juzy Rastaman folk tales

Big baby jesusBig baby jesus Regular
edited August 2010 in Spurious Generalities
this was just about my favorite thread on zoklet so I'm reposting it.

Rastaman folk tales: Long rant about Uncle Oinky

So, about Uncle Oinky. I wouldn't say he is a totally stoned jerk, no. Generally, he is a normal guy, nice guy, I would even say, cool guy: from one side. But, people, from the other side... Well, don't you understand? From the other side? He is a fucking jerk, from the other side! Imagine - we smoked up just one joint - and he already got munchies! I had two big loaves of bread and he... just imagine! He took a knife, cut off a five-fingers-wide chunk, cut it in four pieces, and gulped them one by one: yoink! yoink! - and they are all gone. Then this crazy munchkin cuts one more chunk, and quarters it again. Can you withstand such a temptation? I took the knife, cut a five-fingers-wide chunk, cut it in four pieces... yoink! yoink! - and cut one more chunk again. So, in a half of hour we did two big loaves of bread, then wandered around like on ludes. Great party, eh?

So, about Uncle Oinky, it was a great story indeed. Oinky came home with an ounce of some weird weed. His wife wasn't home - probably she went to meet some friend or something... The important thing is - she wasn't home. So he came home, closed all windows tightly and greenhoused a whole reefer all by himself. Then, he raided the fridge, took a huge pot of tomato soup, sat on the rug in front of T.V., turned on Santa Barbara, and started to gobble the soup down absentmindedly.

In a short time, Oinky's mother-in-law came to visit from her small town. The apartment were filled with a smoke like a gas chamber. The old lady got such a big second-hand hit she became high almost instantly. She started to toss around the apartment and accidentally stumbled on Oinky. He's lying bloated like he's drowned a week ago and his mouth is covered with bloody foam. The shit-scared inlaw called the ambulance. They answered: okay, lady, we will be here ASAP.

So, a doctor and a nurse came - but there is still a lot of smoke! And, they, like, became totally high right in the lobby! They are loafing around the coat hanger, giggling, whispering, dropping their bags, picking them up then dropping again... The Oinky's inlaw is confused - what's wrong with them? Paramedics are asking her: "Do you have something to snack? We didn't have a lunch yet." She started to yell: "My son-in-law is dying, and you are talking about a snack!" They replied: "Keep it down! Don't be so scared, we will tinker with your inlaw right now. Could you please make us some snack in meantime? Today we even didn't have a breakfast." She realized that everything is okay, and went to the kitchen.

After some time she checks what happens and see. A-ha! The doctor is already screwing the nurse right on the floor besides breathless Oinky. "What a bastards!" - she thinks - "I toiled myself to make them a lunch and they are behaving like dirty freaks. And I just cooked for them." She had a brain-wave that they are not paramedics at all. She went and called the police: "Dear officer, please come ASAP to arrest some would-be paramedics who poisoned my son-in-law, stolen my daughter and are planning to waste me then rob the apartment!" Cops answered: "Okay, we will be here soon." Then she hid in the bathroom, latched the door and just accidentally stared at the mirror.

In the mirror they are translating Gone with the Wind starring Oinky's mother-in-law as Scarlett O'Hara. She watching the movie and realizing that her life was not a total waste but a lifelong heroic feat. She can defeat those bandits all by herself - crush them like cockroaches and wash them down the potty! She grasped a mop, jumped out of the bathroom, yelling: "BANZA-A-A-A-AI!!!"

But cops are already here. They are staying in the lobby trying to remember why they are here. Because they got some second-hand smoke already at the entryway they are staying in the lobby and trying to remember why they are here. Then, some old hag with a mop atilt pops up from the bathroom. They sobered up a bit, quickly rendered her harmless and went to the kitchen.

In the kitchen there are paramedics drinking tea and giving tender looks to each other. They just finished up the roach of Oinky's reefer and enjoying themselves very-very much. Cops automatically asked them to produce their IDs. The doctor answered: "Which IDs? Don't you see we are paramedics?"

Cops are happy: "Oh! Doctors! Do you have any ketamine?" The doctor answers: "What are you, nuts? They have it only in an emergency room. Paramedics are banned from bearing it for many years." Cops ask: "So do you have anything funny at all?" "We have some NyQuil, just NyQuil." Cops are sighing then asking: "Okay, so you don't have anything at all, even ketamine? If you don't have even ketamine probably you have oxycontin? Just a couple of pills - we are already high, we just want to chase it down a bit." Finally, they settled up a deal: the nurse filled a syringe with NyQuill and injected cops with two millilitres each intravenously.

So, well. Finally, everybody is happy. Except Oinky's mother-in-law. She is looking at all these people thru the door. What can a poor old lady do with all this mafia? Nothing. Even her son-in-law is obviously is their accomplice. She needs to write an appeal to the Prosecutor General, hire a lawyer and start a trial. All these worries exhausted her so much that she collapsed on the couch and gradually started to speak with the Prosecutor General.

Finally, all this stoned company leaves the kitchen to watch T.V. In the living room, they see Oinky's mother-in-law sitting on the couch and deadly seriously talking with the Prosecutor General. Cops ask paramedics - who is this old bitch and why she is here? They answer that they have no idea but it seems like she was here from the very beginning. Cops tell: "Just listen to what she says! She is totally cuckoo bananas!" Doctors answered that they are not shrinks, but it is a definitive case. She is totally nuts. Cops said: "What she is doing here if she is so crazy? It is just not right - such mentally challenged people must be in an institution. Let's call the asylum to take her in. This situation is totally wrong." So, the senior cop sends the junior to call the asylum.

Soon, a psychiatric ambulance arrives: two asylum wardens and a psychiatrist. Junior cop is already taking a nap on the lobby floor below the coat hanger holding the phone receiver in his hand. All other guys are watching T.V. The senior cop is sleeping as well as the old lady. Oinky still is stoned as a pig, the doctor and the nurse are kissing each other, so what? The T.V. shows some pop music clips in meantime.

The asylum team quickly looked around and started to dance silently. Then sing together: "I love pizza, I like bagels, I eat hot dogs with mustard and beer..."

The senior cop woke up and told: "More paramedics? Do you have some ketamine?" Shrinks telling something to him politely. He is losing his temper, he is raising a baton and starts to pressurize them, asking them to produce IDs.

