Once, my cousin and I had a real New Year.

Somewhere in Peter’s backyard, on the eve of the New Year... Our mothers wavered in the kitchen, and Lenka and I wanted a holiday. I then studied in the university, worked as a tutor, there was little money, but I was already working. I offered to buy candy and mandarins and stick gifts, as was previously issued on the Yelke. Well, with this wealth to get around my kids, those I taught English.

They went to the store and to the market. I remember that my money was not enough, and Lenka dropped on mandarin, like saved from school lunches, he was still small... I remember that he asked for gift packaging bags in the market from a candy seller. The money was in the hook, we all dropped down to a penny for candy. The bags were needed, I was embarrassed to ask, and Lenka could. He was very proud of his prey. He was shaken by pride.

In front of our eyes still stands the picture of how we have all our wealth beautifully disposed on the couch: candy of different sizes and varieties, in brilliant fantasy. Then we packed it all equally in bags and wrapped it in colored paper. When the paper was finished, the posters with Leonardo DiCaprio went to work. That was the end of my love for Titanic.

Mothers found us surrounded by our bags, mandarins, sweets, and said it was stupid to give out so much delicious. They suggested that sweets could be put on the table. Silently, with our eyes, we showed the abyss that divided us – we had a celebration, and they had an olive.

Then we were three, and a little boy from my house came in behind us, walked around all the children and congratulated us. No one was waiting for us, we were all happy. We walked the snowy streets from house to house as drunk, feeling like Santa Claus and singing Jingle Bells out loud. I don't remember why it was Jingle Bells, we only knew three or four lines. This is the only song we sang many times in a row.

At the end, there was one gift left... on the street, 3 hours before the New Year, some dad dragged his son home on his saucers. We caught them, asked if his son believed in Santa Claus – and when we received a positive answer, we gave the last gift. We returned home happy.

The ancient people. The leader summoned the tribe.
My people, from now on for hunting and gathering in our forests, for fishing and swimming in our rivers and lakes, for your good will be paid. Half of the fees I will take as a reward for the care of the tribe, the other half I will pay to the warriors who will beat those who will not pay for the good of our tribe!

I recently drove a car on the highway that passes past the cemetery. I see - a traffic jamming is formed directly in a flat place, due to the fact that the lighting is often turned on with a pedestrian passage "On demand". But no one passes. I watched - an old grandmother sits at the transition, shops flowers, and is bored to knock on the button. And we are all wondering where the hooligans come from.

It is observed that if a man wants God to help you, then he himself is not clearly going to help.

The old is already a story, and my grandfather died in 2010, the land was loose to him, and I want to share how I recorded it a year before his death, in 2009.

On February 6, 2009, my grandfather turned 94. He still lived in Kazan, hardly walked, and saw very poorly. I didn’t talk to him on the phone often — he couldn’t hold the phone himself, yet he got this damn Parkinson’s disease. When I was very missing, I asked my mom to hold the phone at his ear. Then he and I talked a few words. And talking to him was not difficult - his grandfather's mind was still clear, and his sense of humor did not disappear.

He was born in 1915 in Odessa, and spent his childhood in the Nude Port in the house of his father, Peter Timofeevich Sidorov, the chief manager of the Masandrov wine basements of His Imperial Majesty.

My grandfather saw a lot in his life. And the mother killed by the Red Army, in that unfortunate night of 1927, when they came to their soul, and Peter Timofeevich, my great-grandfather, was shot, and left with the governor and teenager-grandfather in the fortunately frozen Dnieper. My grandmother, my grandmother, Maria Kremli-Sidorova, unfortunately, did not survive that attack. Then the grandfather and grandfather had Tashkent, typhoid (the grandfather was sick twice), then a lot more, and finally Kazan.

His grandfather was a master of his business, a winer of the highest class, so I am not surprised that he was not arrested, not shot, but appointed director of the Kazan wine factory. The NKVD shakes them, indeed, regularly, but always without reason. My grandfather did not come from that service to the new post to start stealing.

And his grandfather finished the rabbfak, and, working as a slugsman, entered the KAI, already having the crusts of the master of the 7th division. He was talented, a mechanic from God, although selected. Grandma then often called it a millimeter, although in my opinion, a micron would be more correct. He studied in KAI just before the beginning of the war.

