Just just. From the neighboring office in the clinic, a doctor runs up, addresses patients:

Until you come in. He disappears in the office.

After a second, the grandfather arises from the store, opens the door of the office and follows the doctor. From the doctoral call:

I told you before you came in!! to

The upset grandfather falls back, sits on the bench and apologizes to the present:

I thought she said, “Pothanin, come in.”

I went to my cousin for a visit. We rarely meet, mostly on the phone and online. Calls and asks on the way to take the eldest daughter from the kindergarten, himself is delayed at work. Call, I say, the teacher to give the child. I have already sent all the passwords. I come to the kindergarten, explain who I am, everything coincides. The child runs to the aunt, and the child does not go. I went to the teacher and no one. I call the niece, I hand over the phone to the child, Mom talked and she was replaced, immediately knotted, hugged, dressed up and went. We talked about how to behave in different situations. What do you say, good guys. The woman was 4 years old.

Charity in Russia is when the rich ask the poor to go away.

The paradise apples.
(The story of a former Afghan)

I do not like black. I do not like Afghanistan.
You all remember what Shevarnadze arranged with our army. Per anyone has forgotten, but not us.
Berlin, the drunk EBN director...
Such a disgrace is never forgotten, never washed away. What to say there. We were thrown out in full.

“Served like dogs – breathe up like dogs,” not literally, but it was exactly how the red-red captain in the military command meant to me. "I did not send you there!" was the answer when I turned to the military commander again for... No matter.
I got out.
Friends in Afghanistan, of course, helped survive the devastating 1990s. Our brotherhood is not comparable to the bandit. Yes, and we passed Afghanistan not in the parade, under the sounds of the brave march. Some afterwards, Transnistria and Chechnya were enough.
This shit, the bandits, we have always heard. And they didn’t come to us. They knew who they were dealing with. We were in parallel with them. On the line of fire, as they say, did not cross.

Poor and rise up. Black is used again. The case understandable.
In our republics everything was ruined, they came to us to gasterbatch.
Well, we were already here, at home, smoking over them, not counting people.
They are black and they are black. Let them say thank you for being still alive.
I have always taught my children that they are not people, they are black. The dogs.

Life gradually improved, the grievances smoothed. I decided to take one of them into my country house. In the garden, and in the farm.
People are non-drinkers and executives.

In Russian, neither Belmes, as the name did not ask what the difference to me. Someone on his fingers explained what to do. I took it out of pity. Almost an old man. It is better, I thought, it will die, no one will look for it.
The tomb is arranged. We are not animals, in fact.

I kept strict. He didn’t bite dogs, but sometimes bite them. How without that, so as not to take away the soul, if in the business, what a mess came out.
He has served me for four years. I am accustomed to him. He did his job correctly.

On the New Year, my granddaughter was born. I am alone in Dacia.
The wife went to her mother, sick aunt, age. I decided to do this with a bubble. I do not drink alone. Here is such joy.
I don’t understand, I think, but I’m not alone drinking.

I drank with him. He is silent. He poured out the glasses again, and then again.
It took me a little. The day was difficult. We sit and silence. Rather, I tell him, I share joy, and he is silent and only sneezing.

Suddenly he spoke Russian.
As I heard, I was pierced like lightning, the gift of speech almost lost.
He thought like Gerasim.

“Remember, Volodya,” he tells me, “who dragged you wounded for four days in the mountains of Afghanistan and brought you half alive into the sandstone?” You were with a broken stomach. In the mining field, our group got there. We were on the task. We two then stayed with you, under a mortar fire. Come have gone. A piece of mine stomach you then uncovered. I managed to tie you over then so that the intestines didn’t fall out. It was in Kandahar. My mouth is yours.
Mahmoud is my calling.
Reminded me?
We are in trouble, Volodymyr. Bad people fight for power, the people fight their heads. On the blood of ordinary people, one criminal power replaces another. We are tired of fighting, Volodya. There are no more men in the cages. In fact, there were only those who were able to go to Moscow. But there is no peace here either. You are not a hospitable people.

Why are you holding people for dogs, Volodya? Was this the way we met you when you, the Russians, fled from the Germans in 41 to evacuate to us in Tashkent?
We gave you everything we had. Yes, we lived poorly, but no one ever humiliated you with these words, “black,” and many other offensive words. We all lived in one large and friendly family. Maybe that’s why we won.

