I am a working pensioner. With a bad salary. In the PFR I list 24 trillion per month. I have a pension of 23 tr. That is to say, I keep myself and give another 1 tr to the government for ice cream. In return, the government decided to recalculate my pension. The maximum that shines on me is 3 points for 81 rubles. I don’t know if it’s a generous gift from liberal lawyers driving the economy. It is necessary to think about it - to punish those who work with rubles, rather than sitting on the neck of the budget. Are these people who run the economy not mutants by chance?? to

"The Prime Minister Dmitry Medvedev at a meeting held on 13.07.2018 said: "Along with the pension reform, the period of pregnancy should be reduced from 9 to 5 months. But not immediately, but gradually, one month a year. The “New Newspaper”

My sister and friends arranged a tea drink and I unwittingly listened to their conversation. One lady shared her sadness: "When I was fifteen, my mom and I bought me a little bit different in size, my mom told me to grow up. Well, I threw him on the shelf, thinking of next year. I forgot about him. Today I am 31 and yesterday I excavated this leaflet, I measured it, and it is still ugly to grow(((

I remembered.

I was sent to my aunt to give the key to the apartment, my mother strictly said. “Don’t lose your key.” I took the key and went. I go and think, “I’m not going to lose it,” and I think, “I need to practice finding the key to find it quickly.” I look at him from all sides, and with all my strength I throw him forward, closing my eyes.

And you know what? Yes to! I lost him.

I searched for that key for several hours. What was my relief when, all dirty, crying, I noticed the flash of the key. I ran to him like a naked man, grabbed him and went. With the confidence that I’t lose him.

In the neighborhood there is a bargain. Working with polyethylene film. We need this film for packaging products. Go to him.

Leah is Hi. Sell 6 rolls of handcuffs.

No, it is a small thing. I work at least 20 rounds.

This is what you have to do with them (Fuck you traitor). Here is money. Give me six. We urgently need.

and no.

was advised. 20 rubles is for six months. There is nowhere nearer, I decided to go.

See you here? I know you won’t find it nowhere. Learn to report.

We did not share Lech triumph. The wicked left. In the shop received puzzles from the management for spending.

Leah came to us yesterday.

Hi guys guys. We have a shelf under the boxes, can you scrape the size of the board? I already brought the material.

And a lot?

Two of Cuba.

is excellent. 100 rubles per meter, spread in three days.

Ahha, it is funny. Okay, I will come after tomorrow. Beer with me. Go, we will move to you.

Alexey, I may have been unclear. 100 rubles for a meter. The boards go by themselves. If you need loaders, then 700 rubles / hour for one.

You are shrinking. Come back to the movie, I will sell it.

I have 11 rounds of your worth. So we will not come.

Moral: If you catch the fate for the tail, don’t shake it for the eggs.

The chief cardiologist of the Ministry of Health: The longer you walk, the healthier the heart of the person you walk on!

About the roads or how to become bad...

There are such interesting associations in Russia as gardening societies. Once it was rural territories of 6 acres issued by the state, but over the past decades many cities have significantly expanded and now many gardens have become quite urban areas. In most of them, people build capital houses and get a license, but the city authorities do not make any effort to improve these new territories. Absolutely everything gardeners do at their own expense: set up pillars and laying power lines, laying water pipes, sewage, gas pipes and even putting roads in order. Such a state in the state or direct implementation of the principle - "Start with yourself!". The forms of implementation are different, the gardening board can collect money, and the residents of one street can simply drop on some local issue.

Most often we dropped down the whole street to repair the ground road, leveled it with a bulldozer, bought several cars of sludge and leveled it on the street with our own forces. After some time, the slug went to the ground and after about a year and a half the operation had to be repeated again. We decided that it was quite meaningless and once dropped substantially large amounts of money just wrecked the road.