They answer that they left IDs in the car and they can go and bring them. The cop tells that you are not going anywhere, dear friends! We are detaining you for forty eight hours to check your identities. Wardens are bringing him down: "Be realistic, man - there are three of us and you are alone and under an influence." In response to such an impudence, the cop is getting a red face, producing his long, long gun and yelling: "Turn to the wall, you bastards! Put your hands on your heads! Don't even try any funny stuff!"

Suddenly, Oinky, who was forgotten by everybody like he were never exist... So, Oinky who was lying and lying still, at this very moment, when the cop swung his gun, the T.V. was yelling and psychiatrist was almost pooping their pants... At this very moment Oinky farted so loud so even the chandelier started to shake! Everybody in the room got giggles. They laughed for about fifteen minutes and started to feel like they are all brothers. The T.V., very appropriately, switched to some western and everybody is started to watch it.

But Oinky, he is, you know... He is a party crasher indeed. People are having fun, they just started to enjoy the T.V., and he is started to fart. He is farting again and again! It's not only stinking like a barrel of an expired sauerkraut. It also scares everybody that he can shit on the floor. Then what should they do? People from the asylum offered to put him in the bathtub so if he'll do it, it would be easier to clean up the mess. They cops offered to drag him out of the apartment to fresh up the air.

Finally, Oinky's wife came and what she can see? Oinky is lying on the doormat, already slightly shitted up but it feels like he just started to relieve himself.

Of course, she is not excited about that. Just imagine, brothers and sisters, is it exciting if a grown man is lying under the door in his own feces and it stinks so much you need a gas mask? She is looking at her husband and telling herself: "What a bastard! Why I am spending my life with such a moron? My mom were right and I didn't listen her before I married him." With such sad thoughts she is entering the apartment and sees her stoned mom on the couch. And on the rug...

Nevertheless they already felt asleep after some sweaty activities, the sight is impressing. Just imagine on the rag there are four medics, two cops and a nurse tightly interlaced with each other. What a Doomsday view...

The Oinky's wife were watching this orgy for about two minutes then took the mop and swept away all these stoned jerks from her apartment. She is doing it so professionally and emotionless, almost without dropping swear words. Only she can do it like that! Like it is a regular light cleaning. As the first thing, she opens all windows and all the smoke flies out to the atmosphere. Right after that, she throws out off the window the used syringe, doctor's bag, female panties, two cops' hats and a long, long gun. But nobody is picking up all this junk. Because the uninvited guests got into their cars ASAP and drove away faster than a tornado. They all we very ashamed of themselves.

Original Russian text: (c) HighDuke


English translation: (c) juzy



  • Big baby jesusBig baby jesus Regular
    edited August 2010
    Rastaman folk tales: Holistory

    So, once Jah decided to create the world of earthcraft - just for phun. He's been poopsocking for three days and created almost everything... but something still was missing. He started to think: what's missing? Then, an internal voice tols Him: "Ganja! There is no ganja in your world, man!" Jah looked around and realized that it is true. Everything already looks alright, but a ganja ain't growing - like in Soviet Russia.

    So He created a ganja. Then, he sat, puffed up a bit, looked around again and thought: "Oh my god! What a square world I just created. I need to pimp it up a bit and create something groovy. This world needs something really funny. Because now it is so-o boring, like TV." So Jah created a rastaman.

    Jah created him and told: "Look, dude. Everything is just for you: here is the sun, here is the beach, here is a fresh produce, and here is the ganja. It is a paradise, man. Live up and enjoy yourself." The rastaman smoked some ganja and told: "It would be funny to listen some tunes now."

    Okay. Jah created him a boombox and three thousands and fifteen cassettes for it. He told: "Look here, man. Sun, beach, fresh produce, potted meat, truckload of beer, ten-feet-high ganja, Bob Marley on the boombox - rastaman vibration, yeah, positive! Live up and enjoy yourself." The rastaman listened up the cassette and told: "It would be funny to play guitar now."

    Okay. Jah created a guitar for him and told: "It looks like everything is alright now: sun, fresh air, beach, barbeque, fresh produce and even ganja. By the way, the ganja is a good one - not some Indiana ditch or crappy indica. Live up and enjoy yourself." The rastaman played guitar and told: "Umm, how about a girl? With a woman it will be a paradise, indeed."

    Okay. Jah created him a chick. Really hot one. Then, He told: "OK, guys, here is your paradise. Live up and enjoy yourselves. In meantime, I'll go to Amsterdam for a vacation. I am so tired to create everything for you here." Then he left.

    So, the rastaman and the girl are enjoying themselves in paradise, smoking ganja, singing songs, playing guitar and making love on the lawn. It is a heavenly life, indeed. Food is plentiful, no need to go to work, fresh ganja year-round, no cops to can'em, no gangs to rob'em, no parents to bug'em. It is how they lived in the paradise.

    The serpent crawled by. Skinny, pale, dot-eyed, skinhead... all his body is one big vein with needle scars all over. Rastamans greeted him: "Hey, snake! Crawl here, let's smoke some ganja." The serpent replied: "Thanks, people. Really, thanks, but it is so pass? to smoke ganja. It's not a real fun. Like, just to relax, to chat, to enjoy some music... Guys, you call in funny? Funny - it is when BLIP! and your soul is flying high immediately... and flying and flying in warm endlessness... That's what I call "groovy"!"

    Rastamans asked: "But where we can get such a stuff?" The cunning serpent pointed on a flower-bed: "Here it is, it grows right here. Look at those stems with green heads. They have a white juice inside. Let's cook some brown from it and put it down our veins. Then, you'll see what a REAL groove is.

    The rastaman told: "Wow, cool! Let's do that." But the girl warned him: "Wait a sec. It is bloody poppies. Remember, Jah warned us about them: "Look, guys, these are bloody poppies. Do not eat, drink or smoke them, do not make brown from themt, otherwise you'll become hooked up on it, become junkies and waste your life." The serpent answered: "I think this guy is bullshitting you. Nobody becomes a junkie from the first try. I used it up for three years before became hooked up. It's not a big deal, though. Later, I broke my dependency and didn't become a junkie. Because if you use it properly it is not really harmful.

    The girl asked: "Why you are saying it is not harmful, if Jah told it is otherwise?" The serpent replied: "He has no idea about it. He even never tried it himself, how could he know? Try it, and you will know about it even more than he does." Finally, the serpent persuaded rastamans to slam some brown. He slammed four points himself and called his junkie friends to join the party. Sure they came, for such a give-away.

