The ironic prose

The ironic prose

On the birthday of the grandmother was noisy and fun: in addition to matured grandchildren came also four younger ones. Running in, the children became interested in old books. Among them were even textbooks of the eighties.

Having climbed into the armchairs with his feet, two nine-year-old cousins ​​began to study serious sciences. Masha concentratedly read thick “Physics” for technical schools, Dasha also went deep into the history textbook. It became quiet, almost like in a library. The adults behaved attentively, and the other two little sisters, still very young, frolicked in the next room, from which only muffled sounds were heard.

They gave me lamb. A few pieces. Breast, two legs. Lamb is good, fresh… Pickled kebab (do not use marinade: onion, salt,

pepper, soy sauce at will and pinch of zira – that’s all you need for a lamb shish kebab) was extinguished with vegetables, cooked kharcho. Specially for cherry plum went for Harchi. Obtained an embrace. Real jam. I had to buy Georgian cognac for reliability. He began to clean it all in the refrigerator – and the problems began… It’s no secret that everyone in the fridge has something that it’s a pity to throw out, but there is no desire. Here I have for something is in the fridge three-liter jar with mushrooms, covered with a top “curative” mold. Take them and throw them away, like this three-liter jar of cucumbers.

I’m standing at the bus station of the city of Pereslavl-Zalesskiy. Along the fence lie empty bottles, plastic cups, paper, garbage. I think: to put a garbage can, to throw everything there – work for half an hour. But who needs it? And then there’s the new character of our realities – a thin young man in ragged clothes and scissor-cut pants. There is such a type of agricultural machinery and its surroundings in recent times. Whether a fool, or simply not in yourself… And where is it? Also in the garbage can? “And what – they will say to me – this is Russia! We are such!” And someone else will add contemptuously:

“Rashka…” – and throw an empty pack of cigarettes out of his gig to the road…

And in fact, are we? And in another way, without garbage, without dirt we can not live?!

“Such a beautiful face, I saw such women’s faces only on old engravings and suddenly here…” thought Golovkin. The face was really beautiful – a high, clean forehead, which supposedly accidentally slept blond hair, bright blue eyes, a blush, and not painted, but natural, Golovkin knew how to define. I admired his white skin, as if he had never seen sunlight, a charming hat with a small veil, a neck covered with an ostensibly carelessly tied scarf… He even had time to look at the fingers decorated with expensive rings… The woman smiled at some of her thoughts, her gaze she ran along Golovkin without stopping, and rushed up, a severely outlined profile swam past and Golovkin struggled to suppress the urge to turn around.

The first fiancé of Masha was handsome. Slightly Greek, a little Russian, eyes-olives, clever, erudite, graduated from the acting faculty of the Forestry Institute and worked as a leading trainer for raising personal growth, personal effectiveness and self-esteem. He also dealt with image psychology and communicative warming up, creating someone positive motivation, emotionally rallying collectives and raising the corporate spirit.

Alexei Chizhov was a very right man. When leaving, he extinguished light everywhere, never littered anywhere, trash always sorted, and spent energy-saving lamps passed to specialized organizations for processing and neutralization. By the way, he is the only Russian who knows the addresses of these specialized organizations. Alexei did not swim in the reservoirs in which swimming is forbidden and did not walk on the lawns, never stopped at the shops on roller skates and certainly did not go out at the door, which says “There is no way out.”

In such a huge “Children’s World” Olechka Buneeva has not been. Yes, and my mother, who brought her here, too, so the department of children’s dresses they were looking for a long time. The first to see him from afar was Olechka, and with such enthusiasm she danced in her eyes that her mother even stopped regretting future money spent. “No money can not measure the child’s joy…” – that’s what my mother thought and did not notice that delight suddenly gave way to tears, and joyous laughter – a plaintive whine. The explanation was simple: they met Irina Kandelabris, a friend of Olechka’s children’s kindergarten, also with her mother, and in her arms… And in her hands the happy Irochka Candelabris kept a coat rack with a beautiful pink dress, for the sake of which Olechka and her mother came here. And, what is most terrible, this dress was the last, of which Irochka, of course, Olechka immediately said.

Hemingway was lucky, he lived in his youth in Paris. He was friends with writers and artists, worked in the newspaper, drank bourbon, walked, loved his young wife. Then he wrote that “Paris is a holiday, which is always with you.”

I was more fortunate. I lived in my youth in Mytishchi. He was friends with Gundosym and with Mole, drank beer, traded something, loved Verka. For the sake of Verka I even broke my window, I showed my love. And they then wrote that “while in a state of intoxication, he broke the storefront and stole a cast of Krakowski sausage.”

Hemingway was not in prison. And I was given fifteen days and I fortified the fence around the department for two weeks. Breathed with paint, this thought a lot. Verka did not come to me, she, it turns out, already lived with Gundosym, so I was lucky again. This I then realized when I drank beer on a bench and Gundoso saw with a stroller, and next to Verka with a belly. And also with beer.


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The ironic prose