I noticed that he barely drank. He spoke, he spoke. Recalled fellow employees, funny stories from the life of our part.
And I remembered. I remembered how lonely I was in the hospital, how Mahmoud came and brought paradise apples.
The paradise, pale pink apples I remembered for the rest of my life. He pulled me out of that world, carried me on his arms, pulled me on himself, and did not give up. Four days.
For four days he carried me under the burning sun, and over the night he warmed my body with his warmth. To save me, with my broken stomach, and to get this from me, this is such a black ungratefulness...

and long. We stayed with him for a long time that night that passed into the morning.
“Why didn’t you admit to me right away, Mahmoud, but I asked him in the morning.
I wanted to look at you from the side. I have never seen you in peace. Several times when you beat me, I had the thought of killing you.
It’s easy for me, you know. But I took that thought away from myself. We are men. To suffer pain and become stronger, this is laid down in every real man by nature.
And then then. (He is silent )
In those four days, I became different. You became my child for me.
How could I kill my child?

I propose to the deputies a legislative initiative to move the climactic from 45 to 65. Matvijenko will support, Malysheva will understand, Malakhov will tell.

The more time has passed since the war, the cheaper films are being made about it.

About One Dagestan (A Tale of a Reserve Officer)

In 91 he served in district warehouses. Military unit in Moscow. He was on duty on the part when they called the CPS with a message that they brought two new recruits to us.
I come to the CPP – accompanied by an officer, two Dagestan soldiers are sitting. They are sent to us for urgent service. I anticipate a bunch of problems in connection with these guys, I take the documents for them from the accompanying officer, I go with the papers to the commander of the unit.
He grabs his head and starts calling on the phone. From one Dagestan he managed to refuse, and the other remained with us.
He was the only Caucasian in the part, and he had to bite the trouble. We saw his blues several times, and one day even his jaw was broken in the barracks at night.
I say to him, “Tell me who.” We will immediately bring him to court, and you will be removed from the party. I need another translation. And the Dagestan always says, “It’s me. He fell from the table.”
I pretended to separate him from the rest of the staff. I ask :
What can you do? What type of construction work do you know?
He says:
I know construction. Everything I needed at home was built by myself.
Can you stitch?
I can.
Show him the warehouse. The building is a pre-revolutionary building. 400 meters in length.
Could you make a façade alone?
I can!
I told him then that if he did this job, he would get a leave and thanks from the commander of the unit.
And every morning after the divorce, he took a car, a tool, cement, and went to that warehouse. He built for himself bridges, bridges, and every day there. The company for other work, and he - brings himself cement from another warehouse, water boilers, mixes, tinted and tinted. He goes into the dining room without order. In the barracks, after the departure comes. In sight and in sight all the time. His grandparents and the whole borsot stopped pulling him. His work is checked. “Qualitatively well,” he says.
I have already forgotten about him—it does not create any problems—when one day he comes, “Comrade, senior lieutenant, let me go!”
What is?
Your order is fulfilled! The warehouse is broken!
Oh well good! What has come?
I think...
You talked about gratitude.
I woke up inside. About the promised vacation he is silent, and I remembered. I remember 91. There is poverty in the army and war in the Caucasus. It is impossible to let him go home - there is a great chance that he will not return, someone will have to follow him, and whoever will go - may also not return. There are no “Thanks” forms. Well – I had big postcards of the type by February 23, but no inscriptions. There is an order tape, heroic faces of fighters, something more relevant. On this postcard, the staff mechanic wrote about the following under my dictatorship:
- Dear Hatima Magomedovna (name-fatherhood here is conditional)!
Your son...... from (date)... to the present time performs the honorary duty of Defender of the Motherland in the military unit entrusted to me.
During the service of the ordinary... (name) showed himself...
Thank you for your education...
With sincere respect, the commander of the military unit No. Colonel...
Date of signature, stamp.
The commander signed, the stamp was placed in the headquarters, gave this card to the soldier. He, as I learned later, sent this postcard to his mother by order or even a valuable letter, which meant handing it personally to the recipient. As for the leave, he was declared a leave at the location of the station. That is, after the morning divorce he is free to leave the territory of the unit, to walk around Moscow, to come or not to come for a meal in the soldier dining room, to leave the territory of the unit again, but to return to the barracks at 21.00. Let us not go deeper – how much this incentive was consistent with the charter. But I promised, and my promise the commander fulfilled in this way.
The boy went on vacation. In the company, his relations with fellow servants have long been normalized, when part of the ordered letter from Dagestan came.
The mother of this guy on two pages with a calligraphic handwriting and with impeccable grammar thanked the commander of the unit for the received letter about the son. She that this letter was read by all close and distant relatives (this is what I here say to us "distant" and they have no distant relatives. All the neighbors.She said she is proud of her son, and glad that he got to serve in such a good part, with such good commanders and fellow servants.
Then, among other tasks and duties, I chose time to talk to the guy.
His father died early, and their three were raised by their mother, a teacher of Russian in a small school. At the medical commission in the military department, something was found in his lungs, and his mother had to borrow money from relatives, to lubricate doctors, so that the guy was recognized fit for military service.
And this letter of the commander of the unit about the good service of the son the mother took to one of the relatives, they took to another... This letter was read by half of Dagestan.
This is the story.
I almost forgot to say that during all the time of my officer service, this Dagestan was the only soldier I knew who wrote in Russian with impeccable literacy.