    The paradise eventually became a crackhouse. They cure super flu in the morning; chase it up at night... all day they are sitting, staring at the wallpaper, scratching themselves, looking at their shoes... What a fucking mess! They are not even truly enjoying it - well, it is funny some way, but where is the promised "groove"? The serpent told them: "You didn't dig it yet, guys. When you dig it up, you'll enjoy it."

    So, rastamans are started to dig the brown. Half-point, then a whole point, then, after two weeks - even four points! They wanted to have an endless fun - but they didn't get it. They used up all poppies in the paradise, and the serpent offered to exchange all their ganja for some brown. It doesn't work on you already, anyways - let's swap it for the brown.

    So, they exchanged all ganja for the brown. Then, they exchanged all fruits and vegetables, pawned the boombox and the guitar, even their own clothes and bead jewelry. Finally, Jah returned from the vacation - and what He sees? The paradise is fucked up, used needles and piles of feces are everywhere, Hell's Angels are hanging around... what's next? DEA raid? Some guys are even chopping down the trees. Jah approached the lumberjacks: "Why are you cutting the trees?" They answered: "Get lost, capice? We bought those trees at bargain: a log for a point."

    Jah called the rastaman and the girl. They came: dirty, naked, skinhead, all skin and bones, hands are covered with needle scars. They came and stand before Him, scratching themselves. Jah asked: "Why are you naked?" Rastamans answered: "Because it is so hot outside." Jah asked again: "Are you into brown?" The rastaman answered: "This bloody serpent tricked us into it. Now we are all hooked up and we can't quit." Jah called the serpent - but he already skipped away somewhere, where more poppies are growing. Because he realized that here he won't get anything more. Except grievous bodily harm.

    At this point, Jah get really mad. He stood up in all of His magnitude, His head reaching the sky and roared: "EVERYBODY, GET FUCK OUT OF HERE!" And all squares disappeared from the paradise at once. Only rastamans left. They are standing naked before Him, shivering with cold - because they already have a super flu and there is no brown left. Jah grabbed them into His hand and moulded them together as a piece of clay. Then, He shaped them again, brand new. He bought them some second-hand clothes, they made themselves bead jewelry, planted ganja again - and started a new, better life in the paradise. Remember, Jah did not banish them from the paradise, neither their children nor grandchildren. We are still living in the paradise, but not always digging it. But when we finally dig it - oh, boy.

    Original Russian text: (c) HighDuke


    English translation: (c) juzy

  • Big baby jesusBig baby jesus Regular
    edited August 2010
    Rastaman folk tales: Wise poet Burlaka

    There is a poet named Burlaka. His poems are Pulitzer-eligible and he's a village lunatic, too. Once I bought a triple cheeseburger for a buck and proudly walked down a street with this bargain. Burlaka was just released again from an asylum. He met me and asked: "My friend HighDuke, can I bum a bite?" So he did, then told: "Let me tell you a story".

    Can you see this sky above us? It is not the end of Universe. Over this plain vanilla sky there is a lucid sky with diamonds called stars. Over this lucid sky there is a sky of precious smoke, where Jah is chilling out high. Over the sky of precious smoke there is a cold and scary sky of noble lunatics, full of Special K. Over the sky of noble lunatics there is a Skywide Net - if you are into it, it got you indeed. Over the Skywide Net there is only empty space where ethereal birds made of emptiness are flying. Those birds flying and flying and flying, singing their songs, enjoying themselves and each other in many funny ways. Because there is a lot of those birds, at least one egg laid down the emptiness every day.

    It's falling thru the Skywide Net without a lag; it's falling thru the sky of noble lunatics without chilling out; it's falling thru the sky of precious smoke without stoning. It's falling down so straight-edge, man! After the lucid sky it's approaching our atmosphere warming and warming and warming up against it... and, just before it hits the Earth, the nestling hatches on the fly! It hatches and flies up immediately, flies thru all heavens in their order and returns to the emptiness where it belongs. Dig it, man?

    "Nice one," - I said, "but it seems to be missing something." Burlaka replied: "When I told this story to another people they told me that it has one weak spot. What those birds are eating? I'll tell you the secret - they are feeding on our daydreams and hopes..."

    Original Russian text: (c) HighDuke


    English translation: (c) juzy

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  • Big baby jesusBig baby jesus Regular
    edited August 2010
    Rastaman folk tales: About Regular MPD

    So, there is a quirk - Regular MPD (Regular Multiple Personality Disorder). Well, let me tell you about Bill the Programmer, a young man with six-digit salary plus benefits. Anybody else would live in suburbia with this kind of income, but Bill even doesn't have a computer in his apartment, only a laptop. He doesn't have any furniture as well, only cardboard boxes and a couch from a dumpster. He doesn't have a landline or T.V., only an antique fridge courtesy of the landlord. It is because of that thing: Regular MPD.

    On the other hand, he has a huge safe built-in into the wall and disguised under the wallpaper - even cops with a metal detector won't find it! Somebody else would convert it into a grow box, but Bill is quirky indeed. Look, every Friday he opens the safe and put there all his possessions. Laptop, cell phone, flash drive, wallet, CDs, good clothes, even dishes and flatware - he puts everything into the safe and locks it with a combination lock. It is okay, he knows what he does. If on Friday he won't hide it away, he will lose everything until Monday. Because on weekends he is a totally different person. On weekends he is Jerry the Sailor.

    Jerry the Sailor always wakes up with hangover. No matter if he drank or not yesterday, in the morning he's sick and needs to buy a cure. He starts to rummage about his pockets, finds there a Jackson, which Bill left him yesterday and realizes immediately that the life is good.

    He runs to the closest corner store and stocks up with a cheap booze. Next to the store, there are his friends, which also living a sailor's life. Ahead of them is a merry sea, behind them a fair wind... at night there is a storm turning to a hurricane! Sunday morning, all their team wakes up in Jerry's apartment, by common efforts finds another Jackson which farsighted Bill tucked away in another place - and ahoy, mates! Let's sail again.

    On the Monday, Bill the Programmer wakes up and all sailors sleeping over from Sunday are kicked away. It takes maximum fifteen minutes - Bill used to be a bouncer once. Then, he opens the safe, takes a reefer, cures the hangover, shaves, showers and goes to work. At his work, nobody knows that he is Jerry the Sailor. They are truly respecting and appreciating him and even the fact he never goes to coworkers' parties gives him a credit. They consider him a respectable although reserved man.

