🦈There is a such an old joke about the Whatsapp correspondence between the personages of the Turgenev's novel "Mumu."
Barynyia: Have you drowned her yet?
Gerasim: Not yet.
Barynyia: Write when you drown.
Mumu: Is it okay that we're in the common chat?
I wrote last month about the crap throwing competition, which took place on the kitchen in the flat on Maslennikova 16-13 in Samara, with the only pretender - the stinky Choumilov Serguei Mikhailovich, and the three astonishingly surprised spectators - me and my dogs. Stinky threw his kaka into the trash can - such a bold guy! - with a naked hands.
Yesterday's morning, an early
morning I mean in Samara, and late evening in California, I was working on my assignments in biology and health psychology. Samara is like a paradise comparing to Moscow. 8 a.m. everything is working here, people wake up at 5-6 a.m., and between 6 and 7 most of my neighbors who is working as hired staff, go to work. However, even in this paradise, even 8 a.m. sometimes late for me, because my working day starts long before this time. So, yesterday, in the early morning, I cooked the vegetable bouillon and left it to chill. Just after 5 minutes, the pan fell down on the table, and our breakfast appeared to be a little bit postponed. Like in old receipt of apple pie which was addressed to men, I scratched the carrot and onion from the table and my office stationeries, cleaned up the floor, and by this moment it was a time to pass the last analyses to confirm the mustard gas poisoning of me and my dogs. When I came back, happily bought the
breakfast for us, on the floor under the table, appeared the dark brown puddle. As it was discovered, the source of the dark brown oily drops was the interior part of the table, carefully dusted with the dark oily substance looking very similar to the substance covered all bathroom (as a reminder - it is the British mustard gas, so called oxygen iprit). For sure, I sent the photo report to my team of spectators from the investigation department. Couple of hours after, stinky started to scream that he was shit out, and the only thing that he can do is to die. You know, all mentally diseased are very inconsistent. After this scream show for the one screamer without orchestra, this motherducker went to the bathroom, where he apparently filled everything he could reach, including the washing machine, with such a dose of nitrogenous muster that from a pleasant chemical plume from my pillow freshly washed in the muster, and the bedding of my dogs, I had a burn of the mucous membrane of the nose and eyes, and the whole face was covered with red spots. The dogs just coughed all night long, scratched their eyes with their paws and tried to wipe the purulent snot. So this night was like non-stop ventilation and walks of my unfortunate affected patches in alternation with writing and passing the next five assignments. But we are really lucky! Because tanushka got the cancer of skin on her nose after the smelling of such a nice substance. Almost 3 years she had the piggy nose appearance after the surgery. This ducking piggy poisoned my two dogs in my apartments in Moscow, and targeted to send me after them. So, the stinky has a great sensei - obese piggy-poisoner. Great company for such a stinky mad fraudster. But not for me, surely. I have drop in to the MIT National Development program, and several courses, thus, I have neither time nor crayons to explain why these couple of fraudsters cannot be in kinship, friendship, or bleksheep with me.
At the end of todays' post, I will tell a funny story about my Airedale dog Beauty, and my true father. Once upon a time, Beauty cut her paw, and my dad brought
her to the street, holding her on his hands. Let me remind you, that the Airedale is a pretty ducky big dog. On the street, Beauty lifted up the cut paw, and behaved quite in accordance with the legend of the sick paw. So, the exclusive status of Beauty, which allowed her to travel to and from the street on hand, continued for several weeks, until the remarkable day. On this day, Beauty met a nice guy, and run following him as nothing happened, in front of my surprised dad. Dad said: "Beauty, what the duck are you doing?" In response to this, Beauty handed him a paw, offering to lift her on the hands, and bring her to the fifth floor again on foot without an elevator. However, there was a small mistake - the right paw was cut, and the left paw was shown as a ticket for the manual lift of Beauty. The red-haired curly was instantly demoted to the status of an ordinary healthy dog, and went home on her own.
The day before the table dancing in the kitchen in our ducking Mustard Rouge, the stinky leaned into the kitchen, and as if imperceptibly watering the table with British iprit, he lamented for a long time that he had been my father for 30 years, and I consider him a stranger. Everything was very convincing, but I'm 45.
Morality - don't confuse what you're howl about.
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