Moreover, the entire population of the street went out to level the imported concrete with blades, holding an epic mega-sabbath. Three days later, the people regretted their decision. The fact is that the roads in horticulture are very narrow, two cars can travel in just a few "boxes" on each street, so when at the peak hour on our new wonderful road a stream of cars around the traffic jams, many residents could not just leave the courtyard, but even just get out of the cage. In completion of the misfortune, a fool who carried on the gazelle the pipes installed in the body at the corner up, managed to break through the gas pipeline passing over the road, leaving all the gardening without gas for 3 days.

The logical decision was to install the shlagbaum, we collected the money again, we did not get used to it, and then went back 2 times, until we found a firm that installed a really "anti-vandal" shlagbaum, which fans couldn't break the traffic jams.

But fans free to use other people's work and money for free and here they found a way out. The calculation is extremely simple - inhabitants of gardening at the same peak hour return home, so every 10-15 minutes a car with a key comes to the shlagbaum. It is great! Instead of burning gasoline in the traffic jams, it is better to build a rope before the slump, shut down the engines and smoke for 10-15 minutes, until the Swiss approaches with the key, comes on foot and generously misses us, so that we can pass by ourselves!

And of course, in dialogue with drivers you can learn about yourself a lot of interesting things, first of all about the fact that if you want to live on a beautiful and comfortable street, then you are a bourgeois and a blooddrinker, it is time to hang on a pillar and crack.

The moral of this fairy tale is this: "If you want to live better - start with yourself! You will be bad at once.”

I think when people get 800 thousand. I get 15,000 a month. At 60 or 65 years old, not quite honest.

You have to lose so that no one remembers who won.

When I was in sixth grade, I was sick for a week. I came to school, and there all of the syringes splashed: like, a new splash appeared. I did not know. I didn’t tell you, dogs. He came home wet. I changed dress. I went, bought in the pharmacy a large enema. The next day, everyone won, because there was a syringe against a cyst. The next day, we all pulled two liters of plastic fugas out of the beverages. And there came parity (who would not be allowed to go to school). No one even sprinkled: two liters of cold water is a lot. And since then I have always smiled wisely when I hear about the need for disarmament and that nuclear weapons as a tool forining peace are not necessary.

Polls conducted in the people, found out: the population as a whole is quite, but people are difficult to formulate: what exactly.

I often hear that children are now stuck on gadgets, phones, tablets, say they are no longer interested in anything. This spring I saw a different picture. I go to one of the sleeping districts of Moscow in the afternoon, and I meet three ten-year-old boys and a girl with them - they go home, obviously after school. Me and them, respectively, equaled a barrel of ice cream. One of them says:

I want chocolate! Go to?

Everyone supports him except one boy.

I have no money with me, he says.

Let me buy you, and you buy me the balls? He who offers money looks at his friend with hope and smiles.

The second takes the balls from the bearings out of his pocket, looks at them first, then a friend (somewhat suspiciously) and says:

Are you anything? ! to They are invaluable!

I don’t know what happened, but I smiled.

Just happened. I stand at a stop. A lot of people. A man aged 55-60 years. An uncertain walk, shaking, crawling. Not a drunk, but a disabled.

They sit at the stop of the grandmother and one handed out to him: "Wow, morning, and has already eaten, alkas!" Her neighbors are shaking. The man replied that he was not drunk, but a disabled man. The grandmother replied, “Oh, so you are not hungry? It looks like. There are plenty of such people here!“”

I turn to that grandmother and ask, “Are you stupid?” The expected response. How you laugh! by Ham! I replied, “Oh, so you’re not stupid? and seem. Do you know how many idiots? “”

How would you capture the world if you find yourself in 1990 with all the current memories, but in the body of the child that you once were?



— — —



I have four.



I just lost my wife and children, and now I am the most depressed and smart kindergarten in the world. My parents don’t understand what’s going on, and I don’t tell them anything because it’s crazy. I am not taken to a psychiatrist: there is no psychiatrist in parental insurance, we can not pay a doctor from our own pocket either.



I have behavioral problems at school. My extraordinary intelligence is obvious to anyone, but I am so bored to do homework that instead I come up with algebraic problems and solve them myself. I write code in programming languages that don’t exist yet. I don't have access to the computer, although I constantly swear it.



