Monologue about the village and village life. Funny variety monologues

A script for a funny skit about women, which can be safely shown not only on International Women’s Day, but also on New Year’s or any other corporate event if your team is predominantly female. The humor here is very kind, without vulgarities or hints.

HOST: Every woman has a mystery, and considering that I will give several billion on earth, can you imagine how many things are incomprehensible to us men?! And today, on International Women’s Day, we will try to make a little progress on this issue. After all, our guests (again) are scientists from the Institute of Women's Studies of the Russian Academy of Sciences Albert Gennadievich and Viktor Khristoforovich.

Two men in white coats (or suits) come onto the stage.

SCIENTIST 1: Good afternoon, colleagues. Yes, yes, colleagues, because all of us, men, throughout our lives we try to understand representatives of the opposite sex.

SCIENTIST 2: And for us it’s also work.

SCIENTIST 1: But you don't have to covet us. Today we will present to your attention excerpts from our dissertation: “Women: Myths and Mysteries.”

SCIENTIST 2: In particular, in it we destroy some of the stereotypes that exist in society about ladies. For example, women can spend hours in front of the mirror

SCIENTIST 1: It's a myth. Women can spend hours in front of any object that reflects their appearance.

SCIENTIST 2: Women live longer than men.

SCIENTIST 1: Let's first figure out why men live less. Or, the woman behind the wheel is like a monkey with a grenade.

SCIENTIST 2: Complete heresy. Even a comparative analysis was carried out - except for the danger to others, there was nothing in common.

SCIENTIST 1: Women wear makeup and dress only for men.

SCIENTIST 2: If this were true, then all women would wear a T-shirt with the inscription ARSHAVIN with a handbag in the shape of a beer keg. Or that a woman's love can be bought with gifts

SCIENTIST 1: Actually, that's not true...but don't stop.

SCIENTIST 2: If you ring a girl, you can track all her movements

SCIENTIST 1: It's true that a four-carat ring is worth calling and telling you where you are.

SCIENTIST 2: Women dream of seeing Paris with one eye

SCIENTIST 1: It's a myth, women dream of going on a shopping tour in Paris even with their eyes closed. Women love to diet

SCIENTIST 2: This is not a myth, this is a manifestation of humanity. It’s just that before they sit on your neck, it’s humane for them to go on a diet.

SCIENTIST 1: Women get drunk quickly

SCIENTIST 2: It's a myth, they just don't have a snack after six.

SCIENTIST 1: Women are the weaker sex

SCIENTIST 2: If you have ever come into conflict with a conductor on a bus, then you yourself understand that this is a myth.

SCIENTIST 1: All women want to marry Brad Pitt

SCIENTIST 2: This is a myth because not only all women, but also some men want to marry Brad Pitt.

SCIENTIST 1: Women can multitask

SCIENTIST 2: It's a myth. Painting your nails and talking on the phone at the same time can hardly be called business. And finally, Women are tender and vulnerable creatures...

SCIENTIST 1: Until one of them comes wearing the same dress!

SCIENTIST 2: Well, this is where we’ll probably finish our report, although this topic is very broad.

SCIENTIST 1: No, not in the sense that women are fat. I mean, we love you very much! Happy holiday!

Bow. They leave.

We have a few more skits for March 8th:, and

Oh, I can’t resist, I’ll tell you how I flew to Moscow! I spent ten years getting ready and couldn’t get around to it. And then, without looking, it curled up, where it all came from. Vacation accrued at the office. I clap my mittens - they only saw me! A man with children, she left all the farming, from under the cows to the Kremlin itself! I went to my brother - he called me a colonel. Younger than me, and long since retired;

He has nothing to do - he’s delighted! I was embarrassed to give a telegram. “Oh, you?!” he says. “If you,” he says, “were smart, I would have told you. I would,” he says, “take you from the station in a car. It would just whistle!” “Well,” I say, “the baron is not great, she got there on foot.”

