[Archive! - page 285
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"Belarusian President Alexander Lukashenko signed a law on Sunday banning gatherings of more than three people without first obtaining permission from the authorities."
To echo a thought from one participant.
.......
Maybe it's some new psychotronic weapon that liquefies the brain. .......
To repeat a thought from a participant
I haven't seen the original source yet. Closest thing is here. But that doesn't change the point. "More than three ..." is not the letter of the Law, it is its essence.
Are you hinting at a lock?
Locke's been smoking.
At night, two swimmers in wetsuits, with torches and video cameras, pushed off from the Petrograd embankment, reached the stern of the ship, climbed onto the deck, ran undetected to the bow and attached an explosive charge to the main gun.
>On 9 November, it became known that the Russian unmanned station Phobos-Grunt failed to leave Earth orbit and head towards Mars. Leonid Kaganov knows why this happened.
No regrets, no calls, no tears,
My heart has forgotten its former rebellion.
Melting in the sky, in flames,
The interplanetary module Phobos-Grunt.
In orbit, sunburnt,
It squints and gazes out of sight,
As the golden maples rust,
The church domes and clouds.
In the autumn's humming early hours
Under his porthole
Towns full of shit,
Farmsteads, where there is nothing.
Swamps and plateaus will glide by,
Tractors lying upside down,
Private cottages on the seaside
And Baikal, filled with shit.
--
The mouse-coloured landscape of military units.
Of military units, colonies, zones,
Where cars flash their blinkers,
Where "Radio Chanson" plays.
The freight cars will glide by,
The wastelands, the pot plantations,
The assholes in tattoos and epaulettes,
Churks, businessmen, drunks.
Awe-inspiring
And such a native kaleidoscope:
Schoolboys with bottles of port,
Upward like a telescope.
The module, flying above, is seen,
The sweet birchwood region, my dear...
The markets of China's junk
And Turkish imported textiles.
The Caucasus and Chukchi in chums,
The Volga and Siberia,
Cattle in tracksuits,
Women with suitcases of rags.
Baikonur, frowning faces
Flashing by for a few seconds...
So the country of birch chintz
sees off the Phobos-Grunt module.
--
NASA observes through telescopes
Your flight into space's silence
After our GLONASS launches
They're no longer surprised by anything.
♪ You wandering spirit ♪ You're flying over the world!
You've left your home
Without the paperwork issued by the police,
Without a stamp in your passport.
You're flying plywood over Paris
With your antennae and pins stretched out.
Silent silver pliers,
The collector forgotten inside.
You fly, desperately feeding
Somewhere in your circuitry
With a battery made in China,
The light bulb cast at the research institute.
Of course, all of us in the world are perishable,
But this varnish is especially perishable,
These wires and these terminals
Taped together with duct tape.
♪ A couple of tossed cigarette butts ♪
A box of matches that's dried out,
A small, worn-out skin...
The one they used to polish the side of...
--
Shoot the last rocket.
Blast off the last stage.
The main thing is to leave this country,
And to go to Mars, of course, is lazy.
You have no use for distant Phobos,
You don't need scarlet Mars,
Beneath you now is a huge globe.
Land, but not with us.
It's the fashion around here,
So slightly tired along the way
That any not too dumb module
Is looking to snap out of it and leave.
I'm more stingy with my predictions now,
I can smell failure a mile away.
I want to go and hug the birch trees,
I want to go and hug the birches, blowing my nose with bitterness.
I don't pity, I don't call, I don't cry,
The coldness of loss touches my heart.
It cannot be otherwise with the module,
If that's the way things are with us now.
What's going on on the other planet
On its cosmic axis,
We'll read for free on the Internet
Somewhere on the BBC website.
--
Amidst all the raging nanotechnology,
Amidst all the cosmic challenges
♪ Curly microblogging is in full bloom ♪
And TV channels.
Like a pesticide from a white apple tree,
Like pesticide from white apple trees.
Ah, what polymers were!
What a shame we've wasted them.
"Phobos-Grunt, fly, we don't need you,
We used to believe in miracles.
Even if we lie in a puddle
It's like God's dew to us.
Whether we're rusty or rusty or rusty or rusty or rusty
We're still first in everything:
We were the first to go into space,
We'll be the first to go out of space.
details here
>PapaYoge, with blood money from British academics, is denigrating a united Russia and running a smear campaign
The purpose of this vile propaganda is to give the false impression that no one wants to vote for her, but that is not true.
>