Once my brother and I drove from my grandmother and carried, of course, a cake (it is impossible to leave my grandmother - and without a cake). On the way, a cranberry called under Bober's name and asked to bring him home, because he was very unorthodox. No question - we park at the cocktail, we wait for the body. The body with a curved neck rolls in our direction, opens the back door and splashes. Distribute a cane. Brother with the same voice:
“Bober, you’re lucky that the cream is so fat...Because I’m fucking fucking you for the killed cake!”! to