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Wild master Shemyakin. John Shemyakin is a wild master at home. ...and other animals

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John Alexandrovich Shemyakin
Wild gentleman in a wild field

Life stories

Skis

He rushed around on skis, collecting a bloody harvest on the slopes.

I would like a spiked sled, with a steel wire between the spikes, damask runners in a predatory pattern, and in front of the cutting sled a horned skull grinning on a trident. I would like a scythe in my hand, a brush in the other. Then I would have worked five more people on the descent.

Before, I didn’t like skiing, skiing, running, etc. The government gave me skis for free. In my forest-steppe historical technical school, for example. The historical technical school hoped that cross-country skiing would strengthen my masculinity and prepare me to defend my native land or, on the contrary, to defend the workers of a foreign land.

At school, our class was taught to rush into suicidal bayonet attacks, throw grenades, distinguish poisonous gases by smell, by color and brightness - an atomic explosion from a hydrogen one, by sound - the work of Leopard tank engines from T-60.

In the courtyard we were taught to interrogate, hang and shoot prisoners. On the streets - to diagnose fractures and set broken jaws. At home - save crackers, cereals, alcohol, medicines, sugar. In the queues they learned to be patient at the commandant's offices and evacuation points. At a party - get drunk for the coming winter, raking what you haven't eaten into your pockets and hats. There were raids in cinemas and bathhouses. In the theater “Optimistic Tragedy”, and there - “who else wants to try the commissar’s body?”, the anarchist Siply and not exactly a happy ending.

And then there's cross-country skiing!

I believed that I was quite fit for non-combatant service with the convoy of Red Banner tracked armadas advancing on the ruins of Paris. I studied languages, I wanted to join a trophy team. I didn’t want to ski, but these were grades, reprimands and contempt from the blue-nosed associate professor of the department of physical education.

So what am I? That's why I broke my skis. I broke them in the forest, alone with nature, hitting the stump.

Three times the state gave me skis with boots still warm from someone else’s feet. Which was also a kind of preparation for the inevitable to come. And all three times I accidentally broke my skis on a tree stump.

And for the fourth time, using my inattention, trust in the forest and, frankly speaking, impending blindness, a blue-nosed sportsman slid in to follow me. Our, as I called him, teacher.

And now it’s winter. Fierce. I'm standing in front of a tree. I don’t see the stump - it’s completely hidden in the snow. That's why the Christmas tree. Fluffy, beautiful, wearing a snow-white fur coat, middle-aged, but slender. Fresh. And so I ski on its elastic branches. And the mischievous Christmas tree plays with me, flirts. Spring, you bastard. The ski doesn't break.

A crow is circling above me. I'm all red, I'm hitting my ski angrily, chaotically, I'm steaming. I am like a middle peasant who returned from an unkind city to his hungry village. Anger, melancholy and drifting snow. Only crows are happy, screaming and flapping their wings. In short, a new year in a high-security colony, added by the colony administration to the previous date.

-What are we doing here? – I hear an insinuating question.

Without turning around, he let go of the ski from his hands, silently and without blinking, wiped his face with snow.

“I’ll take down the physical education teacher,” I decided, “then I’ll atone for my sin, but the forest won’t betray me, it will bury our little pedagogical secret. By spring closer, I will already be in Ashgabat, at a construction site, people will call me Firduz, there is the border, hooves, Tehran, the Persian Gulf, changing documents and a tanker. Knife fight in the hold with big-nosed Greeks. Next, the career of a millionaire ship owner, a white tuxedo, an opera singer in mistresses, a diamond in a dog’s tooth, a rosewood yacht, opium, the mysterious murder of a singer, a dog’s tooth with a diamond in his pocket, Monaco, casino, loss, revolver, misfire, win, return home in the costume of an educated rajah. Everything is harmonious, clearly calculated, the plan is excellent!”

I turn to the assistant professor. But he doesn’t know his fate, he thinks that his blue training suit with the inscription “Sports Society “Pishchevik” 1980” will save him and provide him with easy ascension.

But he has eyes. That’s why he immediately moved three steps away from me. I’m steaming, I’m red, the snow is melting on my stubble, and the smell of boots from other people’s feet is also, you know, not reassuring.

- What am I doing here? – I quietly ask the retreating athlete. And immediately into a scream, it is important to give an instant transition, a second transition from the inhibition phase to the exacerbation phase of the brain disease. - You! YOU, Sergey Sergeevich! Only! Look! Crow on top! Tormenting! It’s tormenting!.. - there’s a pause, a sharp drop in tone, confusion, pain, and as you exhale hopelessly: - Little squirrel...

- Shemyakin, are you an idiot?

- I'm an idiot.

- Give me the skis. I'll give you a score. Don't tell anyone anything.

Komsomol contributions

Once, a very, very long time ago, the dean caught me at the moment of my rebirth from the ashes.

I turned to ashes after escorting my friend Seryozha N-va into the army.

I have already told this shameless story, which perfectly characterizes my destructive influence on all aspects of the lives of the people around me.

Let me remind you briefly. Seryozha and I lived in the same dorm room. And they symbolized the two poles of one refrigerator “Pole”.

Seryozha’s dad worked as the director of a large pig farm. And I lived on my own on buckwheat and pea concentrates.

Seryozha had breakfast with two slices of pork, which, because of his knowledge of community customs, he fried right there in our room, delicately closing the curtain from me. Seryozha also dined on something very dietary based on lard and smoked meats; I usually didn’t watch dinner, because I was running like a hunchbacked jackal along the corridors of hostel number two, maddened by gastronomic nightmares.

Everything in our room smelled of food: Seryozha, his things, my things, pillows, blankets, textbooks, I also smelled of food right through. The disgusting habit of sniffing fingers, hallucinations, and delusions became my constant companions.

Seryozha locked his refrigerator with an elegant chain and lock that his mother brought him from the pig farm. At the same time, she brought another five kilos of smoked lard and two cans of snouts marinated with pepper. I think that as a child Seryozha had funny toys, and his nursery was beautifully decorated with pig heads and garlands of sausages above a crib in the shape of a pig made of genuine leather.

Seryozha really loved these pickled snouts and, crunching them, snacked on vodka, which, of course, with such a diet did not ruin him, but made him more and more beautiful. Before my eyes, the man filled with physical beauty by leaps and bounds.

We began to receive summonses from military registration and enlistment offices. The Motherland persistently invited us to join its army, hospitably indicating the number of the article of the Constitution.

Seryozha’s summons still never arrived. At the send-off for another lucky recruit, Seryozha said that he was not going to serve at all. He said quietly, times were still fairly socialist. But in Seryozha’s eyes there was an understanding of life like a serene blue lake.

That same night I sat down at my desk, took paper that smelled of pork, a sticky pen, and wrote a letter to Red Star between the greasy marks. On behalf of Seryozha N-va. The letter said, in particular, that Sergei’s Baltic grandfather and Pacific father look at him with condemnation, who has not yet served, and the military commissar of the region, Lieutenant Colonel B. Gusev, under far-fetched pretexts, denies Sergei his right to defend our country. I underlined “under false pretexts” twice. The letter ended with a request to send Seryozha to serve in the navy, preferably on a nuclear submarine. Signed simply: Sergey N-v. And dropped it in the mailbox in the morning.

I myself did not expect that this letter would be published in Krasnaya Zvezda under the heading “Towards the Komsomol Congress.”

They came for Seryozha straight to the lecture hall. Lieutenant Colonel B. Gusev himself and two captains came.

With great and understandable excitement, I read the letters that my friend Seryozha wrote to me from Severomorsk. These letters had it all. In those places where my fate in a wheelchair at the station was described, I always stopped reading and froze.

After six months, I got used to these letters, stopped keeping them close to my heart and began vigorously doing push-ups and running in the country park. I signed up for the kettlebell lifting section.

When returning from training, during which I cried a lot and asked to go home (tm), our good King Dagobert caught me. Our dean is wonderful. Who, in principle, remembered me, somehow recognized me on a visual level, but did not want to remember my name.

The dean grabbed my hands and said excitedly:

- James! There's a problem at our faculty!

If I had not been faced with the most important trouble in the faculty, if she had not held my hands so tightly, then perhaps I would not have subsequently become what I became. But he would simply break free and run away.

But something stopped me, and the two troubles of the faculty started talking.

“You see, Jim,” the dean told me, “our faculty has a huge debt in membership fees.” We owe a lot to the university Komsomol committee. Students don't pay their fees, understand?! And so the debt arose. University Komsomol Committee. Students don’t want to pay, and they end up in debt, you understand, right?!

– Before the Komsomol committee? The debt to the Komsomol committee was organized, right? - I clarified, just in case, shifting like a prize stallion and wondering if I could knock out the glass with my head and hide in the bushes.

- Yes! – answered the leisurely dean. – Students do not pay fees on time, and arrears have arisen.

- This is very bad! – I honestly admitted. “You won’t get a pat on the head for this.” For debt to the Komsomol committee. At such times, it is very bad when students do not pay their fees on time.

The glass no longer seemed so thick to me.

- You, Jean, this is what it is: you have to help us, yes. Kolesnikova,” the dean looked at the piece of paper, “can’t collect fees on time.” You must help her collect contributions.

The glass seemed already very thin and beckoned.

- I will definitely help! – I promised as honestly as possible.

- Give me your record book here! – the dean suddenly said predatorily. He helped me find it and hid it in his pocket. “I’ll return it when...” the dean looked at the piece of paper, “Kolesnikova says that the debt to the Komsomol committee has been liquidated.”