I got there, but I was tired. They show me the way, but in different ways: one says - to the left, girl, another - to the right, citizen, the third says - aunt, go straight! They look at the knapsack, oh, my God! The back and forth went so far that I could see double in my eyes. Suddenly an old man came up and asked: “Aren’t you going to see Ivan Petrovich? There,” he says, “in this house, second floor, sixth quarter. They’ve been waiting for a long time,” he says! - “Oh, thank you, old citizen!” I went, I went, I went, I see it says: 2nd floor. Oh, let me, I think I’ll go until the third, it’s more reliable. My brother and sister-in-law got upset and scolded me: why didn’t I send a telegram? I live one day, another. They’ll take me to the performance, I’ll be everywhere, and I’ll say: “Where am I going, such a disheveled person? It’s better to keep me at home, not show me.” My brother says to me: “Now we’ll make such a madam out of you!” And he took me to the main clinic. He started - Lord, Queen of Heaven, where have I landed! The women are sitting, the men are above them in white coats. They are caring for them, as if in a hospital.

All sorts of caps, bottles! They put me in prison, I'm afraid to move. They cut it all off first, then curl it, then let’s dry my hair.

It seems like half a day wasted in vain, and my brother says to me: “Well, now there’s another manicure!” A manicure is just like a manicure, and one will die. They opened a new room. My hands were placed in a dish with warm water, apparently to soak. What a mess! They wiped the cauldron and cleaned the nails. Then they started painting it pink.

I sit and think: how am I going to milk the cows?

Some kind of baskim? Yes, and she began to cry... The tears came out of me like peas, and the girl was scared, and her brother was waiting, and the authorities came running. What and why, unless they are dissatisfied with something? They were released, I calmed down and I said to my brother: “Send me home for Christ’s sake, three cows are about to calve.” - “Okay, let’s calve without you, let’s go to the store now.” I bought a jacket, a dress, and fashionable shoes. In the evening I got dressed, and I’m not myself. How I looked in the mirror, dears! Am I not me? And she began to roar even more. He drove and drove me, both to a restaurant and to see friends. Right down to the general himself: meet me, dear sister! But my own sister can’t say a word, she’s afraid to step. I’m tired, I barely survived. No, I say, I’ll go and go home. They escorted me out, put me in a nice carriage, and a small suitcase full of gifts. There's no need for gifts, let's go home quickly.

As soon as I got off at my station, my heart began to skip a beat. I stand and look - he’s running! I stand: will he find out or won’t he? He ran past... The whole train ran around, running back. There were no people left anymore. He runs again, but again past me. Well, I think he’ll run one more time, and I’ll call out. As soon as I saw it, I was confused: should I hug or wait? “Eh,” he says, “I’m afraid to approach you. I only recognized you from the suitcase.” e “But, you can’t force everything on the people, next time I’ll put on a different make-up! Haven’t the cows calved?” - “They calved,” he says, “all three...”.

My neighbor is such a bastard, I really hate him! Why don’t you ask for help, well, there, stack the firewood, clean the well, mow the weeds - no matter what! He just whines:
- Why bother, I’m an old sick man...

How different and how loud that laying hen is croaking!.. Like, this hurts me, and this hurts me, but he can’t sit, and he can’t lie down!.. It’s disgusting to listen to, by God! I once told him:
- Why is your mammon like this then, since you are so sick?

And he heard me answer:
“It’s my stomach,” he says, “it’s bloating, it’s a sin to laugh at a sick person.”

Here it is, you bastard! It is clear that the bloating is eating all the time, like a mill, without stopping. Everything that comes to hand eats everything, or whatever my hand can reach through my fence...

And I planted an apple tree by the well. She spread her branches towards the sun, she felt good, comfortable. And the apples are ripening now, not many, but so pretty, rosy, and big. So this bastard got into the habit of going to my well for water. The water in my well, they say, is somehow special and healing. And what is medicinal in it is the same as in his well, ordinary. And the bastard himself, as soon as he comes to my well, he grabs an apple from a branch and eats it right away! I haven’t tried it myself yet, I’m sorry, but he!.. And you won’t stand there with a drin all the time, guarding!..