On June 30, 1941, he married my grandmother, Yevgeny Yakovlevna Majorova, then a student of Kazan financial and economic (we call this institution in Kazan a "café"), and immediately from the wedding went to do first Katyusi, and then aircraft-strike on Kazan aircraft. Twice escaped from the factory, wanted to get to the front - returned. The 7th grade is not a joke.

In 1943 my mother was born, and in 45 the war ended. Grandfather enrolled in postgraduate studies, defended himself, and eventually became an associate professor at the Department of Aerodynamics in his Alma Mater. This very aerodynamics was long later called by the students sidodynamics. Students had reasons for that.

And here in Kazan, already in adulthood, far beyond thirty, my grandfather grabbed the passion. No, not what you thought. He stopped smoking at the age of 25, when he felt that he was drawn, he treated guilt all his life as a delicacy, although all branded wines were unmistakably recognized from the first swallow. I brought him, already as a postgraduate student in Prague, somehow from Hungary, from some cellar, his native Masandrovsky muscat white red stone. I recognized my grandfather’s wine, without even trying, by the smell. Although it was sold under this name in Russia at the time, it was scorned in black. And still would. The vineyard under this mustard, for my grandfather’s grandfather, Matthew, began in the Crimea, and did my grandfather not know how the mustard should smell? What and how my grandfather with women was - I don't know, don't ask, so about the passion I write about completely different.

My grandfather sat on the mushrooms. Specifically, for a quiet mushroom hunt. And so sat down that until the very end, as long as he could walk, he did not give up his passion.

Grandfather to mushrooms a peculiar attitude has always been: for him there were only four worthy breeds - white, bushes, loads, and rubies. It was only at the beginning of June that he drove us all to the shores - until the white one had to wait, and the mushrooms he always wanted to collect, and the long winter stunned him so that it hardly seemed.

All his mushroom places the grandfather gave names: Snake hills (there he argued with a straw for the pineapple), the first, the second, the third Grive (I have no idea why he called these places so, it was all the shores of the shore), a lion hill (a separate story, don't believe it, but there to my grandmother the lion jumped out, and licked with her. It was his employees of the Kazan Zoo who took him out into the wild, and he, the pig, went away. The common name is Cordon. (We were near the dacha some cordon at some time, so the name was fixed).

My grandfather taught me to collect mushrooms at an age when I didn’t have anything to say, I didn’t know how to walk. Our regime was strict. Before the "frog" to get up was necessary to get to the first place before the sunrise. Why so? I won’t tell you exactly, but my grandfather always stood firm. And then you swing 20-30 kilometers with him, all over the place, and you drag a basket with what you gathered, you drag on yourself. Do you think it hard? No to Figo! Yes, I would struggle immediately, ask me who will carry this basket for me. The mine! I found it! Do not touch!

Here we went to this snake hill before dawn. This place is in the pine pine pine - it is very beautiful there, well, yes to me, the five-year-old carapuz did not care about the crust at the time. I came here to look for mushrooms. Grandfather fled immediately to his places, and Grandma-Jenna stayed with me, of course. Here we went with her, in front of us. She told me fairy tales, and by the way, the exercises in mathematics stressed me, and I turned in all directions. Then he turned, and suddenly stumbled. Because I saw a huge, luxurious beetle. Woooot thataaki!!!! And frozen in place. My grandmother hadn’t noticed it at first, she felt like I stopped, and I was pulled by the hand – and I’m all standing, my mouth shaking. She looked too. It was difficult not to notice, it was a fungus, and not an old one, by the way, not a pineapple - but a dream of mushrooms. have arrived. Grandmother sat down, and I started jumping, shouting, "The mushroom found, the mushroom found!" I don’t even remember when I was so happy.

My grandfather and I met in two hours. He collected something, of course. But when he saw my champion, only his hands shaken. I was so proud! ?

Upon returning all the white we usually dried over the plate for the winter, cutting them into slices. But apparently I looked at my beautiful borovik so much that my grandfather made an exception for him. We dried it entirely. And then I took this dried mushroom to my kindergarten, and to all of us, the whole little girl from my group, our kindergarten cook made a soup out of it.