“Great, Jack! – I said to myself. - Wonderful! Everything worked out very well. Is it true? The main thing is that the kettlebell lifting section helped a lot!”

Two hours later I was thrown out of all possible dorm rooms, which I entered demanding Komsomol tribute. I screamed and raged, pounded on doors with my fists, pressed on consciousness and simple human pity.

Maybe it would have worked in other faculties. But at the history department, you understand... What a pity if there are notes on the civil war all around?

The offense was that it was a trivial matter: two kopecks a month. But the first collection was stolen, the second amount was somehow lost. The third time, not everyone was collected, and this carousel continued for several months. But it wasn’t a terrible amount of money being wasted, no.

With grief and pain he returned to his kennel.

After Seryozha N-va left for the navy, my little room was not orphaned. Vanya, who had served as a border guard, moved in with me, and life got better.

Vanya was drinking. And since his journey to the land of green fairies was just beginning and Vanya weighed about a hundredweight, he needed quite a lot of alcohol.

Vanya made up for the lack of funds by working as a watchman at a school, into which he sent all the surrounding sensualists and women of difficult fates at night. Vanya carefully drank the money he received from sensualists, drowning his conscience and weakening his nervous system.

He began to have strange ideas and visions. In these visions Vanya was terrible. I slept during Vanya’s periods like a sperm whale: with only one half of my brain. The other half stood guard over my health and life. Then the halves of the brain changed places, there was a changing of the guard, and by the seventh day the visions began for me.

- Do you have vodka? – Vanya asked me.

- There will be vodka when you and I liquidate the debt to the Komsomol committee! – I said, falling into bed. - Students don’t pay fees, you know, James, and Kolesnikova can’t cope... the dean of the record book... an arctic fox! - Falling asleep with half of my brain, I outlined the situation.

I didn’t even notice how Vanya took the crowbar wrapped in electrical tape and left the room, putting our traditionally half-torn door in place.

In the morning I woke up with the second half of my brain and realized that I had become a victim of some kind of violence. It was difficult for me to find any other explanation for the fact that I was lying in bed and covered all over, like a Central Asian bride, with paper money.

I felt myself thoroughly, looked under the bed, and drank water. Under the sink there was a shoebox that also contained money. There was still money on the floor and even in the toilet. I felt myself again. It relieved my heart, I was not so fresh that they would pay such crazy money for my body, battered by the storms of life. Moreover, Vanya also slept among the blue and red pieces of paper. But he wouldn’t just give up.

Vanyatka collected a hell of a lot of rubles overnight. No, not only from historians, he methodically combed two dormitories, looked in at lawyers and philologists. At first he collected it sober, explaining the situation with the debt, and then somewhere he broke his fast and began to just walk in with a crowbar and leave with banknotes.

“Seven years,” I thought, looking at the banknotes collected in a heap, “at least. In the zone you will have to try to get into the assholes. To the library or to the laundry, to raise amateur activities.”

The guard dogs barked in my head and the locks of the stage cars clanged.

You've unlearned, Jim, you've unlearned...

Vanya and I donated the money to the Komsomol committee. I managed to write an appeal to M. S. Gorbachev in beautiful handwriting on behalf of the students. The committee, when they saw me with a petition and a combed Vanya with a box of money, at first did not believe their eyes.

- This is our initiative! – I solemnly said in the excited voice of a communard. – To the monument to the first Komsomol members of our region. And then there are the debts on contributions...

Vanya went to the Komsomol congress alone. My candidacy was killed in the Komsomol regional committee.

Past

I passed by my first address in Samara. In 1986, I rented a room from a strange former engineer, married to an equally strange art teacher.

The engineer was a fisherman. My wife made plaster figures. Ties of sabrefish, low roach, ropes with bream are stretched to all rooms. Tackle in the corners. Boat in the corridor. And all this is fragrant this way and that among the plaster busts and some kind of death masks.

True, not all masks were death masks. Twice the hostess took plaster casts of my expressive face. I don't know what she wanted to achieve with this. But she persistently persuaded me to continue creative experiments with my perpetuation.

She gave me one mask. In complete stupefaction, he held his plaster face in his hands, anxiously listening to his inner sensations. It's like holding your scalp in shaking hands while the prairie whistles.

I hung the cast on the wall.

I took it off the next day. He took it to the university and gave it to archaeologist Vashenkin. He successfully placed my face in an exhibition unexpectedly dedicated to the excavations of Pompeii.

While the exhibition was on, I came in a couple of times to admire myself. Beneath my plaster face was a stenciled inscription: “One of the victims of the Vesuvius volcano. Numidian slave."

While the owner of the apartment indulged in creativity with me, the owner taught me to search for the right maggots and dig for worms. For listening to lectures about maggots, I received an incentive award - a roach. Or even two. Plus, I quietly borrowed this nutritious and healthy fish from the owner’s collection.

I made soup with millet from roach. I snacked on tap water or even tea as a vobla. I exchanged cigarettes for roach. With a vobla, I lured gullible girls from the neighborhood to me. Vobla fed me, consoled me, and gave me bodily pleasures. And after passing the test on world artistic culture, I realized that Vobla, in principle, is still teaching me. Provides a scholarship. Vobla was my comforter.

I only recently got rid of the disgusting habit of sniffing my fingers.

There was, and still is, a railroad next to the house. Steel stitches stitching together the spreading looseness of my country, as an aesthetically sound person in my place would say. I fell asleep to the sound of trains, I slept to the clatter of wheels and horns. You wake up and have the full feeling that you have arrived in a new amazing place. Maybe to Syzran. Or even to Ruzaevka.

Walking in a “thousand-thousand” rhythm, you rush to the window. Spreading the hanging case with your hands, you stick to the glass. And everything there is the same as yesterday. Didn't go anywhere. Sky. Pipe. Sorting room. At night you are driving somewhere again to the sound of clatter, a little more, a little more - and you escape, and in the morning - roach, plaster, Pomorin toothpaste.

It’s like with the Internet, what can I explain.

I got out of the car and walked along the old paths. Life, life, where have you gone?

Romantic

Throughout his life, our friend Kostya proves that there is a place in life for romance, love, poverty and optimism.

As a matter of fact, our friend Kostya consists of all these mentioned qualities.

Other manifestations of life concern him much less. Money, career, recognition from a grateful fatherland evoke in Kostya the condescending smile of a crusader who has seen everything.

We tried to find Konstantin a decent job with the attributes: salary, office and prospects. It all ended quite predictably and very, very quickly.

One winter evening, when my friends and I were playing educational board games of cards, the door swung open. In the clouds of frosty steam stood Konstantin in an unexpectedly astrakhan coat. His face was pale and iconic.

So-called “unexpected difficult circumstances” caught Konstantin in all sorts of ways in the form of truck driver husbands, the Agakerimov brothers, Ruslan and Alikper, tattooed roommates, police officers who arrived at the call of a vindictive and stupid neighbor... But in a woman’s fur coat on Kostya’s bare, striking shoulders, we had happiness to see for the first time.

Moreover, everyone felt bitter in their souls, because, according to our calculations, Kostya at that time was supposed to be working as a programmer in a division of one fuel holding company, where we together, not without incident, put him.

- Cover me, friends! – Kostya begged with doom. – I love and are loved, but circumstances!..

Soon, circumstances came on Konstantin’s trail, took his wife’s fur coat and waddled away.

We all crawled out from under the table. I pressed a piece of curtain to my broken nose. With one dislocated arm, B-ch held the other arm smashed against the wall. Vadik held his slightly torn ear with his finger.

Kostya came down from the mezzanine and sighed heavily.

We decided to leave Konstantin alone. Because we are already tired of witnessing a wave of “unfounded reproaches and kisses of hands.”

Kostya did not lose heart. He took women to his empty garage and enjoyed their favor.

To create the atmosphere, Konstantin lit a candle. Then the women understood what was happening. And if the candle in the garage is lit, then any excuses are pointless.

Now the girls are perplexed to the last. It was different before. With the candle, Kostya seemed to emphasize the important fact that if a woman walked three kilometers through a vacant lot, stumbling on gravel, followed by the howling of dogs from a construction site, then he appreciates it. And now the magic will happen... Something like this, in general.

The candle burned on the table, reflected and refracted by the rows of cans of tomatoes and cucumbers displayed on the garage shelves. There was a bicycle in the corner. The women began to hope for a successful outcome of this exciting adventure and let go of the wrench they had quietly picked up at the beginning of the garage visit.

Hence the conclusion: a candle and tomato cans separately are vulgar as a background for love on a quilted jacket, but in combination with each other they are quite decent. And the poverty of a suitor is a real filter for confirming the sincerity of feelings and the crystallineness of intentions.

I looked at the women who chose the romantic Kostya with respect. It's not every day you see such a feeling in person.

Although sometimes the suspicion creeped in that the doctor’s sausage also played a role in this difficult female choice. Kostya chose some unique ladies for himself, let’s not lie.

Toys

Successfully scratched my back against the wall in the Turkish bath.

The wall seemed pleasantly rough to me. I scratched my back.

Pieces of skin flew to the locker room. I don’t know if I can hold it, that’s what I’ll say.

When I was a child, I had a clockwork bear. There is a hole in the back, in the hole the key is turned five times - the bear begins to move, purr and pretend that he is eating honey from a barrel.