Here my godfather, Svetka, a smart woman, says to me:
“And you shoot castor oil into the apples from a syringe,” he says, “according to the Turkish method.” Anyway, the harvest is gone, so at least you can take your soul away. And I’ll bring you castor oil from the hospital.

Well, that same night I syringed the apples. I thought they would turn blue and fall off. No, nothing, they hang on their branches, they just glow with their ruddy sides and attract. Svetka and I hid in the morning, on the veranda behind the curtain, watching. We see that a villain is coming!.. A neighbor came up to the well and saw that some apples today were extremely appetizing. He did one thing, then immediately a second, a third!.. He devoured everything, the bastard... Everything that I reached out to add flavor. And at least he doesn’t care!.. Reluctantly he pulls a bucket from the well...

Suddenly: - “Oh-oh!..”, the surprise worked. He sat down, clutching his belly as if he was about to give birth! Yeah, his bloating, if it weren’t all right!.. How can he start running towards his house, like a young man, by God! Where did the agility come from?!

It is true what they say that haste is needed in two cases, and this is exactly one of them. He goes into his yard, towards a separate office!.. And there he has a bull terrier, ... an angry dog!.. And he doesn’t let the owner into the office, apparently, he didn’t recognize it, or somehow the owner smells wrong now... In short, he doesn’t let me in, that’s all!

You should have seen this bull terrier later... No, the neighbor didn’t have time to get to his office...
And the next year I harvested such a harvest from my apple tree! Dear, dear!.. And the neighbor no longer tries, he remembers, the bastard, that the apples turned out to be “rejuvenating.”

In December 2011, the regional publishing house LITKARAVAN published my new book “I know a lot about the village.” The preface was written by Galina Ilyinichna Kondratyeva, a local school literature teacher and veteran of teaching.
December 2011.

POETRY LIVES IN THE VILLAGE.

They say about people like Pyotr Danilovich Chernykh: “Where he was born, he came in handy.” And he was useful in his native Biryuchensky region in very different capacities: as a grain grower, as a village teacher, as chairman of the village council, as chairman of the district council, as deputy head of the district administration, as a member of the Central Committee of the CPSU of the last convocation, as a delegate to the last congress of this party in history . And, finally, as a poet glorifying his native Belgorod region, his native village of Kazatskoye, with which his whole life is connected.
For more than ten years we were colleagues: we worked in the same teaching team. A hardworking, purposeful, attentive and kind person, he was always a creator at heart and wrote poetry, although few people knew about it. And here in front of me is the manuscript of a new creative collection “I know a lot about the village...”. It consists of several sections: “Village Motifs”, “Monologue”, “Lyrics”, “Rural Were”, “Village Chronicles”, True Stories”.
The work of Peter Chernykh attracts with its variety of themes and breadth of view of the world. But, perhaps, most of his poems are dedicated to his native Belgorod outback, his native village, his people, whom he loves with that intimate, partial love, absorbed with his mother’s milk, with his native song and speech.
First of all, Pyotr Chernykh is a master of lyrical landscape. Everything excites him: the floods of the estuaries, the weeping willows over the clear river, which he affectionately calls Userditsa, the white slopes of the chalk hills, the lilac color of thyme, the white plain of snow. And magical moonlight, and a quiet stretch, and a crane wedge under the clouds.
Surprisingly, the details of an ordinary village landscape suddenly acquire an unusual attractiveness, a feeling of the warmth of home. Nature does not reveal its secrets to every admirer. She trusts their relatives, who can see sharply, hear sensitively and feel subtly. Individual sketches by Pyotr Chernykh can be called “photographs” of the poet’s state of mind: he is sad, happy, delighted, surprised.

Winter has covered it with snow,
spread a white wing.
And frost with a cold mustache
I breathed on the frozen window.
I'll wait until the snowdrifts go away,
the river will spin like ice.
And the earth will sigh after the chill,
and a tit starts chirping in the garden.