I have tried many different types of mushrooms, but I still remember the taste of that soup.

Yes the most important. The last time I spoke with my grandfather, he asked me, “Do you remember that shrimp on the Snake Hill?” I immediately understood what he was talking about. “Yes,” I say, “and what?” Grandfather responded with a delay, his hand was trembling. The shit is Parkinson’s disease, though. But then he gathered and suddenly asked, “If you come, take me there, right? Suddenly, there was another such beetle grown there?”

You say that our people are uncultural. Meanwhile, more and more letters come to the editorial office of the First Channel with the question of when they will finally show "The Swan Lake". I missed the classics.

Not all is so bad in cinema. For example, I can’t remember a porn film with a bad ending.

There is a platform Tarasovskaya on the Yaroslavl Railway. It is about her Koval in the Adventure of Vas Kurolesov phrase: "Remember! Jod from Tarasovka! Except for Yoda from Tarasovka and the Moscow Spartak. He has a football base there since the last century. And fans, in the sense, fans. In the second half of the 1970s these fans-supporters Spartacus did not have a lot of them, then no team had a lot of them, but in the electric car after the match with them it is better not to drive. The electricity with them is better to miss, let them hurt themselves there. If you are one or two, not fifty.

The glasses were beaten, the bars were spoiled, sometimes the rare people were rolled. The police were afraid, but not very much. I hoped to hit because it was stupid. For the same reason, that is, the foolishness of two young people, absolutely not football fans, sat in such an electric wheel in Mytices. They went to the Builder for evening training. in the Karate section. The Spartans are bustling.

You are a karate, or a boxing aikido, and if you get into such a cataclysm, where opponents are 100 times more than you, then it is better to leave the conflict, or disguise yourself. The best fight is the one that has been avoided. No, the situations are different. In some cases the opposite. Protecting someone. The homeland, for example. for the girl. Moving the old woman across the road. But this is not the situation.

In addition to friends in the car, only fans. The guys were masquerading in the corner and waiting position. Conversations are listening. And in the conversations, it sounds like this whole gang in the Builder is coming out, someone is going to "load". After hearing such a matter, friends, quickly to the exit, so that this exit in the Builder to lead, slander and silently fuse into a familiar tin. They stood up at the door first. Behind the people are also gathering, the Spartak champion is scandering and something else about the dynamo is bad. Dynamo is shit, and Spartak is a champion.

electricity to the builder. Our karaoke gathered with the spirit, in the sense, air in the chest and with the scream "Dynamo - shit, Spartak - champion" on the platform flew out.

One of them. Because no one came out after them. Major on the platform. Right in front of them. And thirty-three police officers, as in a fairy tale, in addition.

Here, he says, as in the message: they beat in the electric car, beat the glasses, clinged to the passengers, in the Builder were going out. Dynamo is shit, and Spartacus is a champion. And in the chest.

Thus, the local department of the militia met with their new instructors-trainers in handball combat.

Here you are going to go to Finland for PMJ. Don’t you feel like you’re a second-class person?
is terrible. I want to feel like a man.

The weapon for duellists in Russia of the 21st century is shit.

I want to tell you about my first daughter.

A brilliant woman, a pediatrician. Assistant at the Department of Child Diseases. “Doctor from God.” Everyone whose children were treated with her remained grateful. The candy and flowers were just sweetened.

In addition to experience, she had a passionate desire to learn new things, they read special medical literature and studied for a lifetime.

The father-in-law, like the first wife, was a gift to me, a former worker. I, a lover and fan of rock, went to the opera for the first time and discovered its charm. I was practically taught about culture. I am very grateful to my first mother-in-law for all this effort.

Interesting things started at the wedding. What a wedding could have been in 1982, when my aunt was a doctor, my parents were working. Everything is very modest. They celebrated in the apartment, invited a person 25-30 closest relatives and friends. My ancestors demanded a battalion. It was the strength of the older generation. It didn’t work, I invited only my aunt with the acordeon.

He had friends, a family of opera singers. The head of the family, Gleb, was the first bass in our regional opera. Great man, big, thick and very kind. He even went to La Scala for an internship.