    So, Bill is programming all week, but every Saturday he becomes Jerry the Sailor again. I wouldn't say he's really concerned about it - he's already used to it and understood his internal program. Well, this life program is not that scary: imagine if he would be Jerry the Butt Pirate! But he's not a butt pirate, he's a sailor, straightly he is - and this role doesn't really create much problems. By the highest standards, it creates only two problems, which even many normal, non-schizo people have. So, here are his problems, first and second.

    The first problem is with girlfriends. However hard you try to convince them that on Saturday you'll become Jerry the Sailor, they won't believe it and try to stay on the weekend. On Saturday, they are getting enough impressions for the rest of their life. Of course, they dump him immediately, telling they just realized who he really is. Now it is already impossible to make her change her mind because she already decided everything for herself.

    Of course, Bill can use Jerry's girlfriends... After all, they are not running away on Mondays, it's even hard to get rid of them - they are so pesky, so talkative and always ready to screw. But you have to be really drunk to degrade yourself that much. Even Jerry can't handle them in the morning - he's kicking them away, holding the puke. By the way, he treats Bill's girlfriends much better, even almost without swearing. But it only until the first can of beer.

    So, it is the first problem. The second problem is understandable, but not for everybody. Some guys, for example, have to shave only once a week - they won't understand it. Bill is a kind of guy that if he won't shave for just two days - on the third morning, his bristle will become a bunch of steel wires, like on a stale corpse. It needs to be scraped away tearfully, repeating "Shit! Motherfucker!" and other words like that all the time. Jerry doesn't have time to shave; he's living up large, so poor Bill has to suffer for him.

    One Monday, Bill told himself: "Why the fuck I need to shave, after all?" "Let's the beard grow." - Bill decided, stopped to shave and he got one less problem.

    Jerry the Sailor realized that only after a half of year, when his buddies nicknamed him Cunt-face. Then, Jerry set up his bristles and told them: "No way! This is My Beard. If anybody doesn't like it, he can kiss my butt right now." Buddies answered: "Look at this jerk! Go and fuck yourself!" Finally, Jerry stopped to frequent this corner store and went to the decent liquor store across the street.

    There are no sailors hanging around the store, this place is mostly for captains or at least stripers and those guys are usually beardy. Jerry the Sailor befriended with them, became a part of their team and embraced their lifestyle. He stopped to get wasted as much as before and switched from cheap plonk to good old rum - some day he even drinks just a six-pack of beer, and it is enough for him.

    Bill the Programmer felt this change almost immediately: waking up after a weekend became much easier and even somewhat pleasant. Then, the summer came, and Bill's life started to give him different surprises. Once, he wakes up at someone's cottage, camping in the woods, on a fishing trip, in the countryside motel... once even on yacht amid the ocean! Captains are not pining in the city at summer and Jerry the Sailor is striving after them. This way, Bill even expanded his network. And, once he found in his bed -

    - well, one Monday he woke up and found a Totally Decent Girl beside him! He told her: "Hello, lady. Let me introduce myself, my name is Bill the Programmer." She told him: "Well, let's become acquainted; I guess - now it's more than okay. My name is Beverley the Undergrad." He asked her: "How you, Beverley the Undergrad, could even met Jerry the Sailor?" She answered: "I don't fucking know, dear Bill. I don't remember what I do on weekends, because on weekends I am Bonnie the Waitress. It is a mental disorder called Regular MPD."

    Thus, good people found each other. Four people settled together in one bachelor apartment: Bill with Beverley and Jerry with Bonnie. They bought some furniture and a T.V., got a cat and even started to think about procreation, but Bonnie the Waitress screwed everything up. She was a really jealous psycho bitch - she was suspecting Jerry of cheating with everything female; and Beverley the Undergrad, as if on purpose, sometimes leaves her panties in the dryer, sometimes - her lipstick at the mirror and sometimes she even uses Bonnie's tampons: what kind of woman could even tolerate that? So, now every Jerry the Sailor's Saturday starts not with pleasant hangover cure, but with an ugly quarrel with ridiculous accusations, yells, tears, hysterics and all this kind of family values. After that they, of course, always made it up and fuck hard, but Bonnie got one more stupid idea. She told: "The beard makes you old, you look like a grandpa - so, if you love me, shave it off!" Loud disputes on this issue took away all their Sundays, too.

    Finally, what must've happen - happened. When Bonnie started it about the beard again, Jerry the Sailor banged his fist on the table and told: "Shut up your big yap! I don't fucking love you anymore, I even loathe you. Pick up your bloody stuff and git the fuck out of my property!"

    Bonnie looked at him, shrugged and started to pack. Jerry looked at her, came to the washroom and shaved off his beard. As soon he saw himself without a beard - he realized that in fact he is not Jerry the Sailor. And he is not Bill the Programmer. And he is neither Beverley the Undergrad nor Bonnie the Waitress. As the matter of truth he is Bob the Pothead which puffed up his reefer fifteen minutes ago, exhaled, coughed off and started to think about the life.

    Yes, guys, sometimes this kind of weird stuff happens. Bob the Pothead started to dream about getting a degree in the Computer Science, and didn't even notice when an Regular MPD carried him away, turned over seventeen times then carried back. Bob smiled and thought: "Wow!" He tried to imagine himself with a beard, realized how funny it would be - and again - the weed carried him away and started to turn around in such a weird ways that it would be enough material for ten hardcover novels if it would be even possible to write it on paper. Or to remember at least some part of it.

    Original Russian text: (c) HighDuke


    English translation: (c) juzy

  • Big baby jesusBig baby jesus Regular
    edited August 2010
    Rastaman folk tales: Sleeping hippies museum (first hippie story)

    Imagine a scary shelter-like place. It is an abandoned trailer, half burned, half squatted by freaks.

    One September, four freaks had an afternoon tea there. Two more hippies came and asked: "Isn't it 4:20 now?" Four freaks replied: "No way, guys, we already had enough... Do it in the kitchen, if you please." So those two came to the kitchen and started to smoke a fatty. After three tokes they realized that the stuff is too strong to finish it up now and hid the roach behind the sink.

    So... After that they went to drink a tea with the rest. They went and went for a while, finally tired and passed out.

    They woke up in fifty years. Everything is okay around - anarchy, free love and full legalize. The old trailer is covered with a glass dome. Hippies woke up, went outside for a whiz... hitted themselves against the dome and thought almost simultaneously: "Wow! If we're had some mind - we'd lose it..."