With utmost sincerity, the poet conveys his love and devotion to his native places with their discreet, modest beauty. Impressions of a foreign trip, where he first saw the “high” civilized world, suddenly ends with such sincere nostalgic lines:

During the day I wandered around the flowering lawns,
through museums, parks, palaces.
And in a dream I saw white slopes
and the lilac color of thyme.
I saw the bright colors of Berlin,
and outside the city there is a beech forest.
But the steppe smell of bitter wormwood
I value overseas miracles more dearly.

Like every Russian person, the poet P. Chernykh’s feelings for the Motherland are one of the deepest and strongest. Love for his small homeland, for his native village, permeates many of his poems.

Fate will not ask us, it will vilify us around the world.
But in my old age I will still come here.
Where the birches will cry in May thunderstorms.
Where is the temple on the hill and the house in the garden.

Nature and man are inseparable for the poet. It conveys moments of happy unity of the human soul and the surrounding world. And from here arises a feeling of the fullness and beauty of life. Here are examples:

“...Where in the front garden near the hut
not cypress, but just spruce.
Not on the sand, but in mint leaves
the night will prepare my bed.”

Or “I walk in silence in an embrace,” “and how a cart drove through the shroud, leaving lines from its wheels.” And here’s another: “the stream in the milk pan began to jingle like a symphony of a great orchestra” (this is about milking a cow on an early summer morning!)
With great warmth and filial love, poetic lines were written about the dearest person, about the mother. In the poem “Winter of 1946,” he talks about a fierce, hungry winter, when as a boy he dragged a sled with firewood through the snowdrifts to heat the frozen hut, where “with tears my mother met the breadwinner, her son, on her native porch.” The image of a woman: mother, sister, beloved - with an unchanging feeling of tenderness and gratitude lives in the poems of P. Chernykh.
But the poet is not alien to high patriotism, citizenship and social vigilance. These themes permeate his poems about the Great Patriotic War, about the fate of former front-line soldiers, about hot spots in the modern world, about the contradictions and pain in the souls of today's Russians. Speaking about war veterans, P. Chernykh does not resort to any hyperbole to paint the image of a victorious warrior. He talks about a modest man living with him on the same street, hardworking, taciturn, who did not know any special honors or benefits, Ivan Demyanov, who, according to rural custom, was called Ivanka.

Everything is burning, everything is in smoke, like in fog.
And the path to Berlin is long.
But our Ivanka Demyanov walked
from my village Cossacks

...on the Reichstag there is an inscription: Demyanov.
And just below is the village of Cossacks.

The poet speaks with bitterness about the ruin that befell Russia during the tragic years of the Gorbachev-Yeltsin reforms, when the ordinary Russian man was left with nothing, when everything that had been created for decades was taken away from him, shamelessly sold off, given away, scooped up.
In the poem “My Father-in-Law” (and many of the poet’s poems are autobiographical), telling about a true hard worker-farmer,
who “during suffering, not knowing day and night, harvested the field,” P. Chernykh speaks with pain about a disturbed peasant house, about fields overgrown with weeds, about combine harvesters taken to scrap metal. The poem ends with lines that sound like a shot at the thoughtlessness and cruelty of time:

It’s clear that you can’t return what was
you can't turn back the old time.
But if my father-in-law rose from the grave,
Having seen this, I would have died again.

Peter Chernykh writes poetry, suffocating in love and grief. They are born from the blood of the heart, immeasurable love for life. They take captives with their truth, their honesty. In the poem “Children of Beslan” we read:

There are caravans in the skies of cranes,
on the ground there are all crosses and crosses.
Mothers cry bitterly in Beslan
and bring flowers to the graves.

I won’t get tired of saying and repeating:
There is nothing worse in the world than loss.
Cry, cry for the children of Beslan,
they look from heaven to earth.

Many people are now writing about the fate of the modern village. And each poet has his own vision of the tragic path of the Russian peasant, his own pain, his own hope. Pyotr Danilovich expresses this very clearly, but with great love, with nostalgia for the good rural way of life, for selfless human relationships, for everything that irrevocably leaves the working village in our difficult, unpredictable and unkind times:

How tenderly white birch trees smell!
There is no Russian village without birches.
Sometimes there may be smells of manure here...
Where bread grows, manure smells...