With the help of the bear, my educators, who worked three shifts trying to socialize me and general domesticate me, tried to instill in me a system of cause-and-effect relationships.

Here is the bear, the key, the weak spot on the bear, stick the key into the bear’s weak spot, turn the key with a sniff, and the bear will give you an instructive show. Understood?

Of course I understand! After all, if after five turns of the key the bear moves, then after ten turns it will probably start talking! I think it's logical.

After ten turns with a creak, the bear actually almost spoke. Something in him, you know, skipped a beat, just a little bit, it seemed, a little more, be patient, darling, come on!..

And the bear was paralyzed. Kondraty hugged him. Karachun grabbed it.

I concluded that paying too much attention to whose dance you want to see is harmful.

When toys are simple, they cripple the inner world of one. And if the toys are complex, invented by a technical genius, then they can injure a lot of people. Even years later the echo echoes.

My friends had a small son, and then another daughter was born. The parents were excellent, the children had a lot of toys. Especially the ones, you know, that run on batteries. You press the cow’s belly, the cow sings “Black Eyes,” shaking her udder and opening her mouth wide.

I especially liked her. I also came to visit friends to play with this cow. I listened to it up to seven times and giggled stupidly. She was a good cow, cheerful, responsive and so consistent in everything.

The children have grown up. Toys with slightly weak batteries were dragged into the garage. They put it in a bag, hung the bag on a hook, and over time they hung a canvas raincoat over the bag.

Two years have passed.

My father-in-law came to visit. An old alcoholic went into the garage for some mischief. And by the light of a flashlight, a viper began to rustle in the reeds in the garage. I found a bottle. Made the condition worse. He walked unsteadily towards the exit and swayed.

He drove his whole body into a bag of old toys, covered for the time being with a tarpaulin raincoat.

The toys in the bag were very happy that childhood had returned for them. And they immediately began to sing and shake their dusty, middle-aged bodies. In the darkness of the bag. And the batteries are low. Therefore, instead of singing - a low howl, instead of a cheerful twitching of paws, heads and tails - an senile, arthritic movement.

In short, the father-in-law saw how the canvas raincoat came to life, and, swaying, howling in his gut, he wants to kill his father-in-law, I don’t know, enslave him, what do raincoats from the garage do to old alcoholics? The toys didn’t know about their father-in-law’s experiences - they were in a bag, they couldn’t see who they were making fun of. And my father-in-law was not aware of the toys, but he was very aware of neuroses due to regular intoxication.

The vibrations of the soul between the father-in-law and the toys from the bag did not coincide. The toys are happy that they came for them, returned for them, soon we will see the light, give it, Patrikeevna, shake our udders faster, freedom! freedom is coming! we love and are loved! Don’t let me down, Mikheich, tear up the accordion, you clumsy one! a bit more! a little more!..

And the father-in-law sees that they also came for him, that everything, amba, life is over, goodbye, rocky mountains! sailed off, the sailor (he worked as a mechanic on a dry cargo ship), sushi oars, ships that left the squadron formation are considered to have left the battle without permission, hit Morse code, there are no rescued!.. A-A-A!

The whole world lured the father-in-law out of the garage. He timidly refused, and we had to drag him out, disheveled and smiling vaguely. With an almost bitten flashlight in both hands.

The toys were released, cleaned, batteries replaced, and distributed into good hands. My father-in-law also had to replace some batteries. He is now an aquarist, he has become strict, he doesn’t joke, he doesn’t go to friends’ houses on holidays, he bought a Ford and plants cucumbers. The mother-in-law doesn’t know how to pray to the Chinese toy players in church.

Hence the conclusion: you need to shake your udders and sing, even if you sit in a bag for a wild amount of time. Childhood can reach you even after years. Art corrects morals.

In my library, on the top shelves, there are porcelain dell'arte figurines in whimsical poses.

I inherited them. I expected to inherit a house on the beach. But they only gave me a collection of porcelain.

I asked for the house to be given to me. But when they came to pick up the porcelain, I agreed to the porcelain.

Gradually I got used to it. Especially for these figures. You look at them and remember that the world is full of other people's greed.

And not alone! Other people's greed preys on my little round-eyed greed. She is touching and defenseless to me. Like some kind of bunny. And others have greed - wow! The size of a carnivorous horse, the size of a polar bear eating Santa Claus. Zubishchi!

Other people's greed does not give life to my tiny greed. They pursue her and torment her. It's horrible. Terrible.

I'm thinking about doing a photo shoot. My personal sins in the interior. Cute Gluttony sits with neat Lust visiting kind Sloth. Wood crackles in a clean fireplace. Tea. Monocles. Smart Dejection plays chess with beautiful Anger. They look at each other affectionately. Vanity wipes the plates. Envy destroys the cookies. Cups. Milk jugs with cream.

And this Christmas my five virtues, forgotten in the ravine, look out through the frosty windows with twisted, angry faces. Cordiality draws from a felt boot:

- Let's warm ourselves here... Nothing... Chastity! Or what's your name?! Go around the back of the house! And grab Meekness, as soon as the fire starts, you will be the first to rush! Push your generosity, we will use it to take out some pieces of your choice!

Incubator

I used to be normal. And now - no.

The brain is gradually enslaving my hot, nice body. It's probably old age.

Previously, my brain was small and timid, and did not get involved in making the most important decisions. Like any man, my brain was an annoying burden on the reproductive organs. And alcohol helped reduce the brain load on the reproductive organs to a normal “off” level.

And now my brain has somehow become bolder, I see. Dictates conditions, reveals the logic of what is happening.

Scary. You feel like a brain incubator like Citizen Ripley.

Catastrophe

As everyone knows very well, I have been working since I was eight years old. How I got married.

I was immediately kicked out of second class, and I was forced to go to work in the nearest quarries.

Then there was a tanker. Decommissioned. Knot picker Lespromkhoz. Then I panned for gold in a dredge. Sat. Academy of Sciences.

Then I turned ten. I already have children, I went into business. It started off very well. Exchange, options, collateral, loans on the system, exchange again, success after success. After three years of success in business and corruption scandals with the prosecutor general, thank God, I found three hundred rubles on the street and bought myself the first pants in my life. I still wear it without taking it off.

And then everything goes according to the rules. Thirty years - lieutenant! Forty years - senior lieutenant! Forty-five years old - junior lieutenant! A gambling attempt at high treason. They immediately gave me a captain. Teeth inserted. Entry in his personal file: “prone to careerism, envious, gray-bearded, hasn’t slept for years, looks great in black.”

Now I look after warehouses. The family is happy. I look at passers-by impudently.

And all my life I have been surrounded by all sorts of alarmists, catastrophists and witnesses of Armageddon. They tell me how terrible everything will be. And I haven’t exhaled all the dust from the quarry yet. But I listen to them, ruddy. About the coming nightmare.

The meeting today was dedicated to the inevitable and nightmarish end of the horror of the catastrophic apocalypse of the last days of death, the doomed doomsday.

Today's alarmists are just like the previous alarmists. But, of course, they are much more ready, skillful and decisive. They know absolutely everything. They won’t die like the previous ones because of frozen potatoes and fighting over them.

One bought diesel. The second is swinging in the gym for Armageddon. The third one wants to save his mother. For what? What should she see so joyful in order to save her from radiation? Four horsemen? Burning wings of angels? Rain of sulfur over a lake of lava? The mayor of Moscow flying in the sky with a moose skull on his head?..

These people, by the way, have direct access to me. And wonderful workers. They bring in papers, they take out brains, they bring in papers. Good ones. But what kind of strategy do people have in their heads?

I listened to everyone and ordered the exercise to be carried out. Next weekend. I don’t go to the cinema, so at least this way. I want to see how people will trade painkillers and alcohol for alcohol and painkillers. How to save mom. As if swinging for Armageddon for the first time, biting her lips and blushing, she will put on her muscular lace one to get half a liter of kerosene, timidly offering herself at the duralumin hangars.

By the way, everyone forgot about kerosene! All! Except me. For I am wise. And I prepared half a liter of kerosene, Katya!

And some bread and salt for the white horse.

Manifesto

The manifesto of my attitude towards the world is the following.

Someone tells me: yesterday I saw the Virgin Mary in my plate with cabbage soup. And I think: what a strange plate. I don’t think: what a strange person. And I don’t think: what did the Mother of God forget on this man’s plate? I just think: strange plate. This is the entire manifesto of my attitude towards the world. Which I consider the only true one, of course.

The manifesto of my attitude to politics is the consideration that a person loses the opportunity to become mayor of Krasnodar by learning Latin.

The manifesto of my attitude towards family is my family album with photographs. Some people feel proud of their family's past. Chamberlains entirely. Defenders. Commanders of battlecruisers. Looking at photographs of my ancestors, I am acutely proud of my family today. We sleep warm, eat hot food on permitted days.

The design of my tombstone serves as a manifesto of my attitude towards the future. On the tombstone I will place a riddle and a guarantee of payment if the answer is correct. This will provide my tombstone with an interesting fate, a constant influx of people and, hopefully, a blockbuster in the end.

The manifesto of my attitude towards education is a call: return logic, rhetoric and as much physical education to schools as possible.

The manifesto of my attitude towards education is the slogan: “Rewards are only for winners!” I was raised that way and never received any awards at all. I was happy about the sunny bunny.

Mom kissed me once. I was five years old. It was a holiday. And my mother confused me with my sister.

In kindergarten I chanted simple and great truths: bread to the owner, meat to the Lord! Life was clear and good: skinny people were pitied, hairy people had their hair cut, idle people were punished. Only state criminals were released from classes for execution.