The wedding began and went on. They drank, ate, shouted “bitterly”, again drank. Then the songs went under the accordeon. Nothing predicted surprises. And here the maid asks Gleb to sing. He refuses almost categorically - the type I did not drink, the room is small, etc. I don’t know how, but she convinced him. Gleb stood up and sounded like a thunderstorm with the bass “Under the St. Petersburg”. He was sitting in front of us, young people. His wife, also a singer in the opera, sang, the acordeonist tried to play. But I did not hear anything or anyone else but him. How we didn’t break the buttocks, I don’t even know. Even the glasses in the windows trembled. The impression was that no words of the type of “foolish” would be able to convey it. And the applause. very beautiful. Thank you very much, it will remain in my memory for a lifetime.

The next day, everyone in the courtyard asked, “What did you have there?”

In 1983, we had a daughter, and in 1984, they wanted to rest - they ran south. And the mother-in-law stayed with the little child while we were “resting.” He had relatives in the south. When we passed by, we went to one of her relatives – I tried wildlife there for the first time. The oldest was a hunter and they had a crab. It is not comparable to any pork.

Then we moved to Juba, where other relatives lived. They had an apartment and, in addition, a house on the coast, which was rented, rooms. They gave us a room there. 300 meters to the sea. They lived for their pleasure - swimming, sunbathing, even riding with relatives on a shale and after a hive somewhere in the mountains. It is called Aikido. Kizila was also picked up. I have never eaten cheesecake again in my life.

There was a funny incident too. One (or maybe two, I don’t remember) room was taken by a family of Azerbaijanis. Ahmed, the head of the family, wife and six or seven children, was younger. Comfort on the street and on all filmers. A little annoyed the Muslim custom of not using paper, but only water and sand. Especially a lot of children. No matter how you go to the toilet - there is almost no dirt, everything is flooded, there is always a possibility to slip and fall. Even though the sand helped a little)))

But this is all nonsense, small household inconvenience, to which everyone closed their eyes. Ahmed was constantly missing in the market. I don’t know who he was there, but it doesn’t seem to be the last person. When we gathered for the shale, we came to the market and found Ahmed. He took us to the meat seller and told him something in Azerbaijani. Even our relatives were amazed and said that such meat to buy in the market is simply impossible.

And then one day, closer to the evening, something happened to one of Ahmed's children, whether he was poisoned or just a flu, I don't know. At home he was not, his wife in Russian is not a boom boom, runs, cries, and nobody understands anything. We try to explain to her that you need to call an ambulance, even by gestures, and she in response - no, no. Without a husband. I ran to the market to look for Ahmed, the good was not far away. Running, grabbed the first Caucasian hit by the chest – where is Ahmet? He immediately showed. He explained the situation to Ahmed and went home with him. He called the ambulance, the child was taken and healed later.

The next day we went out to the yard, where the table was large. At the table are Ahmed and another Azerbaijani. “Jura,” said Ahmet, “sit with us.” I sat down. On the table appeared 2 bottles of good vodka and still stood a plate with some salad or snack, I don't know.

You helped me, I should at least serve you. Sit down and drink with us.

“You have nothing to eat,” I smiled.

Oh you are wrong. This is the best breakfast, and I showed it on the plate.

I don't know what it was, something terribly spicy, but after this snack you forget that you drank vodka. I want to breathe fire and pour water into that fire.

We normally made friends with him, although I was 23, and he was 40, maybe more.

At any resort there is a multinational and multi-religious company, which is not surprising. And sometimes even the Armenians asked me, “Why are you friends with Azer? He is a Muslim.” And I didn’t care, then the brotherhood of all peoples was at the head of the corner.

We returned, rested, burned and satisfied. The mother-in-law was a shadow.

She turned out to have a deep hunger. Of course, the doctor could not just get into this. She studied all the necessary literature, the processes of entry and exit from this hunger strike. Everything went well (not everyone has it). He even cured some of his chronic diseases.

But when we came back, we were very ashamed. After all, they actually abandoned a small child to a man who went on such a terrible thing. She endured everything. She took care of the child and took herself out of mortal danger.

Most interestingly, she then wrote several articles in medical journals and became a recognised nutritionist in the city. Respect the entire medical community. Just because she did it all on herself, not whispered just like that.