The poem ends in a generalizing way: “My homeland smells like a village.”
The Russian peasant has never had an easy, comfortable life. The village survived extortions and taxes, survived robbery, remained alive - the poet reflects bitterly and immediately turns to the arbiters of the destinies of the Russian village, and the people as a whole:

Have a conscience so as not to touch it,
have the honor to save the village!

And how difficult it is to preserve and revive something that was deliberately, cynically destroyed, destroyed, corrupted:

The land cried without a plowman,
out of grief it was overgrown with weeds.
And for a long time there was neither a plow nor a horse.
And the peasant under the fence is drunk.

Alas, the picture is from life. The usual way of life is collapsing, people's destinies are being broken, and resentment and anger against former brothers in the union arises, unknown to the Russian soul. And yet, no matter how they call us the contemptuous nicknames “Katsap”, “Moskal” - the people have not outlived worldly wisdom, kindness, purity of soul. Pyotr Chernykh wrote “Ode to a Muscovite,” not being afraid to take the word from high
style (Ode-song of praise). Here is an excerpt from it:

And now I sing my song as a Muscovite.
And let my good friend, the Little Russian, not be offended.
I always love this life without tricks,
and I have never seen more simple-minded people than Muscovites.

Reflecting on the life of village people, the poet does not isolate them, he thinks more broadly, looking for an answer to the question: will Russia stay on the edge of the abyss, which in the 90s was so close and seemed inevitable. The comparison of a devastated, angry country with a frenzied, uncontrollable troika flying along the edge of an abyss (again, Gogol’s image of Rus'-troika!) is striking!

What's ahead? There's an abyss ahead!
And the troika rushes along the very edge.
And the tight one rests his feet
and flakes of foam fall from the chest.

It's time to stop all the lies and promises,
scatter your words in vain.
Who wants to see our life beautiful,
Don't let the troika fall into the abyss!

(“In the abyss, the abyss” - such a play on words with a shifted emphasis is undoubtedly the author’s poetic find).
In the poems of recent years, Pyotr Danilovich Chernykh is more optimistic; he saw other horizons, although not very clear and, of course, not close. But faith in his people gives him a surge of new strength, a surge of hope for a better future for his Motherland.

From heavenly heights the crane's call,
Birch trees stretch their leaves towards the bottomless blue.
Russia will survive all enemies
and my Russia will stand on its feet!

The poems of P. Chernykh attract not only the theme, sincerity and warmth. They are not deprived of real poetic means of artistic perception of the world. In his poems there are personifications, metaphors, comparisons, not far-fetched, not artificial - they seem to themselves be included in the outline of the verse, because they are simple, figurative, inextricably linked with the thought and feeling of the poet, a native of the common people, with a heart connected to the Russian village. Here are some of his comparisons: “Oh, you are summer, you are late summer. You are like a woman on her first maternity leave. Oh, you’re autumn, you’re early autumn, you’re like this woman about to give birth.” Or these: “...frost, like an angry beast...”, “the clock is knocking like droplets on the roof, the calendar leaves are being torn off. And the sounds from friends are getting quieter and quieter, as if the late dawn is going out.” His clouds float like a camel caravan; the years flow by like a slow story; and the swell plays like an accordion on the water. And here are some more lines that give an idea of ​​the poetic gift of the author-nugget:

Willow branches are like girlish braids,
kissing the sleepy river.

...I watch the rainbow burn over the horizon,
to drink miracle water in a distant river.

...We are being watched vigilantly from the sky
a flock of stars with a shepherdess-moon.

