Xxx: The most fun parties that do not take photos at all 😉



Yyy: After which photos are deleted.



Zzx: And moving to another city



Ddd: They change their name and turn to plastic surgery.

The result of propaganda: information enters through our ears and goes out of our mouth, bypassing the brain.

The house was the last where all the people in need lived for free.
and the villagers of our village.
Fifth floor with ten entrances built in the form of the letter P.
Novoselys are mostly young people, who are from the dairy farm, who are from the zoo, who are fishermen, military or firefighters.
In the face of each other knew exactly, the more the final part of the finishing with improvement was held by the host and each family took a strong part in this.
They did everything for themselves, a playground with compulsory sandboards, bushes and a mechanical carousel, painted in bright and rich colors.
The house itself is nobly beige with drawings at each entrance.
The general settlement on Saturday, on Sunday the folk gathering, well in the sense of a walk with the children and acquaintance with neighbors closer, purely symbolically behind the table in the middle of the courtyard.
But tomorrow everyone goes to work, by evening people are getting fewer and fewer. They are the most resilient and capitally loaded.
One of them is already sought by a wife, screaming from the balcony to the whole courtyard:
Michael, it’s time to go home.
Michael turns his head when he hears his wife’s voice and tries to determine where the sound comes from.
He looks at the entrances where he did not remember the first time.
The woman cries again:
Misha is home.
Where to go home?
Go to Chubut.
Michael spoke: for what, at all, the wife sends, and even so unusual.
Where, where do you go?
I say to the chubby, go. At our entrance, above the entrance Cheburashka is painted, you will not confuse...

You have an undemocratic democracy.
You haven’t seen our freedom of speech yet.

He was in the senior group. My father received an invitation to the tree (then all the farmers with children were given such) Well, in general, my mother went to her "his" tree with her sisters, and we and my brothers went to her "his" tree. And here we stand near the House of Culture "Textiler" and the father asks.

“Son, what do you need, that’s all, grandfather of the snow, the chordists of the song?

I say no. Yes, I wasn’t interested in all of this snow-covered stuff at the time.

“Let’s say, I’ll go down and pick up the gifts and go better to eat ice cream and play machines?”

But the condition is this: Mom shouldn’t know)) Dad taught cheating, right fucking. Clearly I agreed...I still remember how cool it was.

  The funny thing is that my mom learned about that deceit after 33 years. When asked why I did not surrender the father, I replied: it was an agreement, the more mutually beneficial))