Now, I see, everyone gets rewards! Almost “for participation.”

Encouraging mere participation will not do any good.

The reality is somehow alarming. The pettiness of the cubs is outrageous. You feel like a Pithecanthropus at the airport. Naked, wild, angry. You run half-bent. It is clear that without a ticket you will not be allowed into business class. You'll have to fly in economy, biting fleas. Life whistles by.

What's the point of a children's competition if the losers aren't dragged by the feet to be killed? What then is the meaning of victory?!

Briefly about everything

Few people know that I:

a) Worked for a year as a cook on a tanker in the Pacific Ocean.

b) For six months he bore the name Eugene.

c) Was an impresario for the sorceress Lyuba.

d) Played Admiral Nakhimov on stage.

e) Studied at a theological seminary.

f) Worked in 1993 as deputy head of the apparatus of the Democratic Party of Russia.

g) Published poems about love in the Pioneer magazine.

I woke up in a hotel room...To the theme of the Mouse King from “The Nutcracker,” which we usually illustrate New Year’s Eve, I ran through the room in order, like Robinson Crusoe, to assess the place of his next imprisonment. In the bathroom, I grabbed all the bottles and put disposable slippers in my belt. He weighed the towels in his hands, wondering which one to wipe what with? It didn't add up. Here it is - under your feet. This is for your abundant body, this is for your arms, this is for your head, let it be! And this?

And that, not to say small thing, is there anything to wipe it off with or even wrap it up? Illuminated by a dark guess, he applied the smallest towel, compared it, nervously twitched his cheek, and threw it away. Maybe they put these towels in the bathrooms for midgets? For dwarf accordion players who play the button accordion in threes using their legs? Mystery. Then he flushed the toilet. Out of mischief. Giggled. Then, he put a cap on his head and climbed into the shower. The shower has seven levers and each lever has up to five positions.

Either boiling water or icy water gushed out. He screamed under the steaming streams of a young experimental chimpanzee, but did not stop experiments and turned out all the valves one by one, flipped all the levers and turned something on the rim of the shower with a crunch. Under the boiling water streams, dancing and squealing, he proved the superiority of his mind and drove the complex shower crazy. The shower began to produce steam in the stall. I thought it was a special sedative gas, like in Bond films. And he ran clumsily into the far corner, covering his burned face with a previously unidentified towel. But the steam turned out to be ordinary, not soothing, damp and heavy. Unpleasant. Shut off all valves and vents. I stood in the middle of the bathroom pogrom. Then he flushed the toilet again and left.

I examined the contents of the minibar. Some kind of nonsense.
Turned on the TV. The TV immediately offered the widest range of Arabic TV channels. On the Martyrs in the Name of Imam Ali channel they showed how a man was hanged. Then my Sudanese favorites delighted me with music. Five men in robes, like death, tormented the floor violins and howled in different keys. The sixth, also in a robe, came out and sat down on the carpet a little further away, paused, raised his hands to his ears and joined in the howling.

I twirled in front of the TV, snapping my fingers, waiting for the arrival of a cheerful mood. Then he went to the window and looked out of it. Outside the window there was a dirty winter and crows hugging each other with their wings. The combined orchestra of the Nile Philharmonic was playing behind me. I switched the channel and entered the realm of paid broadcasting. The announcements were inspiring. Furiously tormenting the remote control, I found my favorite one – about animals. On animal planets, thank God, they showed a film about litter of different animals.

Here's the elephant one - steaming and healthy. Here is a very interesting hippopotamus that splashes its droppings, attracting the attention of females. I became interested. Then they started showing enthusiastic researchers in yellow gloves and I switched gears.

He turned out his pockets and shook his trousers, jacket and even his hat over the bed. He stuck his hand up to the elbow into the pocket of his cashmere coat. He plunged headlong into his wallet. We are not ready for adventure. But we are only ready for vices. A quick inspection of the contents of the pockets illustrates this idea perfectly. Rolls of fishing line, hooks, magnifying glasses, a hatchet, a tripod with a bowler hat, a flashlight - I never carried it with me, and I still don’t carry it. Life teaches me nothing.

Vices filled my pockets with things of little use on a lonely island. Who will I have fun with on the island, so that three pieces in a package will do? By yourself? Well, in this sense I trust myself.

The news about me moving into my own apartment is as follows - I’ll have to hang out at the hotel for a day before my magic doors open to me. I'll check into a hotel. To begin with, I’ll order breakfast to my room and hide, sparkling with beady eyes, in the corner.
In a company of children lured by an apple in a scarf, I went to the cinema. Fascinated by progress, he walked with his mouth open both to the right and to the left. I marveled at everything. Because We had children in our arms, whom I didn’t yet dare to sell to someone else’s side in some kind of cabaret or to find a job in the service, then we went to see an animated film. The choice fell on “Three Yuogatirs and the Shamakhan Queen”. I watched the entire film silently and carefully. He got up and left. Fierce forest black boring shit.

Under Stalin, all the creators of this film would have faced severe and fair punishment. The men, the creators of this Russophobia, would nervously chop coal in Vorkuta. Chaplain women would sew parachutes or sing arias in the opera houses of Susumanlag. But they would return with gold teeth and furs.

The cartoon is not only stupid, it is also horribly two-faced. Well, it’s like they put on a show for the children, and so that the adults wouldn’t get bored, Mom and Santa Claus started kissing passionately on the drunken bench, right there, near the festive spruce tree.

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During a long-standing archaeological expedition, he lived with a family of Old Believers. In a schismatic village, on the banks of a mighty dirty river.

Not in the house, of course, but in a special barn. As soon as I walked into that barn, I immediately realized that the matter was unclean, there was a distinct smell of schismatic witchcraft. Many people know that I come from a family of hereditary Orthodox scholars. I know the habits of the enemy. There are some branches along the walls of the barn, nails in the corners. If you count the number of nails, it will certainly be thirteen.

The nails, driven in as if by accident, are all new. The first sign that they were waiting for you here. There is a remedy for such a raid, but it is unpleasant. The schismatics call their koduns sheptuns and volkhovites. There is a serious difference in approaches and intransigence between the first and second. Sorcerers and sub-sorcerers are easily recognized. They limp or their finger is crooked. The lame raises the lame. A clear sign.

So the composer Mahler imitated his mother’s gait, he got used to it - and then he limped all his life, he loved his mother very much. So this music is a simple matter, especially in Mahler’s understanding. And rural witchcraft is a serious thing. For example, a sorcerer will never say “spell” or “trouble,” but will definitely say “verse.” “I’ll read a poem to you in a minute,” “read a poem to us,” etc. is a sure sign that you are in a sorcerer’s lair, or in a village club, or in a library.

Under the portrait of the predatory Paustovsky. The difference is small, to be honest. Now you can easily identify whisperers. If you hear Brodsky quietly reading to your left, feel free to poke a burning log into that corner. So what, what's a museum?! It will not be worse. If there is no log, a bunch of keys will do. If you heard Pasternak’s lines or Gippius’s rhymes behind your back, immediately roll over yourself with a sweep and enter a painful position. There is no need to be embarrassed if you kill some old lady who is harmless at first glance. Evil has many faces.

In the classification of the owners, I was either a city or a low-grade person. Those. distrustful. According to the classification of the owners - an evil fiend of hell. But not large. This, you know, medium-sized ugly cockroach in the black paw of Beelzebub. But overall, they treated me well. They didn’t race with stakes, they didn’t throw glass into the milk. Unusual warmth for me.

Naturally, as befits a small demon, he began to build chickens for the owner’s daughter. The girl was amazingly beautiful. No, what else could I do in the village? After the excavations? Stand facing the fence and watch the sea buckthorn grow?

That virgin told me a wonderful sectarian story about a fallen angel. Which begs to appear on the pages of albums, for friends.

And God sent an angel to kill one woman. An angel comes to that woman, and three children are crawling on her, she is sick, and they are crying. The angel thinks and stands: “How will this happen? After all, the kids will then catch their mother!” And he did not kill the woman. God was angry that he did this, and punished him, bringing him down to earth. He says: “Now walk the earth yourself, suffer. And be a Christian on earth until you die completely. And you will remain on earth until a person who is strict with others calls you an angel. The strict one will call you an angel, I will take you back to heaven...”

The angel began to live as a man and lived so badly, he was in trouble and suffered. He was not happy at all. Until the masters hired him to serve as a furman. And those gentlemen worked as doctors - they treated people and lived from there. And the chief doctor says to him: “Here you are, orphan, whatever I tell you, you do it. Here we go to the sick man, past a tavern with vodka, there are angry people standing there - you drive quickly. And when we drive past the school, my friends are there, I need to talk to them, so you drive slowly!”

And the angel seemed stupid. He drives slowly past the tavern, and then lets his horses go past the school. Well, the doctor started to get angry and said: “Why are you so disobedient? I told you: how to drive past a tavern - quickly, but how to drive near a school - little by little” - “But as we drove past the tavern, two people were sitting there, and they were pious and had such spiritual conversations that it was funny to listen to. I drove little by little. I was driving past the school, where an evil teacher beat a child, praised the devils, and I was afraid that they would jump on our necks...”

Then the doctor said: “So you are an angel!” Take Furman and disappear. But the doctor stopped treating him completely and left for the city; some people saw him later.”

And then many people ask me about my attitude to this and that. I barely left that village. The department barely recognized me. By the way, he left the university soon after. I became what I ended up becoming.