If the teacher’s salary doesn’t satisfy you, go to business.
If your business is down, go to court.
If the court is unfair, go to elections.
If there are no normal elections, go to retirement.
If the retirement age has been raised, go work as a teacher.

I have a cousin (a cousin of my ex). He’s not a bad guy, he’s under thirty, but he’s a pretty unique guy. He was already born with a golden spoon in his ass, his father in the 90s turned short schemes on the subject of construction, road repair, etc. He acquired a lot of real estate, when this property cost a penny, and over the years he increased his capital. His son (my acquaintance) spent almost all his childhood in Europe and the United States, "study" in Moscow, then still studied in America, but eventually returned to Russia. Bata is already in regional politics, his financial activity is thriving. But the uniqueness of this guy is that he has never worked in his life. Thusovki, trolls, travel, clutches, cars, alcohol, problems (it was smeared a couple of times after dates), Instagram, etc., but we are not talking about it now.

I recently stumbled upon his ad where he talks about his seminars on “The Way to Success” which is a kind of coaching “how to make money.”

A guy who has never worked in his life, was born in a wealthy family and does not even enter his father's business, holds seminars on the topic: "The path to success!"

And the most interesting thing is that judging by the comments, there are a lot of people willing to get to these same seminars.

As you know, a parental gathering is an event where the mother-in-law gets their 5 minutes of fame. The parental committee is collecting money. Men on this holiday of life are rare birds. They are better remembered.

This is exactly such a case. An interesting man took his place at the end of the class. He listened carefully to all the ballad. I made notes in a notebook. When the last mommy spoke (at least after an hour and a half) and everyone pulled out, the man stood up and approached the teacher's table.

“Maria Ivanovna, you didn’t say anything about my son.

Who is your son?

The Craftsmen.

“Well, the fact is that your class meeting was held in the neighboring office.

A familiar entrepreneur for a long time lived alone, but one day he was introduced to a girl, a little stunned look, but 8 years younger than him and he fell. They talked, went to the cinema, coffee and everything. How long did not follow, but gradually she moved into his apartment to live. For a while he disappeared from my sight, and when they accidentally crossed in a bar, he told such a story. Once he decided one day not to go to the office, but to sit home with documents, to rest, to relax. He woke up, drank coffee and found that he had forgotten to take some documents. Well, he says to his beautiful guy, I'll come to the office quickly and come back immediately. He went and returned was just in shock of finding his beauty with the former fighting her right on the floor. The former quickly grabbed the clothes, apologized to you, apologize, and jumped out naked from the hut. The guy in shock asks, like, what’s going on with you? I said I would come back immediately. Did you go to the tower? She replied, “Please forgive me. I thought he would have time, but he wanted the second time and didn’t have time. Sorry, it won’t happen again.” More tears and tears. The former was living across the road.

The thief will not increase the tax.

The Golden End

I just finished talking on the phone with a nice young man. The boy (judging by the voice - a fresh graduate of some institute) long and boring persuaded me to leave the Middle East that became my native a few years ago and return to Siberia, the good in the super-company he represents, there is a job on my profile, and someone recommended me to them on his head. The boy, apparently, was very upset when I, hearing the name of the proposed job, was very dirty on a mixture of Russian, Arabic and English mat. He was even more upset when I asked him if he had ever been to the fairy place he so beautifully advertised to me.

