What kinds of people you will not find in the cage.
My wife and I arrived a little earlier. We stand by the window, wait for our coach, chew a protein barrel. Nearby, another coach conducts an introductory training for the girl. He laid her a griff on the shoulder and forced her to sit down. And an empty grip, by the way, weighs 20 kilos. How do you get rid of Natasha! Porn stars are nervous about smoking. In short, while she ended up under the barrel, no one was able to work in the hall. Limited to one approach, the coach quickly led the girl to another hall. And my wife pushed my elbow into my side and said with a thoughtful look:
I think she simulated.

We live in a time when smart people are forced to remain silent so that fools are not offended.

When you’ve already said 10 times, 8 times, 5 times, and 4 times, it’s hard, and the colleague still keeps telling you something.

Surprise me and I will stop.

The time.

My father was an automobile amateur. Now, when cars are roughly everybody, this word has lost its meaning, and then it was a fairly rare category of citizens. He started with a motorcycle, after marriage purchased a motorcycle with a wheelchair, and when I was 2-3 years old, they and my mother borrowed money from all relatives and bought a strawberry "Zaporožec".

Almost every weekend we went to my mother’s village. The cars were few, "Zaporožec", trembling and dreezing, carrying at a crazy speed of 70 km / h. The main danger was presented by the locals who suddenly ran out on the road: goats, dogs, boys, and sometimes adults. Every time he saw an obstacle, he pressed the signal, the car was loud and lost speed sharply. Dad said something like, “Ele slowed down,” or “I had to brake again,” or my mom noticed the goat before him and said, “Stumble!” So I learned that “braking” is the same as “bicycling”: in case of danger, you have to press the signal, the car will stumble and stop. The fact that at the same time Daddy still grumbled his foot on some pedal passed past my childhood consciousness.

Sometimes we went shopping “to the area”, that is, to small towns and villages located around our city. There could be bought, for example, socks or balls. In the city, they were quickly dealt with, and the residents of the district had not yet used these innovations, writing with ink and dressing children, including boys, in socks on rubber. Also, we must have bought on the market a briket of butter oil wrapped in a notepad in a cage or line. Milk, kefir, cheese were in the dairy store in the city, and the oil was either absent, or did not satisfy my mom in quality.

I was 5 or 6 years old when we once again came to the area and stopped on the main street. Dad and mom decided to run to the commercial store for a minute, suddenly something was thrown out there, and I was left in the car. As soon as they left, I moved to the driver’s seat and started playing an amateur car.

I remember how it was then appropriate to leave a parked car, on the first transmission or on the manual brake. Anyway, I removed her from this brake, and the car rolled under the hill far across the street. I was terribly scared. He turned back – behind the car, the father ran and shouted desperately: “Tormozi!”

Well, I started to brake the way I imagined it: I pushed with both my hands to the hammer. The car was silent, but for some reason did not slow down at all and finally crashed into a pillar. It was a slight scare, a broken lighthouse and scratches on my nose.

Why didn’t you stop? I asked the escaped father. I screamed to you.
Dad, I stopped it! I answered through tears. I stopped very loudly. But for some reason she did not stop.

More than 50 years have passed. My father has not been alive for a long time. But this expression still exists in our family and in a few friends. When someone tries to correct the situation with actions that can’t affect the situation in any way – for example, drinks fuvlomycin, or screams at a crying child to reassure him – we say to him:
I think you’re braking loud.

Wisdom does not always come with age. More often with age comes experience, allowing you to get out of situations that wise people do not get into.

When my wife asks me, will you give me a gift for my birthday? I say, and you to me? She feels. Okay - I say - it will be fair - you have something to congratulate (with me) and I really don't have anything to do.

Xxx: My girlfriend told me that programming is more important to me than she is. I replied that she was number one on my list of interests. She remained satisfied.

Better a frog in the sky than a fly in a boiler.

In 1915, at the height of World War I, Albert Marr swore allegiance to Britain. Going to the front, Marr asked for only one thing - to take home pavilion Jackie with him.

On the front, the soldiers do not have fun, and no one would have had an affair with the ordinary monkey, if not the amazing manner of behavior and exceptional character of Jackie, thanks to which he turned from an ordinary pavilion to a talisman of the 3rd South African Infantry Regiment. He was even given a special uniform and headdress with a distinctive sign of the infantry regiment. Jackie was a real infantry officer and instead of sitting in a blind, he took part in battles, crawling through the tranches. Pavian learned to pay tribute to senior officers, use a fork and knife as intended, and smoke tobacco in a pipe for the uniforms.

Later, an inseparable pair was sent to crush the Turks and Germans, where Jack's natural abilities were very useful, for example, he could detect the enemy at a much greater distance than the human sight allowed, which repeatedly saved the soldiers from the unexpected outbursts of the enemy.