Something is missing from the journal “The History of the Decline of Morals.” There is a creative flaw going on somewhere.
Yesterday morning I frowned and looked at the food being thrown out of the house, left over from the New Year's, God forgive me, soirée.

Every time you prepare for a holiday, you pretend to be a European. In November, literally, you say loudly in a crowded place: “You are welcome, you are welcome, I will always be glad to see you at the spruce tree and treat, sir, with what God sent - each of us, a sandwich with a skewer, a glass of refreshing lemonade, an apple...”

And you believe in yourself in these moments. You imagine sober and clean pictures of the celebration. Here the guests simultaneously dip dry biscuits into glasses of warm milk and quietly declare their love for music. Here we are all sitting around the table and playing biblical lotto, reading from memory from David the Psalmist the places according to the numbers that fell on the barrels. But, jumping up and clapping our hands, we listen, flushed, with shining eyes, to the congratulations of our formidable ruler.

In practice, in harsh practice, on the morning of January 4th, wrapped in a fur coat that is being tossed around by a blizzard, you stand on the porch, wearing a hat pulled down, clutching the railing and, like Voltaire, bitterly looking at the growing pile of uneaten, mangled, nibbled and whimsical things growing below mixed. Are guests being so spoiled on purpose? Why was this meat: both this and especially that other thing?!

Why were five geese tortured in the oven? These cakes...

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In the morning, he announced to those gathered at breakfast that he had repurposed our center of proletarian orgies into a dairy sanatorium. Tenaciously looking around at those gathered, he shook the accounts in front of them and announced the amount of losses from excesses and excesses. I exaggerated the amount somewhat for good measure. "Friends! It's time to come to your senses! It’s not too late,” that’s what I said and shook the bills again. Let's grow old gracefully, dear ones!

After breakfast I was forced to leave for the city. Upon returning, I realized that it was too early to open the sanatorium. For afternoon tea, under the merciless light of the chandeliers, the guests descended carefully, holding the railings, each other, the walls and curtains. For me, a fresh, ruddy, frost-smelling person, the faces of my friends aroused hostility. And I was even ready to speak out in this sense. But then our ladies appeared. I saw one this morning and swung a stool at it because I didn’t recognize it.

This one did not forgive me, she looked at me coldly and contemptuously. My heart-rending cry “Old woman! The old woman came for me! Bring candles! Fire! More fire!” Apparently, she will not forget soon. And there was no need to barge in on me without knocking under a far-fetched pretext... Looking at the ladies, he got up from the table and went into the office, to the safe. I realized that with such a woman’s condition, the holiday really needs to end.

I don’t know how it is in decent houses, but in my coniferous forest I established order: guests arrived, hugs, smiles. We said hello. We started talking. This and that. And an hour later I come in with a box and collect valuables from the guests. Mainly from women. The reason is simple - they will wear diamonds, emeralds and pearls. And then they will definitely lose something during the sensual dancing. And there will be a howl to the sky, tears and mutual suspicions of rats. I have already celebrated one such New Year. I won't forget it soon.

Then the girl Sveta arrived wearing some kind of wire hat with dangles along the peripheral rim. Outside the hospital walls and not at Batu’s headquarters, such a headdress looks a little wild. In my understanding, a woman should wear such magic hats when she summons flying monkeys at the open window. Or dancing the foxtrot in Chicago, on the eve of the repeal of Prohibition. Ideally, of course, this hat would look on a maiden in a coffin, under a mound. Well, my young contemporary in such a hat should not appear among living people. Sveta walked in this beauty, sparkled with her pendants, causing a serpentine rustling in the hearts of the other participants in the undeclared war.

And then the feast gave way to dancing, then another feast happened, then everyone rushed into the forest, then out of the forest, then snowmen, then a bathhouse and diving, then everyone fell into a heavy sleep in the serpentine road. Having woken up and swallowed dryly, she did not find the magic crown of her Light. I ran to the screams and covered my eyes with my hand. In the frenzy of the ferocious searches, Sveta did not have time to bother finding the rest of her missing items. And believe me, they were! So I rushed over and pretty quickly found Sveta’s underpants first.

Other lace items were found in the remaining bedrooms. Sveta's route to final sleep was, for my taste, somewhat bizarre, to say the least, but who can I judge? They found almost everything, but did not find the crown. It was a wonderful day after New Year's. Howling, crying, phone calls, curses, accusations of theft, calls from some muddy trash friends for help, running around, screaming.

Sveta did all this tirelessly. At the same time, she also drank with both hands to calm the nervous system. At first I somehow tried to fit in, and then I got tired. He stopped following her around and calming her down. And Sveta was also tired by the night. Having looked around at my family nest, which had been torn up by searches, I went out into the yard. And I saw a snowman. Several (three) carrots were stuffed into the snowman.

One symbolized the nose. And the other two emphasized the snowman’s openness to all types of pleasures. It was on the third carrot, the most outrageous one, in my opinion, that this fucking Sveta tiara was dangling. And two cheerful crows were jumping near her.

From then on, I take away everything valuable from guests, and then return it, of course, to those who remember.
In what fist, I ask. Joke. I just dump it on the table - here you go! take it, I don’t need any more. This scene might give a wrong impression to a fresh person, but I don’t have people like that at my house.

He escorted the most persistent comrades, crushing them into the car with his feet. While checking the trunk, he was almost taken away and drove about forty meters in a flowing robe, holding the bumper with his hands. He braked with his feet and his open mouth, with which he collected a rich harvest of stale snow with Kazakh, as it turned out, dry wind dust. I can’t say that I liked it, but I’m glad that my hands are still strong.

Then he walked around the rooms, sighing and spitting sand.
He sat down by the open piano and thought, propping his expressive head with his fists, still clenched along the thickness of the bumper.

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Even before that scorching moment of celebration, when I, wearing an open white fur coat over my bare body and high patent leather platform boots, began to spin around, stamping my left foot and moving my shoulders, I noticed that half of those gathered were furiously sending SMS messages to someone. And these “someones” also apparently sit at tables, but answer regularly. Everyone’s life is so busy that there is no time even for a sedate boyar grand feast. Everything was somehow different before. Without this telegraphy.

Previously, if in the interval between dishes you wanted some kind of, you know, communication, then, stroking your beard, choosing from it goose scraps and crushed lingonberries, you would beckon with your gaze to one of the efficient ones and say in a deep voice: “Prokhor, well, you give orders there, then, to be more decent...” And now Prokhor is pushing whatever interlocutor with a suitcase falling out under his arm into the hot room. They seat him opposite you, slightly pressing him onto his shoulders, and bring him on a single platter that they were able to gather in a hurry: cold pig, mushroom pie, crispy sauerkraut, swan strip with stewed onion broth in cream, argent gingerbread with molasses, a strip of watermelon. You yourself, without any hassle, pour distilled wine into a warming glass from a faceted crystal bottle.

“Come on, little guest, confess to us about what wonders, what you saw where, before we met your letterer in the steppe, we stopped, how do you think we’ll live further?”

Here the rest of the meal companions begin to catch up. They are also curious. They also want to spend time with spiritual benefit, while the train on the tracks burns out and those who run away in the snowdrifts are caught in the forest belt, and while the state treasurer is busily crushed with boards and his heels bristle.

So New Year's Eve flies by with leisurely inquiries. One will tell you something, the other will tell you something else. Here you can talk about electricity, and about shipwrecks, and about countesses, and about whatever you want. Some will sing, some will dance.

So somehow my soul is joyful and light from all this. You will listen to the end about the separated children of the American Marquis - Josie and James, you will stand up, wiping your tears, biting your lip, wipe your face on the porch with crushed snow, dusted with soot, and just like that, with red eyes, but a white soul, you will sit in the sledge. “Forgive me, good people! Don’t remember me ill, metropolitan Christians!” Yes, with a boot in the back of the driver - drive, dear, push, I’m paying for everything! While you are leaving the station, you still wave your hand. Who crawls out of the barn on all fours, holding with his hands what God sent, who hangs on the fence in a woman’s fur coat with a damask and glass beads inside out, who is tied to a well gate, sparkling with ice on his head in the dawn blue...

But everyone is happy, they are alive! They’re already trying on other people’s felt boots, showing off their watch or their new muff. Everyone is shaking, of course, but this chill is not fatal. Because life – it overcomes everything and will be reborn from the ashes. “Soon, oh, I’ll be back! Look here with me!” you shout cheerfully. And in response you get a hoarse howl of “yeah, yes, of course!” And the bell ringer in the bell tower shakes the bell with his feet - bom, bom! This is the real New Year. And not when there are tangerines and drunken dwarfs on stilts.

Now, of course, everything is different. Some kind of chemistry. There is no naturalness. We are sitting in an establishment with a monosyllabic name, shaved, tanned, sad people.

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Sometimes some people give strangers all sorts of gifts. Cheerful and crazy people roam the streets, thrust surprises at the timid people they meet, and shout: “Happy New Year!” With new happiness!" Business gas workers usually did this in the area of the Rossiya Hotel until approximately 1987.

And there are people who taciturnly hung up congratulatory newspapers in the entrances of cooperative houses in the area of Usievich Street. These newspapers had photographic montages of rockets and music notes. There were also poems there. Residents of cooperative houses, waiting for the third year for their issue to be resolved and to fly to Vienna, were, of course, very much looking forward to these verses.

