I came from school. 5 the class. On the way I met my mom going to the store.She said now from the store will come back and we will eat.

There was a strong desire, on the plate (brick wooden oven) in the pot was an ear. I decided to eat myself, not small.

He poured his ear and ate. with an addition.

Mother comes in:

Let us eat.

Mom, I have already eaten.

What did you eat? Food in the oven is intact.

The ear

"It's not the ear, it's the little pigs I cooked a little fish with potato cleansing.

I don’t know how the pork was, I liked it.

In matters of property, the most profitable business today is its redistribution.

A ballad about a black biker in four parts with a preface and a postword.

There are a lot of stories on this site about “nonsense” American police officers. And I have a lot to say about it. And this is just one of those stories.

1st Bicycle

One evening, I ride a car on the city street of one of the southern states of America. Behind me was a black man on a motorcycle. He pursued me for a short time, crossed two, and then wrestled a syrene and turned on the flash beacons: the biker turned out to be a cop.
had to stop. In the car I was alone and sat humbly, putting my hands on the steering wheel. The police officer approached the car from the front door of the passenger. I lowered the glass.
Have you exceeded speed? Instead of a greeting, he asked me.
I answered almost honestly.
You have violated! The police officer did not agree with me.
But I was moving in the common stream with the same speed as everyone else!
This is not an excuse! He objected and demanded my driving license.

After receiving the documents, the motorcyclist approached his motorcycle and opened the box above the rear wheel, where there was a laptop and a portable printer. He quickly printed the paper on the printer and came back to me.
Here is your penalty receipt. – Solemnly said the cop, extending me the printed leaflet along with the driver’s license.
A speed penalty? I have clarified.
“No,” the police replied, “this is a fine for violating the traffic rules.
A fine for excess speed?
“This is a fine for violating the rules, not for speed,” the cop objected to me.
What have I broken? I asked again.
“The traffic rules,” the police officer replied.
Not the speed? I was surprised.
- You exceeded the speed, - did not agree with me cop.
Is it a speed penalty?
No is! The police officer started to get angry, you are fined for violating the PDD!

I asked again, then again: such a stupid dialogue lasted for forty minutes. It turned out that I simply broke the rules - without any specifics. On the paper was written only "failed to obey" - a violation of the rules.
The first was not able to withstand the motorcycle, he, walking back, began to move away from my car.
Oh officer, come back! I called him, we haven’t finished yet.
- If you have any questions, sir, you can ask them in court, - replied the cop and ran away.

2nd Office of Sheriff

The next morning I went to the head office of the local sheriff’s service.
What fucking thing is this? I asked the officer behind the glass, extending to him my penalty receipt.
It is not us! The officer said, looking at the paper.
And who? I was surprised.
“You have been fined by the city police,” he replied, adding, “they are all rare fools there.
Give me the address? I asked for.
“Of course,” he smiled and handed me a visiting card from the local police department.

Three Department of Police

In the police department, behind the glass, there was not a police officer on duty, but two civilian aunts, something very similar to Russian passports.
“We don’t know what this penalty is for,” one of them replied after a long study of my receipt.
Let’s ask someone, I suggested.
With whom? My aunt was surprised by the glass.
“You’re not alone in the building,” I replied, “is there someone else here?”
The sergeant? I guessed that.
Take the sergeant! I have agreed.

We had to wait a long time: thirty minutes. He came out to me in the hall of the building, and for the first time in two days I spoke to the police officer not through the window.
“I don’t know why you were fined,” he said, examining the penalty receipt.
And what shall we do? I asked.
- Pay the penalty, the sergeant advised me.
Why a fine? I have clarified.
“I don’t know,” he replied.

And we had the same stupid dialogue with him as we had with the police biker the day before. The captain had nowhere to retreat. He was on duty and therefore surrendered even faster than yesterday’s Negro.
"The officer could not write you a fine for excess speed because he measured your speed visually, not with the help of a radar.
Has he swallowed? I was angry.
- You are better, - did not agree with me the policeman, - on this receipt the fine is less than for excess speed.
We will meet him in court. I declared. Let the judge decide who is better.

4 is Lawyer

Everyone should do their own business, I decided and went to the internet to look for a lawyer. There were many proposals. I decided, in the case of other equals, to choose by geographical principle: who is closer. Half an hour later, I agreed with a guy for three hundred dollars for the whole case and went to him for a meeting.

Well, what to say, I learned a lot that day about the local police. In short, the corruption scheme is as follows: a patrol cop gets $40 per hour. If he began drawing up the minutes at the very end of his duty, then, according to the rules, another two hours of working time is automatically added to his working day. Moreover, these two hours are considered as “processing” and are paid in half a quarter. That is, this motorcyclist, starting my case at his laptop at 5:56 p.m., automatically receives an increase of $120 to his daily salary in any case and it doesn’t matter whether I’ll be fined in court or not.