As expected, the boy was not there (“I heard that it was not bad there”). It is understandable. Much more convenient to think about career prospects, sitting in a cozy office in the center of Moscow. However, more than half of Russia’s economy (at least 10 years ago) came from raw materials. Which for some reason within the limits of the ICAD in the subsoil is not conducted, but is conducted more than a few thousand kilometers from Moscow. And if oil workers, gas producers, metallurgists and coal miners were somehow lucky in terms of existence (in any case, Tyumen with Urengoy are pretty good cities), then gold miners are not very lucky. The scale is not the same, so where gas drivers have a city per 100 thousand inhabitants, gold miners have a village of thousands per 5 people. In any case, when I just got to South Yakutia – the first reaction was “well and deaf” (in fact, the most beautiful place, I still miss it). However, after some time, I managed to make sure that the "deep man" I only have to see. We went to the same golden land that a Moscow boy tried to advertise to me 10 years later.

The end is called Bodaybo. He may be known for the Soviet Union, either by the song of Vysotsky, or by the fact that a little more than 100 years ago the striking stalkers of the Lenny mines were shot there, after which the old Krupsky took the nickname Lenin. For the rest, I will explain: Bodaybo is one of the largest gold mining regions in Russia (and in the world too,). A total of about 20-25 tons of gold (almost a tenth of the gold mined in Russia) are mined annually in all fields, and this will still not start the dry log with its almost 3 thousand tons of gold reserves. For those who are unfamiliar with the price of gold, it is a scandal. Tax deductions only to the local budget - something about 30 million. dollars per year. For a region with less than 20,000 people, this is not bad. Live and rejoice, it seems.

The only problem is that it is almost impossible to get there. At least, we had to first drive 500 km along Yakutia to Bama, then shake on the train, and then another 300 km by car from Bama to drive on the legendary route Bodaybo-Taximo (about it - a little further). There is such a flight if there is a Nerungri airport in southern Yakutia, and there is also an airport in Bodaybo. It is only possible to get there from Irkutsk once a week. And to Irkutsk from Nerungri you can only through Moscow (although, at least twice a week). I remember when I just moved to the Middle East - surprised by the policies of local airlines, which transit flights Moscow - Istanbul - Amman often cost less than flights Moscow - Istanbul. And then remembered the route Nerungri - Moscow - Irkutsk - Bodaybo, and the surprise as a hand removed.

Now back to the description of the road. If you want to test yourself on strength - try to drive on the track Taksimo - Bodaybo. Believe me, no Paris-Daccar Rally, or Camel Trophy even nearby stands compared to the road of category IV in Eastern Siberia. For where else you will find a road that in 250 kilometers different streams cross 15 times. Nothing terrible, you want to say? I forgot to say there are no bridges. In the sense that they either do not exist at all, or there are some self-made structures that local drivers have assembled, what is called, from shit and sticks (and in this case, "bad" is not an exaggeration: in the frost -50 any shit is an excellent building material not worse than cement; out, in the same Yakutia one companion from shit under the New Year the sculpture of the cockroach built - and nothing until the temperature in May became plus, the cock stood and didn't even smell). I was relatively lucky: my trip was in the winter, and the winter and frozen rivers are easy to overcome, and the road does not seem so uneven. Although... at a minus 50 amortisers even on the Cruzaque that saw the sights become a circle, therefore in the cabin shakes so that the fifth point almost permanently hangs at the level just above the ears.

In the summer, some crossings have to be overcome by flooding. Do you mean cars don’t swim? They don’t swim in Moscow. In Siberia, any SUV first masters the "free style" (it is when you rush at the bottom, then as if you push back, and wait for the current to bring you to the other shore; about what happens when the current does not cope, I will be silent). In the second place, this same off-road Naparu with his brother Ural mastered the wonders of gymnastics on bars (more precisely, on two crushed pines, laid through some stream-crane accurately along the width of the car track). Moreover, they usually master from the first time (at least I haven’t seen those losers crashing alongside these barracks). Well, finally, they master the technique of breeding Indian fires from car tires. Our driver, remembers, carried 5 pieces in the luggage. To the question "Nahren" answered very simply: one tile, if it is lit, is enough for almost an hour. If a car gets stuck on the road, 5 tyres are 5 hours of hope that someone will drive by and help.