So my favorite writer V. Berezin pleased the readers of his magazine with a story about Santa Claus. A huge number of people envy the writer V. Berezin. He alone masters the mysterious art of playing with eyebrows in text. Sometimes I get the feeling that the writer V. Berezin writes his stories to deceased members of the Politburo.

This is how this picture is seen: the writer V. Berezin rolls up the story into a tube and sends it somewhere into the gray wall by pneumatic mail, which sucks up Berezin’s text with some greed and, with a sad smacking, sends it to the crypt, into the mummified hands of the former great rulers sitting in dusty burgundy chairs at platinum tables with buttons and tight toggle switches.

So today I managed to read the following lines in the test of the writer V. Berezin:
—————————-
Behind the counter, under a portrait of Father Frost in an oak frame, a fax machine chirped. The paper crawled along the carpet, folding into strange rings.
—————————-

Many people have amazing qualities. They write about ordinary, completely mundane things (family, digestion, work, neighbors, health, relatives) with such sincerity, with such passion that you want to run away. The impression remains that a person is not typing all this storm of experiences on a computer in a warm and well-fed state, but using Morse code and tapping his burnt head on the sooty steel of the bunker to the hiss of a burning filtration system.

I have many dramatically gifted acquaintances who live in this mode for years, entire families and generations. In the morning we got up, rolling and swinging the pendulum, ran out of our hiding places and immediately a terrible tragedy began. The voices are ringing, the general vibration is such that the grandmother, howling hoarsely, sits on the chest of drawers with two Czech vases in her hands, and the household members are rolling around on the floor, trying to reach their interlocutor’s eyes with their fingers. The question is being resolved: who will have scrambled eggs and who wants an omelet...

I'm jealous. Somehow I can’t do it to the fullest. It is impossible to mix self-esteem and hatred of family. And without this mixture, everything, of course, goes down the drain.

Akiyama (a member of the lower house of the Japanese Diet) was arrested by Tokyo police on suspicion of treason in 1904 and imprisoned. Akiyama publicly revealed the plans of the Japanese general headquarters to recapture “the entire Pacific coast of Russia.” It went on air practically in plain text.

The degree of Japan's readiness for war with Russia is successfully illustrated by the list of Tokyo educational institutions compiled by Akiyama, in which the Russian language was studied in depth.
1. Tokyo Russian Language School.
2. Tokyo Higher School of Foreign Languages. The Russian language department was headed by a former officer of the Russian Navy, Smyslovsky.
3. Academy of the General Staff.
4. Tokyo Law Institute.
5. 1 Tokyo school for boys.
6. 2 Tokyo school for boys.
7. About a dozen religious Orthodox schools.

And this is only in the capital.

Therefore, it is not very surprising that during the siege of Port Arthur, questions about health and good wishes were heard from Japanese trenches and galleries in pure Russian. Usually, after such questions and wishes, after making sure that there were Russian soldiers there, the Japanese released “sulfur smoke” into the tunnels.

What kind of heresy is this, some kind of social capital?! I didn't order anything! And why social capital (my! my! capital!!!) fluctuates in size. Am I wasting this social capital? Is anyone taking advantage of my kindness?

John Shemyakin

Wild master

To Tatyana Nikitichna Tolstoy - with endless gratitude for strict care and stern instructions

...and other animals

Today was a walking day. I went out to the people dear to my heart to traditionally throw boiled meat, biscuits and copper money at them.

He walked along our embankment, with his dog's grandfather Savely and his dog's grandson in tow. Like an old lady on cotton wool, honestly! He carried the dog out of the car, sat him down in the snow and admired the bitterness in the look of the already not very optimistic teenager. The dog was born to Savely and me, upset in advance.

Psaded was not like that in his youth. He constantly smacked the floor with his paws and tail, barked shrilly, ran back and forth like crazy, put things in order, made plans, cheated, dodged, and stole. He stole both just like that and with far-reaching plans.

My murderous cat, at the end of his career, decided to give one last tour. And suddenly he began to harass the rodents carelessly living in the village. Moreover, he acted prudently and predatorily. I carried three rodents every day and laid their unappetizing bodies next to my bedside slippers. And sometimes he put it right in his slippers. It was unpleasant.

It's unpleasant to wake up sometimes. Even strewn with other people's money. It’s unpleasant to see someone in the morning whom you warned in the evening that falling drunk on the bed with shoes on will cause blisters. And waking up with rodent bodies piled in your slippers is also unpleasant.

Rodents also had some kind of life there. Maybe they wove wreaths in the evenings, put them on their heads and thoughtfully, with some distrust, looked at the starry sky, kneading their swollen, tight cheeks with their paws. The rodents made plans and shook off drops of dew on each other. What else are hamster Romeo and Juliets doing there?

And here they lie at my feet, young, not guilty of anything. This throws off my mood for kindness, which I had been doing all the previous evening, angrily turning the dials on my iron heart.

You can't blame a cat for committing atrocities. He is the way he is, the way he was born seventy-three years ago. He appeared in a family of murderous cats, grew up in an atmosphere of violence and, having grown old, did not fall into Tolstoyism. He lived as best he could, ruined, pressed and demanded. Where should I send him? How to improve? What to grind? Don't know.

Therefore, sighing, he praised the cat at breakfast. Presenting him as an example to his household. Look, he said, look at our Pound, at the cheerful veteran. He can’t pick wildflowers for me - he expresses his admiration for me with feasible hamsters. Will I expect anything like this from you, you hateful ones? At least plan something for me, weave it, I don’t know, crumple it or warm it up. I won’t even mention coffee, but respect the locum tenens somehow, learn something...

And I was so tired for almost the entire languid summer.

Until I woke up with the feeling of an unpleasant hamster on my face.

Without opening his eyes, he quickly closed his mouth, trustingly open to the wonders of the night and possible temptations. Continuing to passionately snore with a howl, he put his hand under the pillow and felt for the handle.

I am a person of a modern orientation. It’s hard to surprise me, I’ve been to the city. But a hamster over a beautifully defined lip and someone’s tongue on my high forehead - this combination was new to me then. Now everything is different, of course.

I open my azure eyes - Savely! He looks at me with tenderness, his tongue lolling out, his eyes bulging with devotion, his ears spread out. He copies me in everything. A swindler even in small things.

Here, he hints, would you like to see what kind of dogs can be surprisingly useful, in vain you were swearing about the previous incident with the rug and the shoe, then little things, but, just for fun, ask me, where is our clever Savely, what the He got a tasty treat for the owner and brought it to the second floor, let’s get up already, we’ll bite your hands, jump in every possible way and everything else with bones! A?! Get up! Let's tear up the ball! Tear! And we’ll still tear that one, that one! I'm tight! The nasty one, with a towel! She says such things about you! And she waves the towel scary, scary... vile! We'll tear it all day, huh? A?!

I then scolded Savely. Savely ran away in a terrible suspicion that the world around him was conspiring to torment the smart dog. That cognitive dissonance is not the invention of homeless accommodating friends, not a fantasy, but the real truth of life.

“A state of mental discomfort of an individual caused by a clash in his mind of conflicting ideas,” Savely said to himself impressively, “to put it simply. It was in vain that I stole the hamster from the old spotted schizophrenic, it was necessary, apparently, to drag the oldest idiot to this, who... to this, in short, to drag. This one, who in the morning doesn’t understand a damn thing, should have been taken from my concern for his stinking cat, from our conciliarity, from the strength of unity. Drag the spotted one to the bed so that he doesn’t make a sound by the scruff of his neck, which will wake him up and bark so joyfully. Miracle! Miracle! What an unexpected joy! Phenomenon! This one himself woke up, although yesterday’s return from the gray house with the red roof did not promise that!”

Brought in a bag, Glafira first of all began to trot around to catch my one hundred and twenty-three-year-old Bukharin parrot.

The parrot is going through very difficult times right now. I wittily call his senile antics a midlife crisis.

Previously, the parrot symbolized my main thesis that for a real man, the mind, feelings and social norms are annoying growths on the reproductive system. Fifteen years ago, my feathered aristocrat discovered the healing, supportive powers of alcohol. The romance between the parrot and the blueberry flared up so hotly that I even asked Fedyunin about the address of a clinic for elderly alcoholics with delusions of persecution.

Fedyunin, by the way, was the first to pour vodka into the pineapple juice for the parrot, our stocky seducer, restrainedly replied that we must respect the weaknesses of others and not highlight the shortcomings of others.

We didn’t let the parrot ruin my house; the parrot took control of itself after seeing my edifying pantomime about its possible future. By chance, the then youthful cat Pound saw this pantomime and believed.

A knotted parrot is a nature molded from nerves, pain and suspicion. Therefore, times over the last thirteen years have not been very easy for him. We, those around him, don’t make him happy, the view outside the window doesn’t make him happy, and what makes him happy is locked.

But feathers plucked out of drunken terror do not fly around the premises. And that was the case: he plucked himself bald, the witch. It was scary to watch, and he was still in an idiotic trance, running out to the guests...

And now the British woman Glafira came up to the dog-grandfather Savely, the elder of the feline nationality Pound, the parrot and, apparently, the dog-mouse Mouse.

Which is officially actually Persephone, but I thought that was excessive.

Parrot, Glafira and Savely

When the parrot gets into its senile excitement, scattering pieces of fruit and nuts, Glafira Nikanorovna simply faints in her happiness. Which! Lord, what a guy he is! What a... just... like that!

He starts to run out fussily, pose for a second or two, then runs headlong around the corner to change his image.

