What is it like not drinking vodka? Put in the mouth without swallowing.

A customs officer at the Tokyo airport asked me to come. His screen illuminated my suitcase, where five bottles of vodka were clearly visible.
What there?
and medicines. for me. The Russians.
This is JAPAN! Go by.

So in 1995 I got into a wonderful country. With a variety of Russian nuclear power plant workers. In the early 1990s, the international community, frightened by Chernobyl, paid the Russians for training around the world. That, therefore, they learned the mind there, and no more reactors melted. Minotaur began to fade. In all kinds of United States-Canada, France and Sweden, Moscow officials first took off, then their children, then - friends and secretaries, well, the real practices were only accidental (I was personally offered to go in just a week; I barely had time to put a visa).

The Japanese trip consisted of visits to various nuclear power plants. Going forward, I will say that the technical result turned out to be zero. Aside from discipline, nothing of what we saw would have suited us, and one of us by the way even predicted the possibility of the Fukushima accident, which occurred 16 years later (on that day we lazyly digested lunch, going out to the sea, near the Karavazako-Kariv Station, when someone noticed: "But if a healthy tsunami fucking, it can come shit." The others thought and thought importantly). But I am not about that.

There were two translators with the group. The Japanese are old. Growth from sixth grade. Invisible and working, they alternately did their difficult work. I got along with one of them. So it turned out that after the first three nights of drunkenness I realized that I would die, and bound with vodka without a snack and chorus "Oyya, you oysya" in the hotel room. Immediately I got to sleep, wash, and spend thirty minutes in the lobby, drinking a cool coffee, and considering familiar words in English newspapers. That translator had come earlier and was happy to answer my questions about Japanese life. And I explained to him the terms that were met at the courses. He captured them instantly, and in the afternoon, instead of boring descriptions of unknown words, it shone with "iodine hole" and "Hoyat".

These two, I repeat, were very polite and modest. But sometimes even their restraint failed. We were wild. Especially during the cultural program, when meeting with locals in restaurants, or on weekends went on excursions. The inner rope rolled. I saw when, at some sharp outburst of one of us, for a moment their faces stopped smiling on duty, and for a moment there was an expression of some crazy fatigue. In those morning conversations, I tried to apologize and explain the situation to my Japanese interlocutor. He always agreed.

But one day an incident happened that changed everything. We were taken to some kind of museum, like a landscape. Atomic specialists (under the flies, as usual) roared over the nonsense of the Japanese, who did not invent cotton pants instead of kimono, drank liquid tea from curved cups, and made windows and doors from paper. Rare locals whispered a loud goot. My translator just squeezed his lips. But here we approached the illuminated sheet with hieroglyphs. The translator said that this is a very beautiful example of Japanese poetry. This book was written by the mother of a suddenly dead child. It is very touching, and in translation it sounds like this:

No one is more
Making holes in paper windows.
How cold it is in the house!

Someday it became quiet. I asked to translate again. The people heard what they heard. And then the two-meter-high, loudest and eternally submissive uncle (like from the harsh "Majak") somehow swallowed, shrugged his face, and silently cried.

And in the morning the translator was thoughtful and said something polite, confusing and strange. I just realized that it was not yet lost...

I propose from the deputies of the DG to form a battalion and be the first to send to the war, if it starts, but be sure to attract the gardens.

For those who sleep before lunch, the morning is always good.

