It happened at the end of summer, at noon, on a sunny Sunday afternoon, when there was no one on the road. An old jeep, bought on credit, loaded to the eyeballs with all sorts of things, under the guidance of a well-worn lady who anxiously fussed about her junk, had an accident: a frivolous new Volvo flew into it, driven by an uncontrollable young blonde. The accident shook the woman, tired of living, like a hurricane of an apple tree: in broad daylight, getting hit in the ass with all your might is the same as losing your innocence in public – all her plans for the future instantly crumbled to the ground and shattered. It hurts and it’s embarrassing. It’s impossible to talk about the back of the car at all – tears and tears. And now, in hot pursuit, returning home, the injured party tells me all this in person, and I correct her.
– You see, a real blonde drove into me.
– Are you envious?
– What? Because she’s a whore!?
– Why did you decide so?
– Because it contains the owner of a car dealership. He immediately followed her!
Maybe it’s her husband?
– Ha, she herself said that she ran away from him: she quarreled, got into his car and pulled off.
– Love! Asisyai!
– Stupidity! One stupidity. She, consider, stole a car, drove it without documents.
– That is, she was in a state of passion.
– And he just came to excuse her from the criminal case.
– So he loves.
– Ha! Why love her? Gets out, so long out of the car…
– Not long, but high.
– Ha! Well, high, doll!
– That is beautiful?
– Ha! Well, beautiful, but painted!
– That is, a natural blonde?
– What are you all clinging to words! All so overdressed, in black glasses, her nails and lips were painted black, in a black dress, and even in expensive tsatsks. Pale as death. As if from the other world showed up here.
– Not from that, but from the higher. And not light, but society.
– Ha! What kind of society, if she can’t even speak, but only foul language? Why!? Why is everything for people like her and nothing for others like me?
And now I have nothing to answer. Because I don’t know – and really, why?
Maybe it was really funny
A man sits and just chokes on laughter. He is asked why he is laughing, and he, swallowing the words, answers:
– You won’t understand.
It turned out that he was mentally ill.
It’s a pity. So no one knew what he was laughing at. Maybe it really was funny?
He was the most remarkable personality of his generation. He lived as if the world around him did not exist. He wrote about what he did not know and so poorly that it was already becoming interesting to read. Critics eagerly awaited each new book of his by cannibals who wanted to feast on a fresh delicacy: everyone was curious if he would be able to surpass his former self and write something even worse. He did not notice his enemies and envious people, which drove them to extreme fury: not on purpose, but simply because he did not know that they existed. An amazing disregard for the reader has always been credited to him. Readers paid him the same. His prose among them enjoyed constant success as kindling for stoves and fireplaces. They joked about her: “Literature with a twinkle.” He claimed that he created our world at lunch, between soup and meatballs. It took him about seven hundredths of a millisecond to do everything about everything. As an indisputable proof of his authorship, he cites an irrefutable argument: the world is too imperfect to be the work of someone else – there are extremely many inconsistencies in it. At first he did not attach much importance to this, and then he began to be burdened by it. There were too many extra people around. He despised them, considering them the fruits of his imagination, but they pestered him like flies or horseflies on a summer afternoon. And as a result, he disappeared. Could not resist. He vanished into thin air in front of everyone. Just between soup and meatballs. And now we have to clear up all this porridge that he brewed, but did not manage to properly cook. Don’t start something if you don’t know how to finish it. Especially such troublesome business as the creation of the world.
It turns out that for more than a decade, an absolutely outstanding person has been at the head of the legion of janitors and locksmiths in our city. Although, if you look closely, it’s more like a little man: the creature is slender and almost ridiculous in appearance. By the name of Biryukov. But this is only an appearance. His appearance is the most remarkable. One might even say fabulous. He looks like a negative character from some old Romm’s movie fairy tale. The nose is hooked, the ears are upright, the teeth are crooked, and the eyes are angry. Under his strict guidance, the municipal services of the city are struggling with every season as with another weather disaster: it’s raining – guard, it’s snowing – guard, the sun is shining – also guard. Even the reconstruction of the central streets that has set the teeth on edge – which is certainly a full guard – is also the work of his unstoppable pens. Truly, not a man, but some kind of Koroviev from the retinue of Satan himself. The most incredible rumors are circulating about his past. The most exotic – he is the former head of the Lefortovo prison. If this is true, then it becomes clear where he got a downright demonic ability, if not an anomaly, akin to Kursk, with just a glance to ignite any object that he looks with anger: after all, in Lefortovo, they say, the gates to hell are hidden, which were built during Stalin’s time by People’s Commissar Yezhov, and they are vigilantly guarded in case of an emergency evacuation of the entire Kremlin. Because of this damn anomaly of Biryukov, the former mayor Luzhkov stopped wearing hats. Luzhkov will come every time to some communal meeting to catch up with the janitors, and Biryukov give his hat with a glance, and set it on fire. Each time there was one continuous embarrassment. Again, rumors spread that it was not without reason that the mayor’s hats were on fire, I suppose he stole something, since the hats were on fire. Luzhkov had to get an asbestos cap, although, according to rumors, it pretty much rubbed his bald head. Because of this, they say, Luzhkov burned out: he wore the wrong headdress. He was dismissed with the wording: “Not on Senka’s hat,” but Biryukov remained. It came in handy for the new mayor, who goes without a headdress at all. Fundamentally! He now organizes parades of garbage trucks at Sobyanin and manages the organization of traffic jams. Very successful in this matter. Whatever he undertakes, any business he burns. Neither give nor take – hellish communal worker. Although, if you think carefully, then what else, if not like this, should be in our “best” city in the world – the capital, no more and no less, but the Evil Empire itself.