Coming out in a new one, not the same again! I didn't put it on! Everything is wrong! Around the corner again!

And there this guy Savely is simply eating something from a bowl. It swipes its tail and even somehow howls over the food.

Go away, hateful one, I’m in a state of excitement, I myself can’t figure out what’s wrong with me! Oh, no mother, you won’t ask what, what to do, how to bend captivatingly, so that that one... So that the one on the closet... He’s like that! He is smart and very... wonderful!

And who am I to him?! Some kind of Nikanorovna...

Having tossed around, Glafira comes out in simple clothes, sheer tenderness and freshness, she timidly steps over, looks at the old idiot on the closet with such, you know, bewilderment. Like, this is my first time here, I lost my ticket, I don’t know what to do... I’ll sit here. Here are my paws. Here they are. Paws. What do you think? Am I disturbing you? No? I’ll still be sitting here then, I just won’t even figure out what to do. I'll catch my breath. As soon as I saw you for the first time, you know, there was something in me...

Here, having gotten drunk, Savely Parmenych bursts in. He's in a mood. He ate his own, and the cat’s too. Let's roar, bra-ta-va! Why is everyone squinting here?! Why are you quiet, I ask?! Why are you big-nosed?! What are you poking at, I say, feathered one?! Come down, let’s talk... He’s sitting there! Sour, I'm watching! I’ll do a square dance for you here now, in a city style, that is, with a twist! I’ll dance for you here in a minute! Yes! Yes! Come here, rat! I’m telling you, striped one... I’ll bite you with my teeth, and you, kind of like mamzel, don’t try to break out too much! I'm longing for a holiday! What a bastard! Me!.. stop! Stop me! Claws in the face! It's a nose!.. Dad! Dad, I came running to you, sorry! What are they doing! Look, look, look! Look, yes, yes, who are you fooling here! These are bastards! You are kind, yes, yes, yes! And divorced! They eat you! I've been wanting to say this for a long time! And the one with the big nose, and this one with the stinking claws! They eat all the time... And they eat me too! They're eating! By the way, I get hungry all the time! He was just silent! Throw a mop at him! I'll take it from the ground. And hold this one by the scruff of the neck, she’s cunning, cunning! Do you see what they have here? Everything went well for them here! Give me the ball! Come on, come on, give me the ball, come on, give me, give me the ball! adore you! I love it, dad, believe me - no?! give me the ball! Throw it! To me! Throw it to me!..

Cover design – Vasily Polovtsev

To Tatyana Nikitichna Tolstoy - with endless gratitude for strict care and stern instructions

...and other animals

Savely

Today was a walking day. I went out to the people dear to my heart to traditionally throw boiled meat, biscuits and copper money at them.

And here they lie at my feet, young, not guilty of anything. This throws off my mood for kindness, which I had been doing all the previous evening, angrily turning the dials on my iron heart.

And I was so tired for almost the entire languid summer.

Until I woke up with the feeling of an unpleasant hamster on my face.

“A state of mental discomfort of an individual caused by a collision in his mind of conflicting ideas,” Savely said to himself impressively, “to put it simply. It was in vain that I stole the hamster from the old spotted schizophrenic, it was necessary, apparently, to drag the oldest idiot to this, who... to this, in short, to drag. This one, who in the morning doesn’t understand a damn thing, should have been taken from my concern for his stinking cat, from our conciliarity, from the strength of unity. Drag the spotted one to the bed so that he doesn’t make a sound by the scruff of his neck, which will wake him up and bark so joyfully. Miracle! Miracle! What an unexpected joy! Phenomenon! This one himself woke up, although yesterday’s return from the gray house with the red roof did not promise that!”

Glafira

Brought in a bag, Glafira first of all began to trot around to catch my one hundred and twenty-three-year-old Bukharin parrot.

The parrot is going through very difficult times right now. I wittily call his senile antics a midlife crisis.

And now the British woman Glafira came up to the dog-grandfather Savely, the elder of the feline nationality Pound, the parrot and, apparently, the dog-mouse Mouse.

Which is officially actually Persephone, but I thought that was excessive.

Parrot, Glafira and Savely

When the parrot gets into its senile excitement, scattering pieces of fruit and nuts, Glafira Nikanorovna simply faints in her happiness. Which! Lord, what a guy he is! What a... just... like that!

He starts to run out fussily, pose for a second or two, then runs headlong around the corner to change his image.

Coming out in a new one, not the same again! I didn't put it on! Everything is wrong! Around the corner again!

And there this guy Savely is simply eating something from a bowl. It swipes its tail and even somehow howls over the food.

And who am I to him?! Some kind of Nikanorovna...

Here, having gotten drunk, Savely Parmenych bursts in. He's in a mood. He ate his own, and the cat’s too. Let's roar, bra-ta-va! Why is everyone squinting here?! Why are you quiet, I ask?! Why are you big-nosed?! What are you poking at, I say, feathered one?! Come down, let’s talk... He’s sitting there! Sour, I'm watching! I’ll do a square dance for you here now, in a city style, that is, with a twist! I’ll dance for you here in a minute! Yes! Yes! Come here, rat! I’m telling you, striped one... I’ll bite you with my teeth, and you, kind of like mamzel, don’t try to break out too much! I'm longing for a holiday! What a bastard! Me!.. stop! Stop me! Claws in the face! It's a nose!.. Dad! Dad, I came running to you, sorry! What are they doing! Look, look, look! Look, yes, yes, who are you fooling here! These are bastards! You are kind, yes, yes, yes! And divorced! They eat you! I've been wanting to say this for a long time! And the one with the big nose, and this one with the stinking claws! They eat all the time... And they eat me too! They're eating! By the way, I get hungry all the time! He was just silent! Throw a mop at him! I'll take it from the ground. And hold this one by the scruff of the neck, she’s cunning, cunning! Do you see what they have here? Everything went well for them here! Give me the ball! Come on, come on, give me the ball, come on, give me, give me the ball! adore you! I love it, dad, do you believe it, no?! give me the ball! Throw it! To me! Throw it to me!..

I go out to barking and howling. I throw the ball. Everything is as it should be. Savely Parmenych gives a tour with a ball, Glafira Nikanorovna is on the table, rearing, but still does not take her eyes off the parrot.

And the parrot, I’m sure, is thinking: “Gott, Herr Kreisleiter! Ist dis fileicht der ort man das concentrationslager bilden ran? ABOUT! ABOUT! Das wetter ist zo schen heiss, aber schen! I-I!”

And the wings to the sides: drum-drum-drum - fockenshaw march!

While the candle is burning

I would really like to see the inventor, manufacturer and seller of a candle with the smell of smoldering oak (as it turned out) logs and smoldering (as it turned out) moss.

Look them straight in the eye.

I woke up in the night to the smell of a fire starting. This is not yet very stormy, but quiet, quickly running between the ceilings with gentle tongues, sliding towards deposits of papers in the office and library, deliciously licking the wiring.

Glafira Nikanorovna did not feel anything, she was tired of success. She slept nearby, with her paws slightly spread out. She threw one paw at me, and a tail, completely tasteless, by the way.

Then the grandfather Savely ran into the bedroom. As always, jubilant and anticipating something good. I don't want to see him at my funeral.

“What the hell, we’re on fire, right?!” yes, dad, yes, yes, yes?! the end of us all?! Atlichnaya!!!"

And the parrot showed signs of unexpected life, it also ran up, raising its gnawed wings. My paranoid guy is still awake, I’ll say so.

The three of us woke up Glafira Nikanorovna, she still did not believe that the holiday was continuing and there would be a photo shoot again.

What to do in such a situation? Savely is jumping at his feet, the parrot has climbed onto the closet and is giving commands from there. Glafira went limp in her arms. And the aroma of a “Madrid fire” fills the bedroom.

Candlesticks, I remember you all! Other culprits have already been punished.

Everyone has gone completely crazy! If you want smells, burn a log and fan yourself with it. No, you have to come up with something that makes you light a candle and dream, smiling, that you have Ivan the Terrible in a torture chamber near a comfortably creaking rack.

What can you achieve with such a scent, what can you expect? Unclear.

We are being destroyed by a society of comprehensive consumption of all obscenities. It started, of course, with strawberry assholes. And then off we went.

I'm waiting for candles with the smell of a running diesel engine, gun lubricant, a trap smeared with wolf fat. I lit everything at once in the corners - beauty, throw off the kirzachi at the bunk, scratch between your toes with a footcloth, everything, finished, at home.

How it all began

How did it all begin before the dog Savely, that is, in 2010?

Not too noticeably for myself, but I turned into the owner of a cheerful menagerie. What worries me.

It was Darrell who was happy and happy in his zoo. Writer Darrell, apparently, was in deep trouble. You could say he drank with both hands. And alcoholics are much more likely than non-drinkers to adore all kinds of animals.

Of course, if I drank like Darrell, I would also rejoice at the addition to the enclosures. I would run out to newborn rhinoceroses, clutching a pregnant rat to my chest. Putano would have explained himself to the baboons, sitting down at sunset next to their leader and hugging him brotherly by the shoulders. I would admire the views while riding a giraffe. Shaking with his naturalness, he would jump in the trees with flying squirrels. I would fight with argali at the feeding trough for a piece of salt. Waving a bottle, he would race with cheetahs. In other words, he would be a real naturalist.

But I am not a naturalist.

I have a cat. His official owner is the housekeeper Tatyana, but this cat lives exclusively with me. It's been eight years now.