    Some other freak approaches them: "Sorry, guys, it's a hard Monday for you. The museum is closed, please come tomorrow." Hippies reply: "Don't bullshit us, man! We are staying here since yesterday. What the fucking museum you are talking about?" Freak answers: "Nobody is "staying" here for already a half of century. It is a freaking museum, an architectural monument of the end of the last century." They meditated on a bit on these words and asked: "Is there please any washroom here because we need to whiz fucking ASAP?"

    "Okay, let's go" - he replied.

    As he leads them to the washroom they can see ten-feet plants with fist-sized buds around. Wow, what kind of weed is that? Indica, probably...

    It would be nice to snitch just one bud, eh? The freak noticed their hungry looks and asked: "Wanna smoke some? You look so frustrated... Are you from Soviet Russia?" "No, we are locals, but still want to get high" - they replied.

    He produced a reefer and charged each of them just once. He didn't get a chance to repeat as he tried - guys are already stoned as a wall! "You are from Soviet Russia indeed, funny guys. This ditch is good only for making brownies" - he shrugged and finished up the reefer like a regular Camel.

    Then they started to play Cheech and Chong, or, I would say, to make Beavis and Butthead of themselves. The freak was making fun of them however envying such a good trip. Finally, they arrived to the guardroom - the guy is working as a guard here. There is a psycho chick - skinny, pale, tomato-eyed... next queen of Cannabis Cup beauty pageant, eh? She says: "Wow, guys, you are so funny! You look like... you know like whom? Like those two hippies which are on exhibit in our museum. They are sleeping for already fifty years in anabiosis and nobody knows why. If you want, we can go and look at them.

    "Okay, lets go - it must be funny." And everybody went to watch sleeping hippies.

    No way, dude! There ain't no sleeping hippies there. The guard almost pooped his pants: "What the fuck? They were here this morning!" Then everybody realized: hippies are woke up!

    They are here!

    To celebrate this occasion, they smoked a big blunt and went to have some tea. During the tea they had an impromptu interview, and decided that it would be nice to make some brownies (just to make the waking-up celebration truly unforgettable) and not to tell the management about the incident because egghead scientists would run there as flies on shit and inevitably ruin all the groove. The guard calls some friends, they came with a bag of brownies mix - so lets cook!

    By the evening, everybody here is slobbering like drown sailors. Fifteen grooviest freaks - comparing to them our hippies are almost square! Suddenly, our two guys are started to realize that they are already sobering up and there is no more weed left... So they went to the kitchen and checked behind the sink. Here it is, their old roach! Two puffs - and they passed out. For another fifty years.

    Original Russian text: (c) HighDuke


    English translation: (c) juzy

  • Big baby jesusBig baby jesus Regular
    edited August 2010
    Rastaman folk tales: About a weightlifter

    Why am I always talking about junkies? I have a story about weightlifters... So, here is a weightlifting story.

    So, here is a weightlifting story. Imagine a surly burly weightlifter at home - flushing porkchops with beer, listening to country hits then watching some martial arts DVDs. He is a weightlifter indeed - his face won't fit any non-custom motorcycle helmet and his butt would break a chopper. But the poor guy is frustrated - the life is sucks! It sucks indeed. He wants to lift some weight - he is a weightlifter, after all - no way, dude, he doesn't have any. It's not a season, man - all sport dealers are out of stock.

    So, our weightlifter takes off the couch - and goes to the sportmen's coffee shop. This place is full of frustrated athletes - some of them didn't smell any weight for a whole week! But dealers should bring some tonight - a good one! Six guys wasted themselves yesterday trying to lift one darn thing. It's so dear, too... and they really doubt they can afford it.

    Look at all those sportsmen! Swimmers are breaststroking out of the pool. Let's bum some money from them? Alas! They won't understand - they have ears full of stuff. Some of them are swimming already for a whole fortnight - how those fat cats could even afford it? How? It's easy, man - real swimmer must have friends who always would share at least a couple of dive-ins. Visit one, visit second one... look, you are already swimming high!

    Next to them, there are race-drivers meeting. They are always talking about fuels and its volumes. When I met one of them and asked to club together with us to buy a weight because we are short of cash he refused: "I am not interested anymore in this prolly entertainment. It sounds just crazy - to lift weights. If I'd have some money..." Of course, if he would have some money, he would buy some fuel with matching hardware or, at least, few spare wheels. It is all because he doesn't dig weights at all.

    Alongside, my friend runner ran by - we weren't even able to catch up with him. He is running a marathon named after the Thirteenth Amendment. Other marathoners are flashed by without even saying hello. And nobody of them has any weight. And we have money maximum for two smallest weights...

    Suddenly, from behind the corner, our good friend Nick Schwarzenegger appears - it is his sport's nick name so nobody would not suspect anything. His step is heavy, his eyes are red and his smile tells it all. And he rolls a whole huge wheelbarrow of weights! "So, guys" - he tells us - "today we gonna have a party: my Jamaican uncle sent me a parcel. Then, all weightlifters' faces are blossoming, and they go to the nearest park. They put weights on the bar tightly to make sure they won't fall away, and start taking turns lifting it. Two turns - feel so good! All of a sudden, cops appeared. They are shouting: "Hey, damn weightlifters, finally, we got you!..."

    What's next? Weightlifters beat all shit out of those pigs to ensure they won't disturb their cultured pastime. We are sportsmen, not damn junkies after all! Nobody can deprive us of our rights!

    Original Russian text: (c) HighDuke


    English translation: (c) juzy

  • Big baby jesusBig baby jesus Regular
    edited August 2010
    Rastaman folk tales: How old rastaman hitch-hiked to Africa

    Here is one more story about old rastaman from Ukraine. He was already tired of pothead life, married, spawned some brats, landed a white-collar job, started to enjoy TV and so on... It is a spring again, he's vegetating at a couch, browsing thru a newspaper and frustrating on what's wrong in his life. The wife approached, pulled out the paper and told: "Hey you, lazy butt! I'm working hard all day running this household and you are doing nothing?" He replied: "Honey, keep it calm, okay? I do have a job and providing you money. Don't I have a right to rest?" The wife yelled back: "You consider yourself a local hero just for having a damn job? We both know you are doing nothing but slacking there or even partying with coworkers during business hours instead... And after that you are coming home just to lay around as a bag of shit? No way! Take a bag and go buy some bread!" So he takes his old canvas bag, wears Birkenstocks and, sighing heavily, heads to a nearest corner-store.