A month later the trial took place. The fine was cancelled, and the black motorcyclist continued to patrol the streets of the city.

In the shop.
We have three bottles of vodka.
Your passport please.
We don’t have a loan, we have all the money with us.

When I was studying at the university in the 1990s, I had a friend named Chachly from another faculty who once invited me to visit.

He said, “Come somehow to us in the French community! I live in room 356.

It is easy to remember – three plus two – five, plus one – six.



More than twenty years have passed, and I still remember the number of his room.

Sadly but a fact. Man becomes a commodity. It also has a QR code.

Why don’t you talk about bombs? As I went from fishing with a good catch, well, and I see sitting on the tubes burning, with characteristic purple faces. I stopped, pulled out a couple of huge carps, so to speak, the prey. One of them said to me, "Dear gentlemen, the conditions of our existence do not allow us to cook food by thermal processing, and if your desire to help remains as sincere, would you not kindly replace this fish sent by Providence with a simpler product, more suitable for the given situation?" I was so upset that I remembered every word and silently extended 5,000 tenge (about 1,000 rubles). Such a product approached))) Kazakh bombs, they are such)))

The television that tells us that Europe is freezing, starving and suffocating by crime, and the television that tells us that refugees are rushing to Europe for a high standard of living and security are the same Russian television.

I went, I mean, for a little in the garden. I will leave the vacuum cleaner running in the hallway and in the room. In general, clean, but the wool from two dogs, although smooth-haired, runs out. Satisfied with her thought, she pressed a button and went. Well, though the brains were enough to close two other rooms, in one of them a carpet.

I was delighted with my vision, that how well I came up and while I am not, everything will go well, I am not long... Exactly before returning from the garden.

I felt something wrong...Yes, I just heard the key in the door...

In short, the youngest cattle of the Jack-Russell dog breed aged 10 months rushed to the courtyard carpet from the feeling of horror and dullness of being from the thundering vacuum cleaner and the absence of the housewife who will protect her if he starts to eat her.

Well, the vacuum cleaner - that is, he knows that he has to work out all his 20 thousand worth... Here he fell and tried. At first, he seemed to be trying to fuck it all. All the days in the shit, the wheels in the shit. The whole corridor and bedroom in divorces fucking from the wheels, the carpet in general just lulls from the fucking shit in it. It’s such a place that you could even have put it next to it.

But I am a mother.

In short, I first washed and scratched everything with wet wipes, then washed with powder, then water.

But! This was not the last battle. I was waiting for a deadly dust. Here was the horror. Wearing a medical mask, they are now in every house in abundance, and putting wet towels there, so that it did not smell so, I took the business. I scattered everything with a drill, scattered everything at the same time crying that I was so dusty, I had to forge all the seams with a toothbrush, this is all... I was fucking with the vacuum cleaner for an hour and a half, washed.

What I want to say, now I can do everything... In short, as clean as after this cleaning, I have not been in the apartment for a long time. And the picture of the disguised and blurred shit across the floor is still in the eyes😁😂. Fu, as I remember, I’ll be so shaken. Buy a robot vacuum cleaner, dear pickabouts, just don’t forget to turn your brain on when using it, as I did. Now I only turn on behind closed doors from dogs.

It is😂

Xxx: My son asked me to put a hoodie on my jacket. She didn’t go away, she wasn’t there at first. In the tech school, when I was in the closet, there were quarrels about what a cap should be hanged. I didn’t get all my hands. And here somehow from work I come, hang my jacket and see - the son's jacket hangs on the cuff. Do I think you have swallowed myself?!! I take his jacket in my hands, look into the room and ask, “Have you whipped the cock?” He looked confused, “Are you not?” In general, the wardrobewoman came by herself, apparently tired of reminding every time.

The branches of power are constantly cheating their own people in the face.