P. Chernykh’s lyrics in the book “I know a lot about the village...” are imbued with sad thoughts about lost youth. About friends who are already “on the other side.” About what didn't work out in life. But also about the fact that fleeting time still does not take away that good, that inviolable that is in the poet’s soul.
The “Lyrics” section smoothly transitions into “Village Chronicles” - an interesting author’s study of local rituals, customs that, alas, are a thing of the past, but which people of the older generation remember, the author of the book remembers and tries to pass the baton of folk culture, folklore songwriting, national holidays, such as Patronal Demetrius Day in his native village. In this section of the book, in poetic form, the ritual of an ancient wedding is depicted in great detail and picturesquely: matchmaking, preparation for the wedding, the wedding itself and the life of the newlyweds after the wedding. There are so many interesting moments, accurate observations, picturesque dialogues, so much peasant humor that you read it with a smile and running tears. After all, ancient songs corresponding to each stage of the wedding event are organically woven into this author’s narrative.
The author also vividly and carefully conveys the course of Orthodox holidays, like Christmas, starting with carols (by the way, there are also versions of carols that were in use a hundred years ago and are still alive today). The description of Christmas celebrations gives way to Christmastide, also a very interesting time for communication between rural people. Finally, Russian Maslenitsa. Written brightly, juicily, surprisingly sincerely. This section of the book simply begs to be picked up by modern cultural workers, organizers of festive spectacles related to the folklore of our Belgorod region.
I would especially like to dwell on the sad, tragic chapters of the book “And in the villages the women wailed” and “Russian chanson”. This is prose imbued with the author’s mental pain, prose that no person can read indifferently. The first of them is a story about mournful lamentations when saying goodbye to deceased loved ones. In our places they don’t “wail” but “voice.” These voicings are so diverse, so touching and sad, that you can’t help but think how deep the people’s soul is, that it contains surprisingly accurate and heartfelt words for both holidays and sadness.
And the story “Russian Chanson” is a deeply tragic page from the life of the author himself. The autobiographical nature of the story does not deprive it of great artistic power. As an eleven-year-old boy in the hungry post-war year, he suffers a severe grief that crushes his entire family: his mother and three children. Before their eyes, the father, who survived the hard times of war, dies in peacetime... A collective farm horse with a thundering water cart, mad with fear, rushed straight towards the children playing in the sand. Danil Matveevich, one of the men who saw this, rushed to intercept him to stop the stallion and take the trouble away from the children. One cannot read this with indifference: “Hunter companions, mother and I, ran up to the fallen father at the same time. The father was lying on his back, his arms outstretched to the sides. Blood flowed from the mouth in a thin stream. There was a dent on his temple from the impact of the shaft. Mom fell to her knees in front of her father, took his outstretched hands in hers and prayed: “Danilushka, get up, get up, dear.” Let's go home, it's close... You're almost there..."
The narration is interrupted by the words of a song from the album “Russian Chanson”.

“The bird fell into the reeds,
the swan was deprived of flight.
A swan circles above him:
-Get up quickly, my dear, what are you...

Get up quickly, winter has come.
The road to a long journey is open.
And he answered: - Fly yourself,
I can’t, the wing is damaged.”

“The paramedic who arrived ordered to make something like a bed in the back, they lifted my father and put him in a prepared bed. The paramedic and my mother sat down next to me and took me to the hospital. In the evening, my father was brought in a coffin..."
The story ends like this: “Russian chanson” and a song about swan fidelity are good. I praise women with swan fidelity. My mother and someone's mother. All mothers who lost their husbands early, but remained faithful to them. Let him be despicable who repeats the holy word MAMA in vain.”
Pyotr Danilovich's gift as a prose writer is manifested in his true stories about his fellow countrymen, about tragic and funny incidents from village life. The collection is complemented by beautiful photo illustrations made by the author.
One can say about the work of the rural poet Pyotr Danilovich Chernykh that it is united by a common “melody of love.” Native nature, native way of life, native people merge into a single, living picture. It seems that the poet saw this picture with loving glances and “stopped the moment.”

Behind the village the field smells of bread.
In the blue sky the voice of flocks of birds.
You, my dear Belogorye,
you, my native Biryuchensky region!”