    It is already a spring indeed, almost a summer - warm and funny, it feels just happy! The rastaman entered the store, bought some bread, counted the change... Alas! It's not enough money left to hit the bar. Ain't the life is shit, man? The life will fade away as a mirage and you can't even afford a beer? At this time, a girl approaching him and asking: "We're so solly, we're hitchhiking from coast to coast" and so on... He's listening her and thinking: "I've heard it somewhere, maybe in some old movie... Which one?" The girl is coming to conclusion: "Can you spare a buck, man?" And he is asking, just automatically: "Irie, sister! Where are you from?"

    The girl answers: "My name is Kaya. I'm from Jamaica." The rastaman thinks: "Jamaica... Kaya... I think I heard these words somewhere..." She tells: "Of course! You are an old Rasta, man! You didn't grow your own for already five years! Buying stuff from greasy-hand dealers! Smoking discreetly in washrooms! Washing it down with vodka! Polishing it up with NyQuil! Isn't it a shame?"

    The rastaman looked at himself - yes, it is a shame. It's so embarrassing to live like a pig in a pen. The tells the girl: "Well, you see... Wife, kids, job, mortgage... I'm surrounded! What can I do?" The girl answers: "Go to Africa! Today Jah opened you a green corridor - and until you are going, you will pass all obstacles. When you stop - you'll lose." The rastaman asks her: "Will you go with me?" She replies: "Only to Amsterdam; I have tons of people like you, I have to gather all of them home before the summer is over."

    So they go to the nearest highway exit and in five minutes stopped a truck going to Kiev. The trucker is so happy to see them: "Wow! Hippies are hitting the road - the summer is started indeed!" He stops at the first truck stop, buys each of them a steak and a bottle of sherry and, singing and partying on the way, they are approaching Kiev.

    In the Kiev, there is a mess. Some Al-Qaeda posers took over the parliament building, arrested senators, and demand: "Legalize it, don't criticize it and give us a huge bag of weed each, otherwise we'll shoot every second hostage." The people of Ukraine surrounded the building shouting: "Dear friends, please shoot all those biatches ASAP - and we will give all legalize you want!" The Al-Qaeda posers are in shock - they didn't want to actually hurt anybody, just to make a statement. They even do not have enough ammo for all senators, probably just for five or so, considering they won't miss. But the people are angry, they want some blood - it is a new revolution, man! Local rastamans and other freaks are partying around, they are staring what gonna happen - it's funny! Scared cops are running in circles, burly gangsters are staying away from it because they don't understand what happens. All stores sell LSD packed by kilos two bucks a pack. And nobody is buying it, because everybody already had enough.

    So the time is passes, and the night is coming. All hippies went back to their squats, burly gangsters to the night clubs, drunken cops to their police stations, national guards are drinking vodka behind the corner... and Al-Qaeda posers decided to escape before it's too late. Only senators are sitting wasted since the early morning and entertaining themselves voting on some weird bills. Well, well, everybody is already chosen their poison!

    Okay with those senators... Our rastaman and the girl already sneaked up to the train slowly going to Berdichev. The wheels are clanking; the wind is whistling... the night Ukraine is flying past - lanterns, lights, groves, dark fields full of crops. So they arrive to Ternopol and everything is quiet there, as usually. Poppies didn't ripe yet, the meth considered so passe for the last two years. What a nice place! The spring is came so local scene kids making their first outings - all in appropriate uniforms... hippies wore their bead jewelry, punks combed up their Mohawk dos, and rastamans are already tomato-eyed. A black limo drives up to our heroes; some preppie gets out of it and asks: "Young man, do you smoke marijuana, by the chance?" The rastaman replies: "What can I say? Sure I do." The preppie gets a huge bag of pot from the glove compartment and tells: "Here it is. Take it and say no thanks." Then he rides away.

    "Holy shit!" - the rastaman thinks, following the limo with a look. Two cops approached him and told: "What it is? In your hands?" the rastaman pondered over it and responded: "Marijuana, probably." Then, cops warned: "Listen up, wise guy. Don't even try to do funny stuff; we are tough here on it! If by tomorrow even a dime bag will be left - we swear to put your and your chick's sorry asses in the can and charge for possessing, hint, hint! He tried to offer them some pot, but they politely refused, because they are on duty, you know. And they went away, wiggling their batons.

    So rastaman and the girl brought the whole bag to the scene. They stoned up themselves, all scene kids, even local rednecks which were passing by, curious schoolgirls and old people - just everybody around! Then, a jam-session started, just like in Amsterdam... Local musicians brought their instruments and started to play something so psychedelic you will be stoned just after listening it for few minutes. Everybody is stoned like a hell - some trying to dance, some are staring at store windows, some just sitting and giggling to themselves on how high they are. Even rough cops are joined the wave - they are walking in circles in time with the music and smiling like they mean it. Suddenly the girl tells to the rastaman: "Okay, let's smoke one more reefer, go to the nearest skyway exit and hitchhike a direct flight to Amsterdam. Because I feel if we stay here little longer, we will stop here forever.

    Okay. They puffed down one more reefer and went to the skyway. It's so scary and cold there and airplanes don't pick them up at all. All pilots show them a finger and some even flying by pretending they don't see the hitchhikers - their planes have PASSENGERS NOT ALLOWED sign written on the door. And here a flock of white minivans just flies by, and one of them finally stops. The driver asks: "Where are you going?" Rastaman answers: "Actually, we need to go to Amsterdam." The driver replies: "Wow, it is cool! You are flying to Amsterdam, and we are just being downloaded thru the Internet to Crimea." The rastaman tells: "It's okay. We can go to Crimea first as this is the sign the Fortune gives to us. He asks the girl if she wants to go to Crimea. She is standing on the cloud with a frozen blue skin chattering her teeth, already unable to speak, so just nods assertively. Therefore, they board the white minivan and fly to Crimea.

    And on the ditch fields of Crimea traveling hippies are already making brownies. Because they are coming here thru Zaporozhye where on the train station such a good ditch grows between tracks that it would be a shame to do not harvest those gifts of Jah. Everyday somebody arrives with a full backpack of this stuff. There are also some Germans arrived with a humanitarian mission, they are cooking charitable soup for flower childs and giving away free condensed milk and Christian books for personal hygiene. There are also local cops are on strike. They stopped to enforce anti-drug laws because they didn't get their salaries for already three months. All gangsters went away to the mountains to fight with native people. So, everything is cool. Even Paul McCartney when heard about this paradise decided to come to Koktebel to join the groove. Like a regular hippie, he wanders around, parties and plays his guitar about some girl named Michelle. Local chavs approached him and demanded to play something from Sex Pistols. And Sir Paul, sighing heavily, painted his KISS-style face with a chalk and started to flog the strings and yell the "Anarchy in the UK". Chavs were filled with such a respect that they not only called him a cool punk but even tipped him with a can of imported beer.