Peter Ivanovich got up early. He usually walked with Grey at this time. There was no one to walk with. Peter Ivanovich dressed up and went on the usual route. He went and thought about the 14 years he lived with Grey. Yellow dried leaves sprinkled under my feet. Then they agreed with their wife that this would be their last dog. At that time, they were 60 and Grey was 5 months old. The puppy was so touching and thick, uncomfortable, curious and talented. And now it is all over. Peter Ivanovich turned and went to the house. In front of him was a girl, almost a girl, next to her was a young dog with a gray face.
Their own? Asked Peter Ivanovich.
“No,” the girl replied, “in the neighboring apartment a man died, and the shepherd remained. The relatives were given two weeks to fix it, otherwise they would be dropped or thrown out. And Jack is old, he is 10 years old, and no one needs the old man. Here, I go into the 11th apartment, feed him, and walk out. I try to set up.
“Happy luck,” said Peter Ivanovich, and went on.
He was thinking about the old Jack all day, but he never hesitated to talk to his wife. The night came, and I fell asleep in the morning. He slept longer than usual, and when he got up, his wife was not at home. There was a note in the kitchen: “I went to the store.” Peter Ivanovich decided, quickly dressed, grabbed Grey's clue, and almost ran to the house where he met the girl. The September rain bubbled on the umbrella. He called the apartment. He was opened by a gentle woman.
I am about the dog. Are you giving the dog? Asked Peter Ivanovich.
“And I threw it out,” the woman replied, “but I missed the dogs here.
You said you have two weeks.
Not enough what I said. Tired, eaten a lot, and sleeping on the couch. If you need it, look for it near the house, I put it out on the street.
Peter Ivanovich walked around the house, ran around the neighborhood, the dog was nowhere.
“Old man, he will not last long on the street,” thought Peter Ivanovich, “you have to put on a jacket and go look for it.
Peter Ivanovich had almost reached his house when his wife called.
Pete, please do not argue.
Again, no matter what the bombardment fed, or the cat removed from the tree, - thought Petro Ivanovich.
Let me talk, he said.
“You know, I was going out of the store, and he was sitting in the yard, through two houses, right under the rain. And the note was: “Take it, I don’t need it,” and a folder with his documents. I know, Pete, we have agreed. He is grey just like us. Don’t be angry, Pettie.
Peter Ivanovich looked forward. Under the streams of rain, at 20 meters, his wife stood. In one hand she held a bag of food and in the other a phone. Jack was sitting at her feet. Peter Ivanovich ran to his wife. Her gray hair was wet, her glasses were completely swollen. He kissed her cold cheeks and went shopping.
Three of them went home in the rainy rain.
by Elena Andriaš

In Moscow, 10 apartments, 10 cars and 5 million holiday circles were played for the vaccinated. The prize was given to each of the 5 million participants. The remaining 20 prizes were shared.

Laughter prolongs life but reduces wages.

There is such an online community “oncobudny”. Its participants are women who have suffered from cancer or are fighting it right now. They are there as they can help each other, exchange experiences, contacts with doctors, diets, just words of support, in short - live. Who a year after the diagnosis, who three or five, and who ten or fifteen. They don’t think that if they couldn’t cure cancer forever, then everything was in vain and resistance is useless. If you can extend the life of at least one year, it is a whole year. 12 months, 52 weeks, 365 days and 8760 hours. The story is told by Ludmila Pukhliak, founder of the community.

I didn’t seem to have told that story. Rita was a little warrior. She tried seemingly everything in the arsenal of doctors, and visited everywhere. Her cancer was constantly recurring, and she tried and found a new control. And some day 5 years ago, a friend wrote to me: "Rite needs to do a repeat histology, and its blocks (that is, samples of the tumor) remained in Lisod (Kyiv hospital), you don't know how to take them and transfer them to Moscow?" It would seem to be an easy task, but not in our own restless world. In the yard of the 16th year, there are no communications between us, except for trains - no delivery service works. The hospital refuses to give biomaterials to strangers without authorization. We are desperately looking for a way out.

The first surrendered the hospital and handed the blocks to my friend who was lying there at the time. Her mother was driving away from her and I had to do a simple thing - go out to the agreed place at the agreed time and pick up the bag. I come and wait... 15 minutes, half an hour, an hour... I freeze like a puppy. There was a crash on the track, after an hour and a half, a completely tortured woman arrives, apologizing very much for what happened in no way because of her fault.

No courier was found, so I decided that the next day I would come to the train and arrange a guide or a guide to take the package, although at that time it was terribly strictly forbidden. I wake up, and on the street what shouldn’t be on November 13 is snowfall! Shed snow, shed and shed and by evening the city stands all over. From me to the station 20 minutes by trolleybus, but the trolleybuses stopped walking, calling a taxi is useless and I, feverishly finding winter clothes, run through the hills to the subway.

I get to the station and on the way I think that everything seems so strange and complicated, as if someone wants to tell me - do you need it? I find a train and I bypass all the wagons from head to tail, I ask for every guide and I’m all rejected and smiled as if I were the worst terrorist in the world.

