Interesting and Humour - page 4162

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Vladimir Karputov:

Maybe you meant the goldfish picture in the other thread:

I don't think there were any songs here.

I'll try to repeat this one: I hope they won't punish me and won't delete it.

But the truth is that in addition I accidentally posted one picture, apparently very bad picture, not creatively worked out, it seems she had not passed art advice.

I just thought it was very much in line with the theme of the song.

But there wasn't a window drawn on it, so it seemed to me that's what made it so confusing.


 
 
STARIJ:

Whose head is he?

He sure does look like him, just like him!

 

I came across this and thought of San Sanych, I don't think anything bad about him:

Alexei Romashin

***
Once upon a time, they made porridge and closed jars for the winter. Just like everyone else, getting older.

They kept sleds on the balcony, boxes under the bed
with dust and a star fromthe Christmastree. Well, in principle, we had a good life.

We lived with common sense and good sense.

Saved for a special occasion a velvet dress with a slit, two bottles of perfume from Gucci,

a red half-treasure felt, six beautiful crystal
shot glasses and a bottle of Chinese vodka. And in one of the sports bags an inflatable boat was stored.
Time passed, the dress faded, the shot glasses slowly yellowed, and in a box under the bed the

a star of boredom. The felt moth slowly ate,
the boat dried and crumbled. And a snake, bored out of action, slowly dissolved in vodka.

The sled rusted and reddened. And a closed Gucci evaporated.
And lived, and were, and grew old, and waited for a special occasion.
It came, as always, suddenly. Washing the windows, and slipped. The same day, he collapsed with

a heart attack. They never came back to this house.
Two crystal shot glasses of vodka, bread on top, a breeze through the flat. Cleaning is in full swing,

the children are cleaning the house.
The sled, the boat bag, the holey felt go in the bin. The dress is turned inside out and wiped down

meter after meter of under-bed dust.
A pile of Gucci perfume in a pile of junk.
That's what they've been living for.
That's what a "special occasion" is all about.

 

all dust and ashes, ha, ha, nothing sacred !


 
Everyone knows that women can reach without taking their clothes off. Moreover, this skill is genetically inherent in them from birth. Any boy, since kindergarten, knows that girls are creatures from another planet. You sit in the far corner of the sandpit, and there's a tank battle. Ours advances, fascists explode, there is not enough to do. And then boom - a girl appears behind your back! A girl about four years old, with a doll under her arm. She looks at you silently and disapprovingly for about two minutes and then asks: What are you doing? You don't answer her, of course. Because the question is stupid. Are you blind? Can't you see that there is a tank battle and fascists are blowing up? She does. Just not what you see. She sees a boy who has dug all over the sandbox, with sand in his nose, ears and even on his head. He has a plastic tank with no tracks in one hand and a tin soldier with a severed leg in the other, which he is throwing upwards with a shout of "Breath!" - he tosses up and rejoices in something. Isn't he a fool? And now the girl will explain to you that you're an idiot. And your games are stupid. And you're all dirty and in the sand, and I'm going to tell the teacher, and she'll put you in the corner. You're holding on until the last minute, hoping that the creature with pigtails will go away and leave you alone. But the creature with pigtails will never give you the last word. Never. And she knows exactly how to get your attention. And there's already a little foot in a brown sandal stepping on your barricades and trenches. And that's it. And automatically your hand goes up by itself and the little witch flies a plastic spatula into your forehead. The witch roars loudly, and at the roar comes the teacher, who reads a lecture to you that you can not hurt the girls, and you must now ask Sveta for forgiveness. You look at the treacherous Sveta, at the victorious look she has at the teacher, trying to squeeze out a few more tears, and with all your male gut you feel: this is a women's conspiracy!!!!! Why do you have to apologize because that nasty Sveta started it? Why does no one want to listen to you? Why is it that all your attempts to talk about how Sveta stepped in your trenches - no one listens? You hurt the girl and it doesn't matter how or why. You're guilty, and you need to apologize, buddy. Whether you want to or not. Otherwise you'll go stand in the corner now, and in the evening your mother will complain about you, and your mother, your closest person, will also say: Kolya, how could you hit a girl with a spatula? Apologize to Sveta in front of me immediately! That's how, at the age of four, a boy becomes a man. A man who's learned it's not worth messing with women. It's better to keep silent. Or patiently answer all the stupid women's questions. And God forbid you should take a swing at her with a spatula! Women have a magical gift to materialize out of thin air a couple of women who will hover over you and appeal to your conscience and force you to apologize for nothing at all. In kindergarten, it's the teacher and your own mother. At school, it's your girlfriends and your teacher. And at twenty-five, it's everyone at once: your mum, her mum, their girlfriends, and even your own friends' wives! All of them will surround you like the ghouls of Homo Brutus - and they will howl and shout and scare you with Viem. And all you've been doing is playing tantrums! You come home from work, tired as Uncle Tom and just as hungry, and there's nothing to eat at home! Because your wife's on a diet. So no one will eat in this house for a month, not even the cat. And try to say a word about it! You're the only reason she went on this diet! And you, instead of appreciating her sacrifices, insult her by asking for a piece of meat?! No, you can as long as you want to try to stop her, and shout that you already like her and that she did not need any diets, and in general she is very beautiful and thin, but all in vain. No one hears you. She's sobbing into the phone, complaining about you to her mum and a dozen girlfriends. And they're all very sympathetic, saying, "We warned you he was a prick and a dick! You didn't listen. Or maybe you've never been into tanchiki at all. Maybe you've been looking at boogers through a microscope since you were a kid, and you still do. Maybe you have three degrees in microbiology, but who cares? Didn't you notice she's got a new haircut and a fancy ombré colour? What kind of heartless bastard are you?! Do you even notice anything other than your boogers in a microscope?! Why do all women have men like men: they go fishing, they play tanchiki like men - you're the only one who's ugly, with your boogers!
 
Jehovah's Witnesses came to me today - they told me to help my neighbour and do good! I asked them to clean the toilet and take out the rubbish... For some reason they took offence and left...
 
 
 

Forum on trading, automated trading systems and testing trading strategies

Interesting and Humorous

Rashid Umarov, 2017.08.07 14:28

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