    At this time the Crimean peninsula slowly tears apart from Ukrainian mainland and drifts to the Turkish coast. It is a big international incident indeed - ruskis accusing ukes, ukes - ruskis, yankees - both of them. Smart Romanians sent some tugboats to quietly pull the Crimea closer to their coast, but Bulgarians are exposed this dirty conspiracy and asking to share this new found land, threatening to blackmail them otherwise. And only Turks are snickering quietly like they don't care at all. It is drifting - let it drift! After all, it is drifting to us, not from us.

    So Turks sat on their seacoast puffing up local hash and watching how Crimea slowly comes up. Suddenly they saw some freaks on Crimea's coast - naked, dirty, long-haired, stoned, potty-mouthed, singing indecent songs and hungrily watching the Turkish coast considering where to steal some food or whatever. Then all Turks begged: "Allah the Great! Please save us from those locusts!" They are taking long sticks and pushing Crimea away! At this time, Ukrainian navy arrived and started to tow the peninsula back. The Crimea resists gripping up with all arms and legs and cries: "I want to Africa!" "Suck some bong instead of Africa!" - navy finally brought it back.

    Oh, yes. So, the rastaman and the girl. Well, they gathered in Crimea whole bunch of die-hard rastamans, hitchhiked all together a Dutch cargo ship and are sailing to Amsterdam. The ship is full of Rizla, it passes around all customs and ports as a jet-powered flying Dutchman. The sailors rolling and smoking their joints fast as well. The wing is whistling, the waves are rustling, the seagulls are just flashing and disappearing - so fast she goes! Finally, they arrive to Amsterdam. It is the end of the universe. Literally. From the dawn till the dusk you'll be so stoned you'll forget who you are and where are you from. About hundred of Rasta people gathered on Damrak and started to party. They party and party and party and finally realized that it is snowing already. Is it a winter or what? They felt immediately so cold and scared that they just remembered funny and hot Africa. They raised some funds to sent a telegram to Ras Tafari himself begging to bring them to Africa, finished up last roaches and passed away.

    They see a dream - they are already in Africa! It is so big and boundless. There is a huge and stout cloud above it. Jah himself is flying high on this cloud. Around him, bananas are growing, monkeys are frolicking, black people with tomato-eyes are sitting and playing some lazy music and socializing quietly and respectfully. Jah tells to Rasta people: "Why the heck did you do that? You reached the Amsterdam and decided you can finally stop? Now go back and wait for the next spring!" They answer: "We are sorry, of course. It was our fault - you told us not to stop but we did. But, see - we think we are already in Africa. And, because we reached Africa, where should we return? Look, we decided we are in Africa and we won't leave it." Jah laughs: "You are smart guys indeed, but in reality you are not in Africa at all, it is just a dream! You will wake up in a half of hour, and will not be in Africa anymore." They objected: "We will not wake up! Why we need to wake up if we have such a beautiful dream? And they started to scatter around the Africa. Jah watched where they are for some time and finally gave up. Especially since after just one month they blackened so much they became indistinguishable from locals.

    The Africa is a paradise... lots of warmth, lots of sun, fresh ganja season is from January to December, and native people are so quiet since nobody oppresses and enslaves them and especially since they realized that every rastaman arrived has his own AK-47 or even a bazooka, or at least a large shotgun for hunting elephants. They are so slow and stoned that if somebody attacks, they'll shoot all magazine before realizing what happened. That's why everybody is so mutually polite and nice here... nobody curses each other, nobody behaves annoying, aggressive or just as a plain jerk. The only downside of this situation is that there are no cigarette tubes in stores there. But this is not a big deal, if you have a great bud. You can always stuff the stuff into a regular cigarette. First, you pull the filter with your teeth. Then, you tear off a piece of cardboard from the pack, roll it up into a small tip, put it into the empty tube shaked out the tobacco... then - as usually. By the way, it would be just nice to make a couple of such thingies with a tip. And, of course, to smoke them up ASAP.

    Original Russian text: (c) HighDuke


    English translation: (c) juzy

  • Big baby jesusBig baby jesus Regular
    edited August 2010
    Rastaman folk tales: About the war
    (everybody says this story is the funniest one)

    It is how it was during the war (as one guy told me). So, bloody Nazis came and conquered the entire city. All true guerillas run away to the woods and are hiding there. So, they're hiding and, finally, they used up all condensed milk. And SPAM as well. And bread as well. And lard as well. And potatoes as well. And home-made pickles as well. And jam as well. And sausages as well. They even ran out of rolling paper - do you think it is possible to live like that? They gathered a hands-on meeting and decided to send a scout to the city, because, y'now...

    But the scout had cold feet. He says: "Guys, be realistic! There are Nazis in the city - they are gonna kill and then eat me. Those bloody Nazis can expose any guerilla on 1-2-3 and arrest instantly." But the comandante cheers him up: "Warm up your feet, man! Really, there is no reason to have cold feet there! It is only propaganda that they are so insightful, but they, y'now... Wear dark glasses, camouflage yourself a bit and nobody will be able to find out you are a guerrilla. And don't walk in zig-zags and, umm... Yes! Watch your mouth, m'kay? You'd better just keep mum and don't ever laugh, got it? There is nothing funny there at all. It is not a big deal they are Germans and talking German... Well, nobody's perfect, and it is simply not nice to laugh at it. Maybe, they are also laughing at us. But they are laughing respectably, not like BWA-HA-HA! You'd better not laugh at all and watch your mouth, and nobody will uncover you.

    The scout refuses: "It sounds so complicated, man. Don't laugh, watch your mouth, walk straight... I am not such a monster, bro! And those dark glasses. They will recognize that I am a die-hard guerilla as soon as they see dark glasses." The commandante says: "Do not have cold feet, man! Nobody will expose you." The scout asks: "Are you sure that nobody can expose me?" The commandante answers: "I am 100% sure. Nobody will ever expose you... if you won't expose yourself." The scout replies: "You are probably so damn sure you won't give up yourself in this situation. But I am not that sure about myself. If you are so sure, take my bag and go there yourself, if you are so sure that you won't give yourself up. Look at me and then look at you - who is looking more respectably?"