The ratings are getting worse and worse, and I am often called to the director for how I behave in class. But it’s America, so every year I’m transferred to the next class.



In the fourth grade, the teacher, noticing how much I know, begins to give me high school books. A good year.



Next year, everything returns to normal, and I am crushed.



When I was in eighth grade, a psychiatrist finally appeared in my mom’s insurance. I come to him for the first time. I have been in the opposite direction for ten years. Now I don’t feel the bitterness of loss, but the boredom of an adult living in a child’s body is just as deadly.



You promise not to tell my parents, teachers or the police.



He agrees.



I’m telling him that my consciousness has shifted from 2018, that now I should be 41, that I’ve had a wife and children, and that I’ve been somehow trying to cope with all this since I hit four. He does not believe me. I show him the program code written in languages that are not yet available. I solve algebraic problems and equations in polar coordinates—nothing of this I need to understand by age.



He thinks I’m a wanderkind. And that I am crazy.



I say that George Bush Jr. will win the presidential election. He thinks I’m just ticking my finger into the sky. I am a gun. There is only one year until 9/11.



Now he thinks I’m dangerous. I plan for 9/11.



I’m trying to surrender back and say it’s all al Qaeda. He asks if al-Qaeda is talking to me.



Talking to him is meaningless.



I was transferred to neuroleptics. I feel nothing, I think badly, I don’t want anything. But I’m no longer in “depression,” so the therapy is recognized as successful. My psychiatrist checked me regularly.



9 of 11. I and my parents are being dragged to meet with a psychiatrist, a police officer and two men in costumes. Parents do not understand what is happening. They try to talk to me, but I refuse. They have all of my internet traffic – some places inappropriate, but nothing incriminating. I demand that they stop eating my pills, they agree.



I am under house arrest with a bracelet on my feet. In school and home. I do not care. I have no friends, even my friends from my previous lives are just children.



Another meeting in a month. How did I know about 9/11? I demand a lawyer. They don’t give me it. I shake my shoulders and keep silent.



There will be a lawyer.



I tell the lawyer everything, he doesn’t believe me, I demand another.



I tell the new lawyer everything, he doesn’t believe me. I demand another.



I tell the new lawyer everything, she doesn’t believe me. But she will protect me on the basis that I have told the truth. I agree.



We tell them nothing. Home arrest is a violation of my rights, and the Patriot Act, which allows them to keep me locked on the slightest suspicion, is still, in essence, not adopted. The lawyer threatens to go to journalists.



They are falling.



In the first year of high school, my scores are terrible. I understand that they need to be pulled up if I want to get to the same college where I find my wife, so I start doing twice as hard. I am going from double to excellent. The teachers were confused, but a stone fell from their hearts.



The last year. I only submit papers to one college. My parents thought I was flying out of the coil. But the plan is this: I am going to the Honors Program, to the same Honors Program, where I met my wife almost thirty years ago (in my personal chronology), I live in the same communion as she, I am working in the same engineering team as she was when we started dating.



Only I do not do. My scores are too low because I failed my first year in high school. The college is the same, but I cannot reproduce the circumstances of our meeting.



But there is hope, even if it is small. I will go to college. I know in which clubs she goes, with whom she’s friends. I will be where she is.



I’ve been around with her for months, working on inviting her to a date. How can you call on a date someone you lived with for 12 years and who you lost 14 years ago and who doesn’t remember you at all? How do you approach her with all that baggage that she has no idea about?



But finally I do it. I call her on a date.



She says “No.”



But how, how. The world around me is collapsing. Is she my wife, does she not understand? I crash, it scares her, and she runs away. I run after her, but she has time to press the alarm button on campus.



Of course, my story of “madness” immediately binds me. Next month I will be in psychiatry.



One day, two men in costumes visit me again. They say they can pull me out. But I have to tell them about 9/11. These are the same FBR sheep I saw a hundred years ago. And I surrender. I tell them everything.



