Interesting and humorous - page 176
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Unrequited love is scary,
but to those for whom all the world is but a stock exchange, a fight.
Unrequited love is as funny as Cyrano de Bergerac's profile.
You want to be the third?
Virtually?
No, I won't.
Virtually?
No, I won't.
// and what is the question even? :-)
No, I'm not.
No, I'm not.
:)
OK then, I won't cross it out for now ;)
Anyway, I'm going to bed. It's late and early.
for the road:
I'll sell you a dose of love
And with a hangover I'll sell you another dose
A balm of purity and hope
Will be worth according to the prognosis
The depth of your eyes
# At the tariff and the price list
And I'll put the numbers on the menu
♪ according to dignity and talent ♪
♪ according to my style ♪
♪ I'll give you a premium and a discount ♪
♪ according to the course of events ♪
♪ I'll calculate profit and loss ♪
♪ I'll let it go at a free price ♪
♪ What you've spilled ♪
And I'll forgive without surrendering hope
The ones you've killed
And then I'll light a fire
Of calculations and bets... Don't laugh
I like to warm myself by the fire
Sit by my side and warm yourself...
There's love flashing around here somewhere
I noticed, didn't you? It happens...
It's hard to see in the dark
I can see that, sweetheart.
Yes, and the smoke pinches
♪ Causing whimsical droplets ♪
The chatter is distracting
And the logs shoot out in a frightening way
Well, it happens, I understand.
Soon the sun will rise, you know
I'll give you a kiss, darling.
Just so you don't get scared
# So that the roof would go a little lower
# So that the sky will be lower
# So that it's quieter and quieter... #
To say goodbye...
Sit down closer to me...
To prove it, I'm posting a photo from Baltimore (latitude of Istanbul), a friend is cleaning the yard and digging up cars every two hours for the second day.
The weather was nasty and disgusting. Two frightened schoolgirls were running along the street, dropping their satchels, followed by a horde of Tajik janitors waving brooms. I waited until this banal scene of Moscow life was over, and then made my way out of the house. I had only taken a couple of steps when an intelligent-looking student ran into the yard and scurried back and forth. He should have been hiding in the wreckage of burnt-out cars, silly! But the student hesitated, and his pursuer caught up with him.
He was a young, menacing-looking Caucasian.
- I want your sweet ass! - the Caucasian shouted, throwing himself at the student. He screamed in terror.
I hastily hid behind the mountains of rubbish cluttering the yard. I looked up - where the Eye was spinning in the sky.
I could hold on for another five minutes. Then it would be easier. Or harder. You never know.
But it would be hard for the student. So would the Caucasian.
- Now, now! - The Caucasian was stalling as long as he could. - I'm going to make a nasty crack at you!
A police car drove past the courtyard, and for a moment my spirits lifted. But when the policeman saw the Caucasian, he gave the gas and sped off towards the metro, beating old ladies with clubs and picking the pockets of the drunks.
I sighed and peeked out from behind the rubbish heaps.
- Wai-wai! - The caucasian squealed enthusiastically. - What a big sweet ass!
The student ran away, the Caucasian rushed after me, I ran to the neighboring building - long ago destroyed in an explosion set up by the authorities in order to terrorise the Russian population. I had a secret hiding place there...
The Caucasian burst into the ruins behind, eyes rolling wildly and waving a kitchen knife.
- Psst! - I whispered, pointing a finger upwards. The Caucasian looked up and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
The ruined slabs were protecting us from the Eye.
- Oh, what was being done ... - clutching his head, the Caucasian sat down beside him. - No, you understand, what a brutality, eh? I have a wife. A mistress. And I got a girlfriend! I got a business! Two shops and three market places. And I'm running around Moscow with a knife and grabbing men's asses... Ugh! Got a smoke?
- I don't smoke.
- It's not like that... - sighed the Caucasian. - Why can't I drink whiskey in a casino and hug blondes with tits like these? Why can't I speak Russian well?
- Because you're not supposed to," I pointed my finger upwards. - You're supposed to be attacking men and hitting on young girls. And you don't know any Russian.
- What kind of teenage frustrations? - The Caucasian asked sadly. - Oh... So, are you going to run away, or are you going to kill me in self-defense and get thrown in jail?
- I don't even know how they do it these days, - I confessed. - How about this? I run away, sort of cut and bruised, and you come out covered in blood, and shout something scary and incomprehensible in the Caucasian language.
- What what language? - The Caucasian twiddled his finger against his temple.
- In Swahili," I took out a packet of ketchup and quickly smeared it on his face. - It's the same for them. Well... let's go!
We rushed off in different directions. The eye in the sky swirled frantically, enjoying the view. And I dashed past the back alley, where three Jews grabbed a Russian guy and forced him to drink vodka.
At that moment the sector changed.
Oh!
What a hit!
Right in front of me, in Red Square, Putin was shooting gays with a machine gun. The gays were waving rainbow flags and singing "They won't get us" in thin voices. Putin laughed ominously, bent over the machine gun.
Nearby, a crowd of Orthodox Black Hundreds tried to hammer the last of Moscow's Jews with lead wool. They did not surrender, sang Hava Nagila and listened to Echo of Moscow, but the forces were not equal. Even Shenderovich, Albats and Novodvorskaya were powerless to help.
- Hey, let's go burn the Tajiks at the stake! - A boy dressed in black cheerfully called me. He seemed to be the same student who had been harassed by a Caucasian in the previous section.
- I don't want to," I said carelessly.
The boy frowned:
- You look black yourself. Wasn't he a Kazakh?
- I've already... ... what time! - I said indefinitely. - I'm smoky! And my nose is itchy! I'd better go drown lesbians in the Yauza.
The boy calmed down, and I ran for the bread store. From time to time I was checked by policemen, vigilantes, Russian fascists and the KGB. A Cossack patrol whipped me with a lash just in case. But I was sneaking closer and closer...
And then, already at the breadbox, the sector changed again!
This time it was gloomy! Some kind of amazing mix of the first and second sector.
Putin danced lezghinka on the Red Square, accompanying himself on accordion.
The Caucasians were slaughtering the Russians and the Russians were slaughtering the Caucasians. Everyone was killing the Tajiks, and the Tajiks were quietly raping minors. On the other hand, in the meantime, minors were burning Ukrainian women in vyshyvankas alive, so there was some kind of karmic justice.
The only good thing was that it was so deserted that one could wander safely through the streets.
Looking around, I reached the shop. An eye watched me vigilantly from above.
There was no bread in the shop, only food brooms.
- Mate, where am I?" I asked the shop-keeper. The scrawny wretch, the student from the first sector and the Blackshirts from the second, looked at me mournfully.
- This is the Ukrainian sector.
- And why are there so few people?
- Those who went to Lviv to earn money, to lay bricks or to work as prostitutes... Who died in street fights with everyone else... Who were sold for organs by the KGB...
I wiped sweat from my forehead.
- Do you want the brooms? A hundred dollars a broom.
- Half for me.
- We don't cut it in halves... - said the salesman, fell under the counter and took his breath away.
- When are you going to get bread? - My wife asked.
I took my glazed look away from the computer.
- Over the bread ... Do you know what's out there? I first read the Russian patriots, then European liberals, and then Ukrainian bloggers ...
- Go get some bread! - My wife told me to.
And I went.
Oh, how boring it was! Not like reading blogs at all!
via dr-piliulkin