They say, now the situation has become a little better, and of the 250 kilometers of the track a third has become suitable for travel not only everywhere. When the other two-thirds will be done (and will be done) I don’t know. I advised the boy that before offering candidates a ticket to a magical country, he should go there first and see what it is like.

A very funny story came out at the end. I don't want to make any conclusions myself (and I don't have the right to "go away"). I leave the discussion room open, you want - scorn me, you want - speak on the topic of "how to arrange us". I went on a weekend, longing for my youth, when a few hundred kilometers off the road seemed romantic rather than hopeless.

I write a text message to my son: “Son, I need your selfie urgently.” I was surprised, but I sent. I immediately answered, “Where is the hat?”

This story was told to me by my mother. Her colleague from work has a son who goes to school, he is 9 years old. I have been missing more and more recently. Then the head hurts, then the throat, then the ass... and one day he approaches his mother and says, “I have, so and so... my urine is blue.” Naturally, my mother initially did not believe in this magic of transformation, but after convincing herself of this fact, she almost settled. And when your own investigation on the topic "what did you eat, drink? No matter what, I called the doctors home. The doctors, in turn, also divided their hands: "blue urine and no other symptoms, went to the hospital." And then the boy suddenly shaded and the mystery of the blue fluid was uncovered...In short, when he became less and less believed about the fictional symptoms, he realized that it was time to reinforce the magnificent acting skills with real symptoms, he remembered that if you eat a crayon from a pencil, the temperature will rise. The first person to be caught was a chemical pencil from the architect’s grandmother’s arsenal. The temperature did not rise, but the desired effect was achieved. Not without costs, of course.

At the fourth decade, you understand that to questions such as "and you know how to melt a bath / roast a stove / drive a car", in general, to do any banal shit is better to answer "no", adding "and I generally fuck how it is done."

Flexible prices are understandable. But why do they always bend up?

All the mess in our state is because of those quiet craftsmen, by the efforts of whose madness of instructions is transformed into something working.
I once worked as a freezer at a repair site of a large factory. There was a competent freezer-takar-grasshopper in one person. He told how in the times of the USSR he travelled, as part of the participants of the social competition of workers, to the GDR. There the Soviet Union built a factory for the German brothers.
There was a lot of experience with Soviet workers. The notion of "my instrument" or my machine was absent (unthinkable for the USSR). Every machine is clean, dirty, ready to work. Near the closet with the tool - there is everything that is provided by the technological map (heat - drawings were delivered to the workshop with technological maps). On the door of the toolbox, the tool layout scheme - everything is in place. Workers are not engaged in the adjustment and cleaning of the machine - there are slugs and cleaners for this... Well, this is a lyric.
There is a work shift. The time is right, the spark is spread - the signal of the start of the lunch break. The German tower shakes the palm on the "fungus" stop... Directly during the passage... Just like STOP without taking the cutter. The spindle slows down, the cutter hits the part, breaking the solid alloy plate, everything with the crack stops. The Germans are always in the dining room. It goes back and begins: throwing the damaged work in the cube with marriage, replacing the cutting machine, adjusting, installing a new work... On the direct question - "why did he do so?" The German replied simply, “That’s what is written in the instructions. If I do it to a friend, I will hurt him. My actions will hide the error of management.” The process of clarifying system errors is not so fast..In the process of trials, the taper continued to dig the tool and parts. The conclusion of the trial: A specialist who allowed working instructions without technical analysis was punished (they were simply translated from Russian). We changed the instructions, where it was prescribed that the worker must first remove the cutting machine; to make sure that the machine stop is safe and will not damage the equipment or part; or to finish the cutting machine passage - and only then to defuse the machine.
The result: several days of marriage, the real culprit is identified (not the employee - but the one who gave the wrong instruction), the instruction is corrected. Thus e. The problems are solved systematically, and not by the mind of a simple worker or worker. This is the real responsibility of the leaders.
P.S
I took the story from the comments, the source indicated twice - https://www.anekdot.ru/id/980636/#c1177489

A group of mathematicians caught an esoteric who claimed that all knowledge originated in humans, and forced him to meditate until he learned to solve differential equations.

In the morning, the son was appointed Karabas-Barabas. I found a hat, a beard, a scarf. There was no plank. Looking in the store, I ask the seller, “Is there a tile?” He advised me to contact the department 18+.) By the way, there and bought a tile-seedwood), I very much praised her consultant: "it does not hurt, you will like it." To my excuses, “This is for the morning son,” I laughed.