Auto-translated
Maybe everyone has seen it already... but I like it. :smile44:
Classification of Moscow drivers
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
GOLDEN BOY. The golden gene pool of the nation's youth. By the age of twenty, he has earned enough money for a car worth several tens of thousands of dollars. The paint is fluorescent metallic with a shimmering sheen. A driver's license is included in the standard package and is already in the glove compartment at the time of purchase. The owner cannot be seen, as all the windows, including the windshield, are tinted. He crashed his first car at the age of twelve - it was his father's "Mercedes". Driving style: starts in third gear, floors the gas pedal, and immediately pulls into the oncoming lane. He does not react to the gestures of the traffic police (although they do not insist). In the event of an accident, he is always right. He may hit a pedestrian, but at the same time, his father's chauffeur is always behind the wheel.
COOL DUDE
Cool dudes usually come from golden boys, unless they met a KamAZ truck or ended up in near-Earth orbit by pressing the accelerator harder than usual. There is no fundamental difference between them, but there are a few minor differences. 1. A cool dude's car is painted in a solid black, brown, or silver color. 2. There is no window tinting (at the request of a jealous wife). 3. He crashed his first car at the age of fifteen. It was his grandfather's "Volga" car.
COLLECTIVE FARMER
A rusty, rattling, smoky, and making indecent noises "kopeyka" (a popular Soviet car model). Painted with a broom in brown over blue. The body is pierced in some places with a finger and almost everywhere - with a screwdriver. The car parts that are not vital are tied with string; the rest are securely fastened with wire. It is loaded so much that the rear wheels are pressed into the body. Sparks fly from the rear axle on bumps. The muffler was torn off 100,000 kilometers ago. The driving principle is the same as that of a COOL DUDE, but with adjustments for the car's capabilities. It accelerates well downhill, and it announces braking with a loud sound, reminiscent of the screech of rusty nails on a porcelain plate. The owner has a license to operate a collective farm mowing machine. He pays unconditionally to everyone who is not too lazy to stop him.
REAL GUY. The car is a "Vaz-2108" or a BMW from the late 1980s. Alloy wheels, blue lights, Chinese tinting, spoilers, moldings, reflectors, side lights, a steering wheel cover. A musical signal. A chrome nozzle on the muffler with a nozzle that puts the MiG-21 to shame. An antenna 1.5 meters long. An air freshener with the smell of toilet cleaner: perfectly conveys the atmosphere of a roadside toilet. Velvet seat covers with fringe, a leopard skin under the driver's seat. And all this - with absolutely bald tires, like on a "Formula 1" car. Driving style: starts with a squeal of tires, weaving from lane to lane, racing for survival with COOL DUDES and GOLDEN BOYS, collecting all potholes, curbs, poles, and local traffic cops. The movement is accompanied by music in the style of "tunga-tunga" at 120 decibels; if the car is not moving, it bounces in place to the beat.
SUMMER COTTAGE OWNER. An average beat-up "Moskvich-41". In the cabin - wife, mother-in-law, three children, two cats, one dog. In the trunk - manure and pitchforks. On the roof - two iron barrels, five bags of potatoes, four boxes of tomatoes, a gas cylinder, an old sofa, and seven sheets of slate. During emergency braking, the upper trunk breaks away from the supports and lands on the hood. He drives at a speed of 50 km/h, but strictly in the left lane. Being frightened by a loud signal, he suddenly begins to swerve across the road and at that moment becomes mortally dangerous to those around him. A legitimate prey for the traffic police. Guilty of ten traffic violations at once, as well as by the very fact of his existence.
MAD "GAZELLE". With one hand, he takes money..., with the other, he counts the change. With one eye, he monitors the cabin, with the other, he glances at the side of the road in search of a customer. He turns the steering wheel with his belly and, I don't want to offend anyone, he shifts gears with something else. He has been behind the wheel for fourteen hours without a break. He used to drive a combine harvester on a collective farm. In his rattling "taxi" there are a dozen sitting passengers and as many standing in a pose resembling the letter "G". During sharp acceleration or braking (and the driving style does not provide for other options), the standing passengers bump their backs into the faces of the sitting ones. Sometimes he is stopped by traffic police officers. The driver gets out, exchanges a handshake with the inspector, and after ten seconds he is rushing forward again, causing horror to oncoming and cross traffic.
NERD. One has to be Freud to describe the tangled mess of complexes nested in the soul of a NERD. Undoubtedly, in childhood, he was teased in the yard, and his parents often punished him by making him kneel on peas. In his youth, he was pimply and ridiculed by girls. Only behind the wheel does he manage to realize himself. A NERD tries at all costs to overtake any car that is in front of him. He risks his life to get through on yellow, wedges into any gap between cars, passable only for a motorcycle. He makes terrible faces at other road users and demonstrates offensive gestures. He cuts off those who, in his opinion, mortally offended him by not giving way on the first request. No matter which lane he occupies, the neighbor's lane is always better and freer, which forces the NERD to engage in a fierce battle for living space. He drives with his headlights on even during the day in order to urge those in front. He accompanies every maneuver with a sound signal. Finding himself in a traffic jam or at an intersection, he honks incessantly, because, in addition to all his other complexes, he did not honk enough in kindergarten.
BOMBER. Or even a pike in a river, so that the carp does not doze. Having seen a potential passenger hitchhiking on the side of the road, the BOMBER rushes towards him from the third lane. In this way, he tests the other drivers for vigilance and reaction speed, and their cars - for the serviceability of the brakes. The original and unexpected maneuvers of the BOMBER pleasantly diversify road traffic.
SOLDIER. A young eagle with a stupid grin on his cunning face. He drives a roaring monster with a blasphemous inscription "PEOPLE" on the side. He has a very weak understanding of the technology entrusted to him, but he firmly knows that his car is the strongest. He is not afraid of anyone, except the commander, whom he is not afraid of either. The driving style is practically identical in a drunken and sober state. Dangerous at any speed, but especially dangerous when reversing. In the event of an accident, he remains completely calm and has a philosophical view of things. He is constantly looking for someone to sell diesel fuel to.
BLONDE. This is not a breed, it is a state of mind. Having seen her sparkling, like a Christmas tree ornament, SUV on the road, other drivers try to either immediately overtake her or stay back by five hundred meters.
OLD MAN. The car is a "Moskvich" licked clean with a tongue. Driving style: open the garage, wipe it with a rag, grease the glass, sigh, close the garage, go home to argue with his wife.
JOKER. A treasure trove of folk wisdom. On an "Oka" it says: "I'll grow up and become a KamAZ," on a "Zaporozhets": "Don't offend the little ones." You can find funny sayings like "Cover me, I'm attacking!", "Pull, buddy, I'm in a hurry home," "You're an idiot!" and even "Look at the feet, not the ass."