I still respect her, she’s 80 this year. Thank you Alevina Ivanovna. Long years of life and health.

stupid dumb ones! Missed the task! Did you think with your head or your ass? Get rid of yourself now – according to a new legend you are two pido...
Comrade General...
to postpone! You are tourists and point!! to

I had lunch with a friend who had just arrived. His distant relative is a police officer in San Francisco and he told an extremely funny story about the trend associated with iPhones and new smartphones.



Further from his face:



Previously, when we caught, say, drug dealers, we tried to hack locked phones to get along with accomplices or, if it was a mercenary, customers. It was always hard and cost a lot of money even if the password was simple. Not one criminal said it voluntarily and we had to track calls through operators, that he was still a gamer or hack the entire phone.



However, after iPhones with fingerprints, it became easier because many criminals kept their fingerprints to open the phone and after a maximum of 20 attempts the phone was opened. We just stupidly tried all the fingers on our hands and feet. That many passed through and it happened that they specifically injured the right fingers during the delay, so that we could not open the phone and waste time hacking.



But after FaceID things went easy. You just take the detainee and direct a phone to him, which immediately opens up. So, a week ago, we arrested a cool but stupid dealer, and he, if we could not open his iPhone X, stumbled around the table on the site. The nose broke and a couple of teeth spit out... However, the iPhone still "recognized" him and he burned all his shareholders without wanting to : -)



Thanks to the technology :)

Over the years, you forget more and more, and learn less and less. It is very uncomfortable: wisdom will come and you will sit as a fool.

My friend is upset:
"Imagine my daughter brought the bridegroom to introduce me and Lenka.
She is 19 and he is 30. Maybe the man is normal. In the evening, they come to the house on the Beagle X6. It looks like a standard guaranteed.
And from the conversation I learn that he lives in the seed of Khrushchev, he is in credit and the child is still from another marriage. I’m telling the man, lose that shit. Don’t lose because he has a child (it’s life) but because he, a fool, instead of buying an apartment, bought cheap pants to remove the scarf. You are a man, not a man? So think here. A normal thirty-year-old man will first find a house for himself, his child will be provided, and then the fin-dippercese car will be bought by a fox, not a loan.
Such things.

Only in Russia, a thief caught with a sleeve can call you to a duel.

Take a taxi to Tbilisi. The interruption. Everyone is signaling and screaming in the open windows. Apart from our driver, although his appearance dismisses all doubts about the purity of Georgian origin.

I ask, why don’t you attend this celebration?

I worked as a taxi driver for five years.

and?

On the first day, he was fun and bet on someone. He stopped, two strong guys came out of the car and explained that this is a cultural capital and this is not possible here. explained in a profitable way. Since then, I have been driving as a cultural person. Even at home.

I picked up the over-released cards, sat down to the operator and started. I am I, O is the operator

A - We offer you card insurance for the case of theft and fraudulent redemption, only 108 rubles per month.

I – No, I do not have to.

Otherwise, the police will have to decide.

I am not

(I really wanted to get upset about what the bank is doing then that it can’t guarantee the security of my money, but I decided that I’d better finish faster and go.)

This is a new insurance contribution, do you want to make?

I – No

A - Life insurance from injuries for 138 rubles a month, contribute 2 thousand (such as), they turn into 240 and if you don't bite a crocodile in Africa, then take them, well, and if you chew and don't squeeze you get 480

I - No, nothing interests me, neither credit cards nor insurance, do not offer me anything

And here I get just an epic phrase:

O - Until the advertising block does not listen to the issuance of cards we do not go, but there is still a mobile bank...

The real question is, who knows AdBlock for such cases?

At the wedding of one of my wife’s distant relatives, I spoke to a stranger.

After the general topics were over, he suddenly said:

- I myself came from the Shklovsky district, studied in the same class with our President.

My mistrust apparently reflected on his face, so he continued warmly:

Don’t believe those who say they’ve studied with him. Wrong people! If you gather all those who said that they studied with him in a school or institute, you will get the population of a small town. I have not just studied with him, but I can prove it.

I wondered how he would be able to do that. Could he call the President directly and ask him to confirm his words? But his response exceeded all expectations. It was so unexpected that it was likely to be true. The man said:

I do not remember him at all! I was in one class and that was all.

The word is not wreath, let go, catch and plant.