The cat is extremely old. If food was made for such elderly cats, it should be called “Whiskas.” Rest in peace with the saints! Food for unction and funeral services.”

This cat used to be very combative. A well-known murderer and sensualist in our suburban Arcadia. He embodied, in other words, all women's aspirations. He was collected and businesslike. Regularly strangled rats.

But the years have taken their toll, let's be honest. Previously, it crushed stones with a jet, but now even the snow doesn’t melt.

The cat greets each new morning with sincere surprise. Eka, he thinks, that’s what it’s like; Well, then we'll live a little longer. He sees poorly, hears poorly, walks with an arthritic gait. Sheds. It stinks. Sometimes she experiences panic attacks on far-fetched pretexts. He sits and sits, and then, jumping up from the overwhelming horror, he begins to fussily hide under the sofa. Senile, what can you say.

I love him. I see my future in it.

There are also two dogs. They are shepherd dogs, live in the yard, and are unbridled. Since I have dogs, it means I also have puppies. My faithful guards give birth to puppies for me regularly, in shifts, in strict order. So I have quite a few puppies. Here it is now. They move around in some kind of indistinct flock, yapping, biting each other’s ears, crawling everywhere, crap exclusively collectively, thoughtfully, forming bizarre compositions.

I have a cow in the distance. The cow is very useful. I've seen her several times. She's beautiful. Our dates with the cow are very reminiscent of Stirlitz’s meeting with his wife. I may not be very similar to Stirlitz, although I try. But a cow and Stirlitz’s wife are simply indistinguishable. Let's wait, be silent, and sigh a little guiltily.

"How are you?" – the cow silently asks me.

“Yes, everything is fine,” I answer. “I’m flying to London,” I say a little upset, “how are you?”

"Oh good! - the cow lies ineptly, like a girl. “Everything is getting better, the mastitis has been cured, I’m sorry that this happened last time...”

I don’t cheat on my cow with other cows. I only drink her milk, especially since her mastitis was cured.

I have a parrot. My former mayor gave it to me. The parrot, it feels like he understands: who he is and who I am. The parrot is silent and perceives its existence in my city apartment as a significant decrease in status. He looks like a surviving Stalinist People's Commissar in Khrushchev's disgrace.

We don't trust each other, in short. Internal party struggle, clash of opinions in the interpretation of “Anti-During”.

At one time my parrot decided to pluck his feathers and walk around naked. Typical Bukharinite. We have overcome this adversity. The parrot could now be shown to guests. And sometimes people would faint when the parrot would jump out of the next room naked to the waist.

Then the wolfhound Savely appeared. They brought it to me, kind of small and swollen.

Senile, paranoid and suspected of childhood alcoholism began to try to live with me, a well-known standard of normality and balance.

Now I have another kitten. The kitten was picked up at the gate. Female kitten. Everyone was very surprised at such female cat vitality. It's minus twenty-five outside. Although, when the kitten was brought in, I wouldn’t have bet three rubles on its safe survival. But it worked out. The kitten is big-faced. Everyone wants to look at him, even the puppies climbed up to be curious - and raked him.

Now, therefore, I will have cats too.

Lord, Lord, protect me from possums.

Training

My dog brings me a gift every morning. My cat.

My parrot is looking at this from the height of the chest of drawers.

When the dog and cat were small, the parrot methodically tormented their young souls with dive attacks. Now the dog and cat have grown up, and the parrot has switched to a cautious way of life: it moves around the premises in zigzags, mad dashes, spends the night in a cage, vigilantly screams in the middle of the night, demonstrating its readiness to resist. The parrot has a chain on its leg, which I snap onto the cage when guests arrive. My parrot doesn't like guests. But he also loves his chain and has difficulty taking it off. So he runs around, rattling his shackles.

The dog brings me a cat in its mouth. The dog’s legs are short, and it’s not possible to gracefully bring his morning prey, especially since the cat doesn’t really help with his transportation to my bedroom. So, sometimes he will help with his hind paws, but to pull him on himself, so that, straining, he can pull a predatory dog along with him - no.

After showing me a gift, the dog expects praise. Here, they say, if you please see, while you were sleeping, I brought you a rare loot, you see, what a curiosity, cat, not everyone is capable of this, I note. I have a dog with self-importance.

The prey is also staring at me and is also waiting for reward for my efforts. An old actor who recently moved from the role of the first hero to the role of a noble old man with torn ears. Twice he realistically portrayed his death: he loves to go to doctors, he is a pseudo-paralytic.

A parrot comes galloping madly to the performance. It’s generally not very clear what it needs, but it absolutely needs to be in my bedroom. He doesn’t really like to fly, but then he makes an effort, sits down at my headboard and climbs into my ear. And he has a beak - he bites through nails, you won’t get much pampering.

You wake up like Robinson Crusoe, the sailor from York. A dog with delusions of grandeur, a convict parrot and a cat - an honored artist. Everyone demands to eat.

They eat different things, of course. But the dog also snacks on cat food, the parrot takes his apples and bananas to the cupboard and improves his nervous system there, and the cat extorts from me tuna, which he is not allowed to eat.

They trained me perfectly. I would also like a turtle, two ferrets and a goat. To be absolutely irrevocable.

Make yourself an interlocutor

In the morning I woke up to the usual caresses of the dog Savely, prowling the floors in search of spicy pleasures (and with his paws it’s very difficult to run around the floors, believe me). I woke up, wiped my slobbery face on the lush feather bed and thought about it.

What is good about my faithful Savely? Everyone.

First of all, put on him red boots and a vest with a shiny star, give him a watch with a chain, twist a pince-nez out of wire, give him a red castor hat - and you will get a wonderful, subtle interlocutor. An intellectual. Don't touch his food, don't show him the scary red duck and turn on the light in the bathroom - that's it! This is the whole rider of Savely the interlocutor! Sit, talk, kiss. If you get tired of talking, open the door and throw the ball. Comfortable.

The ball doesn't always help with people.

A former student of mine came to see me the other day. He invited me to join some kind of intellectual community. Out of melancholy and horror, I was ready to throw a vase out the window, let alone a ball...

That would be great! Vazu is a crap! Ringing! The vase flies out and smashes into pieces on the cart! Each shard is worth five Jewish chervonets! The Venetian window is collapsing! I’m at the broken window - my robe is covered in sauce and completely dismantled, the frill is in complete disarray, a candelabra is in my hand, my sideburns are on the sides, standing on end and smoking! Sparks from the whiskers - perfect meteors across the rooms! The eyes creakingly rotate randomly in different directions!

- Sidor! Egory! Release Mikhail Vasilyevich! We’ll be planting a skubent on a cap in a hole in a minute! Recruit him! To the Persian war! Lampshaded by Count Paskevich! Right there! Let's stick it in, hold it!..

And there Sidor and Yegoriy and his associates are already dragging the bear out of the basement. Already in the distant district presence, the cheerful captain-police officer perked up, obeying his instinct for quick Christian torment...

And the student can only sit petrified with his mouth open. This is not Moscow for you, my dear, here you either eat or die!

And don’t argue with your hospitable host about French love with politics. Never mind, you will serve your twenty-five years and serve five years in the reserves in the fortress, you will return as a brave non-commissioned officer with one leg, with stories, with seventeen wounds and a bullet in your head, which has shrunk from the heat. I will arrange for you, I will not leave you in the weeds to die. You’ll become, for example... well, at least you’ll become a watchman at a melon farm, political scientist. Smoke a pipe in a hut and keep guard, wiping your bald head with a cap. Okay, right?! Don't cry! Take a penny, don’t hesitate to take it at the buffet, at the station... You’ll still succeed!

As you understand, with Savely everything is much simpler. Ball - Savely - ball - Savely - ball... And you can do this for hours.

Secondly, my dog loves when I sing and play musical instruments. At these moments he comes running with something needed in his teeth and listens. He runs back for a second, grabs something else and listens again, resting his head on the chair leg. At these moments he looks like my former father-in-law. This is how we sit in the evenings. A rat made of foam rubber, two orphan balls, a bone made of strong gelatin, esthete Savely, me.

And Haydn, in general, is with us.

Thirdly, Savely cannot stand strangers in the house. He rushes between me and those who came in, barks shrilly: “We’re going to start tearing them to shreds right now!” Okay, okay, yes, yes, yes?! I’m going to bite that disgusting one with those scary white teeth right now! Did you see, dad, did you see how big her teeth are?! Like a moose cow! Let's show her our boat! Well, that one, yes! The scary duck, the one that was then, scary! Not afraid, look! She's grinning again, she's a complete loser! But I’ll still bite her, I love you because I don’t have the strength to adore you, I love you, I love you, I protect you! And you bite that healthy one, in socks, yes, yes, yes! Dad, you go first, right?! Extinguish that one, I’ll tear this one right here, yes, yes, yes! Rip with your teeth!”

That is, Savely at these moments is thinking about the same thing as I am thinking. And such moments of spiritual unity turn us into a family.

Fourthly, Savely has huge ears. And he looks like a drinking fox.

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Wild master Shemyakin. John Shemyakin is a wild master at home. ...and other animals

John Alexandrovich Shemyakin Wild gentleman in a wild field

Life stories

Skis

Komsomol contributions

Past

Romantic

Toys

...and other animals

Savely

Glafira

Parrot, Glafira and Savely

While the candle is burning

How it all began

Training

Make yourself an interlocutor

John Alexandrovich Shemyakin
Wild gentleman in a wild field