I’m standing on the pedestal in front of this train, all in the snow, and I’m all in the snow and I cry. I cry about everything in the world—that there is cancer, that there is war, that it’s so hard for us to hear and help someone. By a miracle I got together and stopped crying. I looked around and saw a woman who smoked before leaving the train. I don’t know what pushed me to her. But I approached and said, "Help me, take a small package with you, it is very much awaited in Moscow." She was scared at first and refused, and then for a moment so stunned, looked at me crying and asked - "what is there?" - "There are blocks from the hospital on which histology needs to be done..." - I started and got stuck - where does a normal person know about it? "You know, my friend has cancer and to get treatment, I need these things." And there happened something. It was as if a wall had collapsed between us. “Let me take them. Write my phone number.” - The number is not Russian or Ukrainian, she showed her passport, she was a citizen of either the UK or some other country, and then she quickly spoke: "I now understand what happened today. I flew to Moscow, I really need to go there, and we were put here and I had to go from the airport to the station, buy a train ticket, thank God there were seats. I smoked here and thought, “What kind of misfortune is this?” Here are you. My mother died of cancer and I understand how important it is. I’m probably here to take that package.”

I gave the package, sent the girls to Moscow contacts, the number of the wagon and the time of arrival of the train. I cried again. She walked back through the snow and thought about how surprisingly sometimes the space turns, and how many complicated intertracts happened to get this small package to Rita, which could give her another chance. I, by the way, do not know if there was anything explicit about that analysis for her, but from those events she has lived for another 2.5 years. This story changed me. It was some kind of a key point when something in me clicked and got in place - it was at that moment that I assumed that it was like something tight, but I am some detail in this picture of the world, which gets to those who were transferred from the plane to the train...

Do you want a revolution?
No, what are you? I want despotism, lawlessness, slavery, more corruption and 24-hour lies!! to

XXX: And I picked up from the witness Tripper (



YYY: It wasn’t that bucket to catch.

The woman arrives:

I won the envelope for the child's maternity certificate.)

Where is?

in the VKontakte group.

Well well well.

I wonder why we have an envelope, like no prerequisites.

Five minutes later, he comes back:

Maybe they are fraudsters?

If you are not asked to pay for delivery...

I have already paid...

One hour later, she was placed on the blacklist.

In general, 300 rubles is a small price for such an experience.

If you cross the road a black cat running away from the dog, it is a compulsory sign that you can not fear.

A merchant was driving to Frankfurt for a trade fair and on the road, on the street of one of the villages, lost a wallet containing 800 gulden. A huge amount at that time. The horse was worth 40 gulden. Therefore, the loss of money, for which you could buy 20 horses, is, you understand, an annoying loss.

A local carpenter walked along the road and found a heavy wallet. brought him home. Nobody told him about it, but hid in anticipation of the owner's appearance of the lost wallet - you will have to give. If they do not agree, that is another matter. But under any circumstances we have to wait.

The next Sunday, the priest announced in the church that 800 guldenes were lost and that the one who finds them and returns will be paid 100 guldenes in reward. The honest carpenter brought the money to the pastor. He asked the merchant to come.
The merchant arrived. I took the wallet. He counted the money and gave the carpenter not promised 100 gulden, but only 5, and accompanied it with very offensive words:
And you took a hundred gulden without your permission, because you had 900 gulden in your wallet!
In this dishonest way, the greedy trader decided to trick and save. Plotnik, of course, was outraged that he was accused of theft and stated:
I didn’t take a single gulden, not a hundred. I am a believer.
The priest confirmed that the carpenter was indeed a decent and deeply believing man who kept the commandments of God, and therefore he could not take that hundred gulden. But the greedy merchant insisted on his own. They argued for a long time, and then the priest took both the carpenter and the merchant to the court of the city of Frankfurt.

The case was considered for several days and became the subject of numerous quarrels for the citizens. Therefore, on the day of the court session and the announcement of the verdict, the court building was overcrowded. Everyone was interested in how the money dispute would end. The judge first asked the buyer:
Can you swear that you lost exactly 900 Gulden?
The merchant didn’t even blink his eye, placed his hand on the Bible and swore. At that time, swearing on the Bible was, well, a very serious matter. Then the judge addressed the carpenter:
Can you swear that you have found 800 Guldens?
The honest master quietly laid his hand on the Bible and also swore. Then the judge announced his decision:
The case is obvious. The wallet found by the carpenter does not belong to the merchant because he lost 900 gulden. Therefore, the wallet and 800 gulden are handed over to the carpenter and he can dispose of the money at his discretion. The buyer must continue to search for his wallet, which contained 900 gulden!
So the merchant lost his money and his honourable name.

The judge’s sentence was wise and just, because greed and evil punished themselves.
The parable is dated to 1506 from the book “Scherz und Ernst” by the writer and preacher Johannes Paulie.