The last year of the last millennium. This was my first spring expedition to the Arctic. April, around white and white, daytime bright sun and heat under -25 degrees, at night huge starry sky, often polar radiance and cool, up to -40. Sometimes a purple flies and then everything is white not only on the ground, but everywhere, such a 3D-white world. Our task is to drill several wells at a point located 400 km from the village. To get there and work there takes 3 weeks. A sanitary-tractor train is equipped - a tractor-blatant is headed, a residential balcony, a sanitary with equipment and a drill, behind - another sanitary with a generator and fuel. All this thunderstorming structure is slowly rolling over snow tents up to a half-meter high and, swinging through the dry snow, with a speed of 10-15 kilometers per hour slips where it needs to be. Driving hard - every couple of minutes on each snow flood, a beam with a ugly scroll rises a little up, and then crashes down with a short thunder. We slipped in one direction for almost 4 days... Smokers sometimes climbed in the open door of the balcony, and smoked, but this was considered dangerous – it was possible when the balcony fell again from the swelling to not hold back and fly out of board. Sometimes, when the movement slowed down a little, you could jump out on the hard snow and run next to the slippery balk, melt. However, running around for a long time was difficult - although speed and small, but running on uneven snow is very uncomfortable.
To get a little distracted, I often sat with the tractorist in the cabin and monitored the direction of our movement via GPS, because there are no landmarks around, especially if it runs.
So, we sit somehow with a tractorist, driving in a light purge to the north. The darkness begins. Everything is shrinking and shrinking like it has been lately. The tractorist turns to me to ask something, and suddenly I see his eyes expanding, looking somewhere past me, and he begins to point with his beard and nose to the side, without removing his hands from the lever. I look around, expecting to see UFOs, snowmen, a grandmother in a stupa, or something else, but I see an even more surprising thing – in a parallel course, making giant jumps on the snowflakes, the tractor is hitting the door! The door swings a little, then slides, then stands up almost vertically, but persecutes us persistently! I was slightly stunned by an incomprehensible horror, I turn to the tractorist and understand that he is about in the same state trying to increase the speed so that it does not catch us. But the door continues to bear behind us, and at some point, through the hustle of the diesel and the hustle of the hooks, we clearly hear that the door is very loud and very loud! I scream to the tractorist, "Stand up!" because the alien door should not be able to express it, so it's its own door, suddenly it needs help (although it's unclear how to provide first aid to the door? Has anyone taught that? When the tractor almost stopped, the door caught us and the plush fell on the snow. And on it fell our Chief Engineer, who was bringing this door into motion. He rolled and breathed like a cough thrown on the shore, smiled meaninglessly and continued to quietly mate. We brought him on the door to the balk and sprinkled with tea for more than an hour.
As the investigation showed, the Chief stood with the door open and, holding it, smoked. The people in the balk are who dryh, who read... On the next smash the door was knocked down from the cock and it crashed next to the balk. The chief, as a diligent owner, could not allow the loss of a strategically important door and jumped out after it. Having raised it, he realized with horror that it did not change the situation: now the balok has lost not only the door, but also him. It was meaningless, and when the closing sails passed by him, the Chief made a somewhat strange, but quite obvious decision from his point of view – he grabbed the door in a clutch and rushed with it to catch the tractor. Running with the door is not easy at all, and especially in the dark on uneven snow, melting hands in all directions. To drop the door and catch the tractor The main thing didn't even come to mind - he and the door were inseparable. He managed to do the impossible – he almost surpassed the tractor and at the same time rearranged it to be noticed! Back, we hanged the door for three... The chief after that another year two did not smoke, said that it does not work: as soon as the cigarette gets, so the hands themselves to the width of the door are spread.

Did you know that Russia will be able to last for five years without selling oil and gas — just by seizing governors and officials and confiscating their watches, pens, cars and baggage bags.

XX: I am even ready to give up citizenship. The main thing is to get citizenship in a rotten western country, so that I assimilate their bad culture and destroy their foundations from the inside. Viva the Revolution!



YYY: The children of deputies are already busy with this

We once left the hotel in Turkey, the time of departure, let’s say, at 12, at 11:30, I decided to go quickly into the shower, I go out (now I don’t remember, in a towel or even without), the door opens with a key, the grandmother enters and says, “we’re coming here after you, we’ve already given the key, I’ve come, you’ll soon release the room?”

A acquaintance told me. My grandmother told me as a child that you can’t collect money on the street – they can be thrown in order to transmit disease. Sometimes in the second grade we go with a classmate from school, and we see that there is a thousand rubles around the store - huge money at the time. I didn’t take, arguing my deed with grandmother’s instructions, and a friend took it. When I came home and proudly told everyone about it, my sister and mother shouted and called me an idiot, and my grandmother was silent and didn’t know what to say.

XXX: My son, as a child, was convinced that sellers were such special people, inseparably connected with the store. They work there, they live there. And when I told him that the seller's aunt has children and she goes home to them in the evening after work, he was very surprised... Moreover, the guardians in the kindergarten also go home in the evening. The doctors too. He was convinced that all these people were sleeping right at work, as slaves of their positions.