They pull me out of the psychic. Now I have a good home in some ass of the world, a good computer, a great internet. And I have to keep telling them about the future.



In my free time I work as a consultant. FBR pays all my expenses, so such earnings are my pocket money. On January 2, 2009, I set up a computer with a powerful GPU, and the next day I start mining bitcoins.



I fucking much. Much more than anyone could expect from mining in the early days of Bitcoin. As a result, Bitcoin doesn’t take off because everyone else with their ordinary computers has no point in fighting with me. The cryptocurrency collapses, and has not reached the first peak.



After two years, the FBR comes back to me again, they need information about the future again. But I had nothing left, I already told them everything I remembered.



I am being thrown out of the house, all the computers they bought me are being taken away. All the computers I’ve assembled myself are picking up too—these are, you see, substantive evidence.



I have nothing more. I am wandering. From one small town to another, I move on fast trails.



One day I fall asleep on a shop in the park.



Not to wake up the next morning.

Men in note.

Before making a conclusion, you must first make an introduction.

“Sasha Lucky... or Repair in English”

I have a companion under the underground name “Sasha Lucky.” He is also famous for loving sharp sensations and all kinds of extremes. But not immediately new people understand why it is so called, because most often it can be seen either in a plaster, or transplanted as a mummy of Ramses II on the way from the clinic to his native yacht club. Personally, I have never seen him without any traces of recent medical intervention.

And the main thing is engaged in mountain climbing and climbing the rocks, like a monkey for bananas and at work, the slasher has kept all the fingers, and here - then when the shuttle between the yacht and the sailboat will fall, then in the unclosed lounge on the boat will fail, and even from a hit by a gick on the dome will fall out of board. And after all, a person does not drink, and in sailing sports since childhood.

And he got his nickname because he ends every story with the phrase: "It's lucky to be alive!" In short, everyone is accustomed to this and if someone starts the conversation with the words: "Have you heard what happened yesterday in the yacht club?" everyone immediately loses interest and only tiredly asks: "Again Sasha is lucky?".

But this story probably surprised everyone.
The first part.

(The yacht and crew, which does not include and has never included Sasha.)

So is the regatta. The sporting spirit is even at an anemometer. A turning boat is approaching and all yachts are bored on one fifth - everyone wants to be the first to bypass this boat, to put a spinacher (a large light sailing, but it is not important here) and immediately get rid of the competitors on the wind.

Work on board is boiling, distracting no time: the backs load the spinacks, the scooters grind and pick up the scooters, the steering wheels, turning out their eyes, watch the sails and how not to fly into the boats that go "board-on-board". Every second, every meter is important.

And here... from somewhere above from the sub-ventilated side there is a growing shout: “eeeeeeeee-baaaaaaa...”. Everyone in the crew dies and looks up, hoping to locate the source of this apocalyptic sound.

In the same moment, together with a scream, because of the sailing, "Sasha-Fortunato" flies out, as if it had fallen from a flying bomber, passes in front of the yacht and does not fly a couple of meters to the next, fairy, with a plush and a fountain, the sprinkle is melting its whistle in the swamp...

There is no pause. The warming eyes of others, the nervous hiccups and the question hanging in the air: "That's what, b., at all, this was and where did it come from?" Everyone is looking up again, looking for the bomber. The curtain...

The second part.

A few minutes before that. On the yacht “Sashi Lucky”

The boat is approaching, the yacht is flying in the same mass. Sasha, as the most agile and sporty, charges the spinacher on the tank. Work is like everything else...

But then it turns out that there was a phal in the block on the top (on the top) of the macht. What to do? If you want to win the race, go to the match. No time at all. As long as you find or build a "Botsman chair" (a bandage for raising a man on a matcha), as long as you pull the sailors to the top - a lot of time will take.

And then a victorious idea comes to Sane’s mind: “Capp, listen, I’ve seen here on YouTube, how the English boat is encircled under the wind so that they sail to the top.”

“Hey, you fucking invented it!” replied the captain.