In 1916, in the Battle of Agagia, Albert was wounded and Jackie began licking his wound until the doctors arrived. In 1918, in the Battle of Paschendale, Jackie himself was wounded. The squadron fell under heavy shelling and through the smoke rising from the bullshit of guns, one could see Jackie trying to build a primitive defensive structure of debris and stones. Shrapnel injured his right leg, which had to be amputated. Dr. Woodsend, who performed the operation, made this record in his diary:
“We thought to give the patient a chlorine form: if he died, it would be better to die under anesthesia. Never before in my practice had I given an anesthetic to such a patient. But Jackie took out a glass of anesthetic and began to drink greedy, as if it was a bottle of whisky! That was enough to amputate and get everything in order.”

At the end of the First World War, Capral Jackie - a cavalier of the "Pretorian medal", the owner of the golden blanket for injury, three blue chevrons - for each year of military service and military retirement, took part in the London Parade of Victory, sitting riding on a lavender.

The battle went so cheaply as if I had bought it.

XX: Are there reverse-acting drugs? You use them, and they block dopamine and serotonin, that is, you are killing yourself all night with sorrow artificially, you fall into depression and do not move, and in the morning you are released and everything becomes even better than before?



Yes, the job is called

Chilala was like one girl who always forgot to take sausages for lunch. All the other ingredients were placed in the bag from the evening. The sauce had to be taken out of the refrigerator in the morning. I came up with a stuff: I put a note on my hat: “Don’t forget sausages, fool!” He goes to the metro. The man sitting in front of him leaned, and so perceivedly: - What, fool, sausages that, forgot?

At my age, it is no longer common to wait for the advent of some mythical bright future. As far as the future can be seen, it is bright.

The small northern village in which I partially grew up combined several expeditions – oil and gas, geological exploration and geophysical. Two main attractions were located on its central square - the cafe "Metelica" and the House of Culture (DC). On the square there was a monument to Lenin. Here all the main events occurred – cultural in the D.C. and less cultural – in the “Metelice”. The first often flowed smoothly into the second. As schoolchildren, we usually attended DC as movie viewers, which were filmed there 2-3 times a week, but sometimes we had to fill the scene.

In April of 1988, we were expecting the birthday of V.I. Lenin, which our school management decided to celebrate with a large concert in the D.C. There were songs, dances, mini-spectacles, a victory on the facts of Lenin’s life, a competition for the quick collection of shalash, etc. I was ordered to find, learn and qualitatively tell from the stage some little-known poem about Lenin, because the usual set of them all got a little tired. I approached this case responsibly, took in the school library a collection of poems about Lenin and at home in the evenings read it out loud to my mother, trying to understand from her reaction which of them she knows the least. As the chief doctor of the village hospital, my mother usually did not come in the evenings, but barely came home, we ate dinner and under my reading of poems she quickly fell asleep, so the task of choosing a poem was solved with great difficulty. A few days later, when the collection was read, I decided. It was a short, but vivid and emotional poem by Turkmen writer Berda Kerbabaeva, who wanted not just to read, but to declare, with expression and revolutionary force.

