Well, what could I say?

Hick town we have, there is no production, an over 90% of the usual marginal. And the painting itself: near the monument to Lenin (No way to change the venue) is patsanchik, as it should be for local vogue in Abibas, shoes, purses and kepochke. In one hand, a bottle of Baltika, another fairly squeezed (or bought on credit for all retired grandmother) shovel. Armpits bouquet of three battered lives gladiola. Probably waiting for the lady of his heart. And then to him gently creeps cow. Hussars silent! Cat with a lamp not wait! Our administration and goats near normal. And silently begins to chew gladioli. Patsanchik amazement drops the shovel, the reflex, and he with all the dope beats bottle between cow horns. The cow, which is naturally not expecting such a turn, rushing at him horns, simultaneously stepping on his shovel. Patsanchik runs across to the other side of the street and starts to shake me by the shoulder: "You see! Well, you see! "And what could I say?

PySy Shovel - phone with a large screen TV. For those who do not understand.





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