“Let’s talk, but here’s the thing: lie down in the “half wind”, (the course of the wind – when the wind blows the yacht right in the side), out of the wind as much as to hold! Let us try!”

Cap thinks a few seconds and the spirit of competition still takes up over reason and common sense.

“Aaaah!” Okay, we went – choose the Scots! Half the wind! Sania with insurance. “Hey, you’re lucky,” commanded the captain.

The yacht lies "half wind", gets a crane and almost touches the sailing water.

Whether Sasha did not hear the last words of the captain, whether he pretended, or whether they were not said at all - history silences it. The fact is that Sanya used (or almost went) sailing without insurance. And he “run” by sailing, to be known, very sharply and cleverly, if he managed to run further than to the middle (the total height of that macht from the waterline is 17m.) Until the boat broke...

Immediately all the pressure of the wind, which created the necessary crane disappeared, the yacht was lightningly aligned and the macht catapulted Sasha-Pozzelo with a scream: "yeeeeeeeeeee-baaaaaaa...!!Ballistic trajectory towards competitors.

During the rescue operation, not only all the participants, but also the victim himself fought in hysteria, which significantly complicated the work.)

P.S “The four ribs were broken, the arm, the shoulder, the hematoma on the body floor, but... It was fortunate that he was alive!”

When I was a kid, I thought about why adults’t be able to put order in the economy and reconcile with neighboring countries.
When I grew up, I realized that there were no adults.

One day I walked through school.

I studied in 7th grade. I woke up in the morning and I realized that he was on the FIG. I went to school yesterday, yesterday too. No lessons for teachers. A good little bit. and stayed at home.

Suddenly, my mother came back. She swallowed her eyebrows and squeezed her lips.

Why are you at home? She asked. Suddenly it became so quiet that I heard a cat walking in the neighboring room.

I started telling a complicated and confusing story without a definite end. Mom listened for a while and looked closely at me. From her gaze my story became even more confusing, and my cheeks were red.

Did you take a short walk? Eventually she clarified. I shamed shamefully.

Mother spoke briefly, but very insightfully, about the inadmissibility of passages and the importance of education. Then she walked away, and I stayed in the room alone with guilt. This feeling filled all my usual games and entertainment. So I sat on the window and stood in the window.

My mother looked into the room.

“Why,” she asked, “are you going to sit there all day?”

I sneered and tried to express my full degree of repentance on my face.

Do not be a fool. My mother said gently. You have already taken a lesson and you can’t cancel it. So at least get the pleasure of walking. Or you did a foolish thing, and it goes out - in vain.

I looked at her suspiciously.

Don’t do something you will regret later. If you already did, do not regret it. There are sweets in the kitchen and you can turn on your console.

For a moment she nodded her eyebrows again and added:

But just try to catch me two...



Mom’s counsel had a controversial pedagogical benefit – I walked thereafter a lot and often. And grown up, if we call things by their names - a fairy tale.

But absolutely happy.

Quickly said, no matter what is small written.

and London. Through 3 houses away from us, Poles-builders live, quiet guys: work and bore. But! Sometimes their Polish Master comes to them - a naked, fatty hamlet of small height, on a black mark. His builders are loud, everyone on the street is hamit, periodically blocking anyone with his car. Sometimes he crossed us. After a pronounced conversation, I understood that we were not English, and he was no longer parking for us.

There are also ice cream vendors who sell ice cream from cars. A group of eight strong men. These create a very sweet impression: good-hearted people, behave politely, do not cheer, smile, bad looks do not discard anyone.

Yesterday the Master came, folded the ice creamers, tastily splintered, threw them all around with a fierce look and... got to the mouth, several times, from polite ice creamers.

The police arrived. He went out like a debilitated child, demanded urgent action, complained that everyone is very aggressive to him. His builders also laughed, and he whispered:
Yes yes yes! Cuba, such a shit, no one respects you.

Police spoke to everyone - the owner is banned from entering the street, so as not to create conflict situations.