On the day of the performance behind the scenes was full of schoolchildren, who learned something, dressed up in costumes for the performance, pulled the grasp of the branches for the contest on the fastest shallash and all kinds of trouble. According to the plans of the teachers in the role of the conference was a small four-year-old girl with cushions. To avoid confusion, she had a leaflet with the names of the performances. We had a large DC, there were 150-200 people in the hall, from the leadership of expeditions to drillers, drivers, saleswomen and all-all. Many of them were the parents of the speakers. Everyone calmed down, the representative head of the geological and exploration expedition spoke about Lenin and his role in our lives – and the schoolchildren’s program went on. The girl-conference successfully overcame the first page of the list of performances, dances and other moving performances passed, the time for poems began. There were three or four, I was the second (the names of the children changed slightly).
The conference, in a subtle voice: "Student of the 7th grade Olya Pechenkin with the poem of Alexander Twardovsky "Lenin and the oven!"
Olya boldly and quickly scratched out a rather long verse about Lenin and the liver.
Conference: “Student of 6th grade Petya Sidorov with a poem...”. A long pause, during which the girl quietly stared into her paper. The room was frozen in expectation. Then more quietly and somewhat uncertainly questioning from the scene was heard: “Berdy Kerdimbaev... no...Berdy Kerda... no, no...Kerdy Bermamaev... no! Ber-dy Ker-ba-ma... no no no! Ber-ker-man-dy is not and pause. There is silence in the hall. The teacher quickly approached the girl and gently said, “Nothing terrible, don’t worry! Let’s read together.” Almost in a choir, they began to read on paper: “A pupil of the 6th grade, Petya Sidorov, speaks with a poem... Berda Kermambayev (the voice of the teacher) Kerda Berdambayev (the voice of the girl)”.
Standing near the edge of the scene behind the scenes and preparing to go out as soon as I was announced, I saw the faces of people in the hall. They were tense and barely restrained, so as not to crawl, cries and cries were already heard, although the people were still holding. At the same time, probably from the whole room, only my mother, who sat in the second row, knew how correct the author's name could sound, although this is not a fact. The teacher said, “No, let’s try again.” Here the conference girl couldn’t stand and cried, “I won’t try! I already had the sculls to pronounce this string, I bite my tongue because of it!” after which she dropped the leaflet and fled the stage. The tension in the hall reached a thickening density, red bodies of the leadership in the first rows illuminated the scene. Our teacher turned out to be a good guy: "I'm sorry for a little delay, Petya will announce his poem himself!" I approached the microphone and with a parade voice began: “Poem of Turkmen poet Berda Kardybayev “On Lenin!” I was terrified to find out that I had broken my name. He dared to say, “Sorry! The poem of Turkmen poet Kerda Bekdambayev "On Lenin" Fuck, again wrong... I was silent trying to remember the name. And then from somewhere from the gallery there was a scream: "Well, you guys, tell me, no one knows his right name!" Then the hall exploded. The first rows with the chief were still somehow restrained, lowering their heads and shaking, but the rest of the hall was out in the voice! I looked at my mother who wiped her tears of laughter, and I was ashamed that I was so dumb and I couldn’t remember the name of a person. A teacher approached me and, wishing to correct the situation, leaned and said to the microphone: “Friends! Petya Sidorov will read the poem “On Lenin” of one of our little-known Turkmen poets, whose name is known to the whole country!” The room with this logic did not agree and cried louder. I started reading expressively:
- The leaders from the Bronze Age are counted to our days!
But no man was born to descendants closer and closer to his family.
But no one heard me. The first rows finally broke and they whispered in the voice. From the rear rows were heard screams of “Berds!”, “Kerds!”, “Kerdik berdyk...” and other possible combinations. I raised my voice and almost spoke to the microphone to convey the poet’s poems to these insane people:
He who, despite racial differences and distances,
From mouth to mouth, a working click connected the continents!
The microphone was good, people started listening.
And so great is Vladimir Lenin, that how not to exalt him,
He is simple and truthless, and he is always with people.
Here the voice from the scream in me broke, but the hall suddenly the choir supported me: "ILIC!" and issued such a whirlwind of applause that I almost swallowed the microphone from surprise. After that, a break was announced to calm down the people. Everyone, on the contrary, jumped up, laughed, shouted “Illitch!” Someone ran to the stage, picked up the program sheet rolled there and screamed in the microphone: “Comrades! These were the poems of Berda Kerbaev! “Remember Berdy Kerbayev!” After that, the hall was covered with a new wave of choking and the screams were heard “Illitch! “Kerbaev!” The organizers overturned the further program and all of the friendly crowd fell into the "Float" opposite.

I returned home, where late in the evening I was found by a joyful mom who returned from the holiday. Instead of blaming me for ignoring simple Turkmen surnames, she hugged me and said, “Everyone says this was Lenin’s best birthday in years! In "The Butterfly", everyone tried to remember the author's name until night and almost fought! I’ll go to work because the holiday isn’t over yet and I’m sure someone will bring us and you go to bed.” At the threshold, she turned around and asked, “Say slowly, what is his name? I will have to cure them all, they will ask.”

People once asked God.
Why is there so much injustice, lies, deaths, corruption, violence and wars on this earth? People asked God.
God, in turn, looked at the people and asked them:
Do you not like all this?? to
No, of course not God. People were screaming.
Then God shrugged his shoulders and said:
Well, do not do that!

Xxx: Why am I returning from the journey with clogs, and who is with my wife?



You both come back with blood.

I often see children at the box office ask, “What is this?” referring to condoms. Many parents are embarrassed and don’t know what to answer. And the children are upset, all in the row and the cashier is upset. They see how parents turn out, the parents are even more embarrassed about this.

Not long ago I saw a father whom his son asked about condoms. So he just said "this is condoms" his son asked why they were. The father said, “They are not to answer questions about what they are and what they are needed for.

Usually fighting lenius has to lie down. Therefore, Lenny has a considerable advantage - the struggle takes place on its territory.

Publishing his debut novel “Hello, sadness!“François Sagan got a good reward for the book. During the time of moneylessness, she made her first income to "walk mad."
She also dreamed of buying an apartment, but pushed away these thoughts: the pledge is a pledge, it must be performed.
And here Francoise came to "knead" to the resort of Onfleur and Dovil. After spending almost all the money, I went to play on the remaining in the casino.
Sagan loved the numbers 3, 8, 11. After losing on 3-x and 11-ti, she put everything on 8 black and won 300,000 francs.
After drinking the most expensive champagne from her throat, she went to look for a place to sleep. It is said that champagne confuses thoughts, intentions and ways. In the eye came a lovely mansion, from which a picturesque view opened. It was a private family hotel.
Upon entering, Sagan talked to the owner. He regretted that the hotel was crowded, and Francoise insisted that she was drunk and wanted to sleep. The owner just shrugged his shoulders, saying, you can’t do anything. Françoise asked how much the house was worth? The owner replied, "200 thousand," which Sagan opened the bag, dropped 300 thousand and stated with a confusing voice that she no longer wanted a room, but bought the entire hotel.
The owner could only ask, “And what to do with the guests?” The buyer generously allowed them to stay for the summer, and the mansion she will take in the autumn.
Francoise Sagan spent almost her entire life in this house, calling it "The House of My Heart". Today it is the writer’s home museum.