy logs to their feet, while Pototsky buzzed in my ear with a funny Belarusian accent:
- Oh, mommy, oh I'll kill myself on these clumsy skis, I've never ridden them in my life. Oh what will happen to me...
Suddenly behind my back there was a loud crack that made me jump—my huge friend had unnoticedly broken his ski in half, simply holding it with his hands side by side. I later tried to break such a log over my knee; no, I couldn't.
Time passed and sooner or later Pototsky had to run into Tamerlane's army of thirty sabers...
And that day came.
Lunch. Our bogatyr towered at the edge of the table and habitually held his bowl by the bottom like a saucer (it was more convenient for him); opposite Pototsky sat a fierce Uzbek—the chief batyr and leader of their army. The batyr decided - "it's time," grabbed a ladle and started shaking it in front of the huge good-natured face of the Belarusian, shouting various Turkic insults...
The giant remained silent, lowered his eyes and silently continued to eat. Then the batyr, satisfied with the effect produced, put down the ladle and also returned to the meal.
Suddenly (although the word "suddenly" was not invented for dinosaurs) Pototsky seized the moment and gave the Uzbek a fatherly slap across the face.
The batyr fell face-first into his plate without even making a sound, splashing soup on everyone at the table.
Screams! noise! threats! Fellow countrymen carried the batyr's body outside; only then did he regain consciousness.
I, like all Russo-Belarusian-Ukrainians of our company, understood that we had until dinner left to live, and so be it, not the first time, but what kind of slap is this that makes a person completely black out?
And Pototsky demonstrated this trick again on a soldier's bowl; then everything fell into place. After the slap to the bottom, the bowl forever lost its symmetry and became unstable, as if a truck had run over it.
In the evening we sat in the half-empty barracks and talked quietly. The air smelled of blood, and the sensations were nasty—you couldn't tell if you were hot or cold. Scary, in one word.
Only the wonder-bogatyr was cheerful and carefree, and he chatted incessantly about various civilian foolishness. I tried to bring him back to our sinful Tatar-Mongol land:
- Apparently, the Uzbeks will come to beat you now. And the four of us along with you. We should prepare somehow...
- What's there to prepare, when they come, they'll get slaps just like today in the dining hall. By the way, I often at home fought village against village. Oh and it was fun. One village would come to me, give money and I'd go with them to beat the other village. And then vice versa—they collected money, paid me and we'd go beat the first ones...
But this Yuletide tale didn't make us any more cheerful. Apparently our Banderite didn't imagine the cunning Asians in a quantity of thirty pieces very well.
Well, that's it.
The stomp of boots; through the forest of beds we saw the enemy army. The Uzbeks stood in the central aisle and gutturally shouted:
- Patoski, come out you jackal, we are going to kill you!
Pototsky rose from his stool and headed toward them, with difficulty squeezing between the beds.
The four of us stood up and resignedly followed him.
The Belarusian looked back and asked with a smile:
- Oh, where are you going? Stay here, so I don't accidentally catch you. Stay put!
We obediently sat down, and then began live scenes from Russian epic tales.
Ilya Muromets approached the foul host and said:
- What, you non-Russian chурки have arrived?
The most powerful Chelubey barely reached Muromets' belt buckle with his nose.
And then it started—all thirty infidels with shouting rushed at the Bogatyr from all sides, trying to shake him. No one could reach his face, of course, so their Asian fists cozily poked into the bogatyr's huge belly like a pillow.
The wildest part was that Pototsky was laughing. He was having fun!
The situation became a stalemate; Muromets not only didn't hit them but didn't even take them seriously, and Batyy's shrill army fruitlessly rocked the bogatyr, as if preschoolers were fighting with their playful father.
Eventually Pototsky got bored and decided to free himself from these giant bees. The bogatyr grabbed enemies by their belts, gently lifted them off the floor and tossed them away about two meters. Two at a time. At the same time, he laughed happily and commented:
- You're funny chурки, like little children. Fly away now, you've played enough...
The infidel army was bewildered; for the first time in their lives, their fierce battle turned into a farce.
Then one of them remembered about his belt, twisted and reached the bogatyr's face with the buckle.
Pototsky let out a roar like from the night jungles, sharply snatched the offender from the crowd and only now, turning on all his animal strength, threw him vertically upward with both hands. The Uzbek met the high barracks ceiling with a dull thud and showered down along with broken fluorescent lamps.
Pototsky, like a circus lion that had broken into the spectator stands, sowed panic and destruction. Fierce enemies instantly turned into little penguins who scrambled away from the helicopter. Pototsky wanted to destroy everyone but, fortunately, didn't catch anyone else.
A few seconds and the barracks were empty. One particularly impressionable Uzbek even threw his stool and tried to jump after it through a broken window...
Muromets returned to our corner; we tensed up slightly (heaven knows how Neanderthals are with braking...). He sat on his stool, felt his swollen lip and said:
- Eh, I overdid it, I'm afraid the chурки will still report me to the sergeants.
Boys, maybe someone has a mirror so I can look at my mug?