It’s nice to know that talented people like Pyotr Danilovich Chernykh live next to us, in the rural outback. It’s just a pity that publishing a collection of works by an amateur author is not so easy now. I would like to hope that in the Krasnogvardeisky district there will be people who will appreciate the work of this extraordinary person and become sponsors of the work of a talented fellow countryman.

KONDRATIEVA G.I.

Veteran of teaching work.

BOGY'S MONOLOGUE. Shop, neighbors...

1996

Registration number 0277311 issued for the work: BOGY'S MONOLOGUE. Shop, neighbors...

And why am I suffering? A? Where's the justice? A? After all, he defended the collective farm property. In…. Look, give them grain and bread! A? Why should Nyurka be bullied for that? The storekeeper! Damn rucketeers! And I have plans for her. In…. I want Zhanitsa on it. In…. What? Am I old? But I’m thirty now, waking me up. Don't look at the bearded man. All of us are bearded and healthy. Well, the fact that they are mischievous comes from the breed. My grandfather Mikishka, you know, even jokes about me. About two years ago, do you remember how he took Valyukha from me? Oh, she was a good girl! Ten pounds. By God! I followed her for a year, and now from my grandfather she gave me an uncle, almost worth a peck. The guy will be one year old soon. In…. And you couldn’t say a word to your grandfather. As soon as I hit my ear, I confused heaven and earth for three days. Whoa... The bitch grandfather beat me off the girl and my head. It's a shame! In…. And my dad, he’s an even sharper joker! Thank God he went to a neighboring village. Let him go, bye, he'll make a joke. In…. What, grandfather? He sits and babysits his uncle. What? Try to go somewhere! When Valyukha gave birth, she began to weigh one and a half times more than her grandfather. Now that's someone with a hot hand! God forbid! In…. She'll give birth to someone else soon. So, my grandfather has no time for jokes now.

Yes! About the ruktirov! All eight pieces piled up. Nyurka scattered them about three times. Well, motherfucker, they are all kunhuists. And I was drunk. In…. What, I say, are you bullying the woman? What a mistake! Well, how they came at me with their kunhuys..... Why are you laughing? Wrong? But I wasn’t laughing! I was offended. Eight snouts for one woman! Well, when they came, I grabbed them all and pressed them against their own Kamaz. Held it for a while... These kunhuists turned out to be flimsy. They have been in the hospital for the second month. They can't get up. Nothing holds in them and, they say, never will. And then let them say thank you to Nyurka. She is compassionate. She left them and Kamaz sent them to the hospital.

Well…. About two weeks later, one of the Kunhuists remembered where they were and what happened to them. The police arrive with some riot police. I was hard... They took me... They brought me to the police station. They are interrogating. I was afraid... I can’t say anything... And the investigator yells: “Right now I’ll hand you over to the lads - you’ll talk to a cop!” They put me in a cell. They wanted to put iron on me, but it wasn’t the right size. Well, in…. Five guys enter the cell. Similar to kunhuists, but called ukhuists. Their struggle is like wow. That's it, they say, boy! The devil has come for you! They jumped and jumped. They screamed and screamed. Tired of it! I grabbed them, pressed them... Nothing holds in them either now.

The investigator, such a small one, yells: “What a goat! I'll fuck you!" I ask: “What is this?” He shouts: “I’ll make him a rooster!” "OK! Can you do that? “I can do anything,” he squeals. I was scared - I thought: “Sorcerer!”
Well, they put me in a cell with criminals. There are about fifteen of them there. Everyone's eyes are burning. They're stepping on me. And three of them poured out their shamelessness and let’s scare me. “They say take off your pants! Let's get acquainted!" Well, I thought, I thought... And I decided: “On equal terms, so on equal terms!” What, are you laughing? Well, I took off my pants... How did they see... At first there was deathly silence... And then there was a squeal at the door. They were pitiful and kicked them out. They ran away and now they can’t find anything.

The chief of police came. Yell at this little guy: “Let him go, for God’s sake, before he ruins the entire police force!”

I'm waiting for the tape! Come, don't be a jerk! To sit, not to sit. Don't come yet.... Oh, Lord!