If you judge by the social networks, most read the quote of Chekhov “In a person everything should be beautiful: and the face, and the clothes, and the soul, and the thoughts” only up to “the face and the clothes”.

My husband and I went to the neighboring town for a market.

It was in those times when cars were locked not from a lock, but by turning the key in the lock. You could still press the fixer on the doors and shut down - the result is similar. This time we did so. We return with shopping to the car, and the husband still notices from a distance that on my side the window is opened: I forgot to lift the glass when I went out. The view of the unclosed window acted on the husband as a serum of truth. He immediately wiped out everything he thinks about women’s memory in general and about my girlfriend in particular. Think of a hole on two fingers and a scream on the whole universe. I humbly remained silent. Rarely a faithful man will have a happy chance of criticizing his spouse. So, such a wonderful occasion came up. Let it go.

Arriving at the car. The husband clamps himself in his pockets in search of keys, and in his pockets is empty. They pulled out? The seed? Yes, no, they are lying in the cabin on a panel under the front glass - the husband, when he parked, threw them there by inertia. Officially! My memory does not please him. What is the best?! I was almost broken from the righteous anger. My sophisticated manners, impeccable upbringing and innate sense of tact went in a certain direction, and I gave freedom to the nerves. This, of course, did not solve the problem, but it restored balance and harmony in the relationship.

We walked around the car, kicking hands. My husband picked up the wheels. Strange, the door did not open.

I need to hit the glass.

Under these circumstances, this seemed to be the only possible solution. But while my husband was chesting the surroundings in search of a rocky stone, a promising idea came to my mind. I pulled the rope out of the shoe, tied the cuff at the end, pushed into the gap over the glass, poured the fixer on the mushroom and stretched it into a non-working position.

What an eye!! What eyes had my husband when he came back with a stone and saw me sitting in the car.

Life on Earth seems to be continuing solely for the benefit of pharmaceutical companies.

If you close all the pipes out of the country, the ruble will be more expensive than the dollar.

In honor of the Day of the Lovers, the house of organ music will sound Mozart's "Rekvia."

It’s good that it’s not Chopin’s “True March.”

A fifth-year-old from Mystic, who exploded the Pentagon in the game Minecraft, is presented to the state award.

Bad sex is better than a good day at work.

Sometimes life gives occasional encounters and situations, such as a kind of visualization of gorics from Igor Guberman.
Tomsk, evening, I return to the hotel hungry. Next to it is a small bakery with different tastes. It all shines and captivates.
I go in. On the vitrines - a variety of cakes size somewhere 40 to 60 cm, which for buyers cut into pieces on their request. Among the hungry I am alone, behind the counter is a young girl who asks what I want. I choose for a long time, because everything is delicious, I want everything, but breaking out is not part of my evening plans. Finally, I pick up the unfinished cake and ask for a piece of it. The girl puts the cake on a large board, carries a huge knife over it and asks, “How much?” I throw my chances and ask for a quarter. The knife that started moving down, fades. “How many?” “The Quarter.”
The girl raises big eyes on me: "You know, I studied in school in three and I know how to cut only in half, I don't know the pieces. Do you take half?” Honestly, I did not expect this and was a little addicted when I looked at her. Then I pulled it off and asked, “Can you cut it twice in half?” “I can, if you show my finger.” Show me how to cut. She wraps my quarter and asks, “Can you tell me what the eight is? Here the grandmother comes alone, wants to take the eighth, and I can't cut her off, I don't understand, and she can't explain, immediately quarrels." He said that he just needed to cut three times in half, showed how. The girl drew the scheme on the paper and hid it, smiling: "Now our sales will rise! Thanks to you!”
And thank you, girl, for the craving for knowledge. And you are happy to eat eight, unknown to me grandmother!

Citizens of Russia all demand that Zhirinovsky be treated in Russia.

When I was a kid, I was convinced that people in the militants were really being killed. How can blood flow so naturally? I thought people were going to shoot in a fighting house in order to make money for their family.

and posthumously.

Nothing embarrassed me in my conclusions.