    Then, all guerillas started to yell: "Yeah! Yeah! He is right, comandante, indeed! You are the only of us who still looks like a normal man with decent attire and so on." After that, they collectively show him the door and send him to the reconnaissance mission. They give him a bag, pitched in some money and put in his pocket a five-pound bag of weed. And sent him to a reconnaissance mission.

    So his is going on the tracks, because it is already night and commuter trains are not running anymore. He walks and walks and, suddenly: bang! bang! bang! Somebody bangs his buns from behind. He continues to walk, wondering: who is it? Banging my buns? Probably, a tourist. Definitely, it's a tourist. Damn tourist. He walks behind me and taps my behind, so I turn around. No way! I will not turn around. Why the heck do I need to turn around? Really, some freaky tourists are walking around my butt - why should I turn around for everyone? Don't I have better things to do than turn around for tourists? And he goes straight without turning around.

    Again, something is banging his buns. He thinks: no, it's not a tourist. Regular tourist would have already chickened out. It is a bear, indeed. A big, like 700 pounds, bear. It walks behind me and taps my behind. Taps and taps, dammit! I will turn around, tell him to get the fuck out and then go further.

    So, he turns around and says: "Bear, go to hell!" Look - there is a train engine there. It rests again his butt and honking like hell. His friend engineer leans out of the cabin and yells: "Hey, guerilla man! Where are you going?"

    The guerilla answers: "I am going to the city. For a reconnaissance mission." The engineer says: "What are you, nuts? There are bloody Nazis there, they'll arrest you immediately." The guerilla replies: "Don't sell me bullshit, man. They won't expose me - look at my camouflage! I am, like, a normal square man in decent attire and so on." The engineer argues: "Normal people do not stop trains with their butts." The guerilla says: "Why do you think so? You don't even know, what kind of squares there are! They actually do. Let's have a smoke, then you'll bring me to the city, because I am already damn tired to walk. I am walking for three hours, like an idiot, then somebody starts to bang my buns - it's so annoying, man!" The engineer answers: "Okay, let's smoke."

    So, they arrive to the city in a really good mood and go visit the underground resistance fighters. The underground people are sitting in their underground and writing a proclamation to the nation. They have been writing it already for a week but with no luck. Sometimes the guitarist plays off key, sometimes the vocalist sings out of the tune; sometimes drums bang something totally wrong - like a rattle. Sounds like a high school band. But they want something really cool like Bob Marley or Peter Tosh or at least Damian Marley. But no success. So they are sitting there in severe depression for already a week... boozing hard, of course. And writing their proclamation speech. Suddenly, the guerilla comes in and brings a five-pound bag of ganja. "Don't worry, be happy - let's smoke!" - he says.

    They smoked, took their instruments and started jamming all of a sudden! Like a hell! They started jamming such a proclamation that was even better than Bob Marley's! But when nosy neighbours heard that, they called bloody Nazis immediately: "Please come, as there is a domestic disturbance here. Those hooligans are making loud noises in afterhours and disturbing our sleep."

    So Nazis came and said: "We already know you, underground guys. We warn you last time: don't even you dare!" They they noticed the guerrilla and asked: "Who is that?" Undergrounders answered: "It's a relative from Hickstown. He came to apply to the university." Nazis replied: "We know who he is! Look in his eyes - he is a guerrilla, indeed. Okay, smart guy; put your clothes on, we'll bring you to Gestapo."

    They came to Gestapo and told its chief: "Here, we caught a guerrilla." The Gestapo chief answered: "Wow, cool! They brought a guerrilla here! Let's torture him!" The guerrilla said: "Are you seriously into BDSM, officer? Why torture? Let's have a smoke instead." The Gestapo chief replied: "We can smoke later, there is no rush. Tell me, where guerrillas are hiding." The guerrilla meditated on it a bit, then said: "Yes! I just remembered! They are in woods!" The Gestapo chief argued: "Could you please be more specific? Not just "in woods". We already know that they are in woods." The guerrilla thought about it for a bit, and then said: "Um, well... When you enter the woods, turn little bit to the right, then to the glade, then straight, straight, straight, straight, straight... stop! It should be a turn somewhere. Okay, never mind, you just go to the glade, well, this way sucks, there should be a better road, let me recall... Let's smoke first, and I'll remember all the details." The Gestapo chief answered: "No way! We will not smoke, but torture you. Then, you will remember everything and stop bullshitting us."

    The guerrilla said: "You can't be serious, officer. You are such a nice person, why are you behaving like a Nazi? Torture, torture... Here I am! Torture me, Nazi bastard! Cut me into pieces! Eat my shorts! I don't fucking care cause I am a guerrilla! I fucked your Hitler!" Without waiting for them to start torturing him, he grabbed a razor from the desk and started cutting himself! All bloody Nazis are damn scared - they grasped his hands, seized the razor and said: "Calm down, dude! Let's better smoke." But he still yells: "Bastards! Nazis! Dirty pervs!" - and trying to bite thru his veins. The bloody Nazis tied him to a chair, but he falled down together with the chair and started to strike the concrete floor with his head. Even the Gestapo chief became so damn scared so that even called the mental asylum.

    Rough asylum attendants came, injected the guerrilla with mind-controlling drugs, threw him into the car and brought to the asylum. In the asylum, the shrink tells him: "Why did you make such a douchebag of you?" The guerrilla answers: "But why did they bully me like that! We will torture you! We will torture you! They even didn't let me smoke, bastards, bitches, damn Nazis." The doctor replies: "What Nazis are you talking about? There are no Nazis here."

    The guerrilla said: "Ha! Nice bullshit, man. What you mean - there are no Nazis? I saw them with my very eyes." The shrink answered: "It doesn't really matter what you saw." The guerrilla replied: "Not only did I see them, they even arrested me." The shrink said: "Who arrested you? Nobody arrested you, stop bullshitting me, young men."

    The guerrilla said: "Who is bullshitting who? If so, who brought me here to this asylum, eh?" The shrink replies: "What asylum are you talking about? There is no asylum here."

    Then, the guerrilla said: "What the fuck? There is no asylum, but there is a shrink." The shrink answered: "There is no shrink, too. There are no asylum attendants, too, as well. There are no Germans, too, as well. There are no Russians, too, as well. There are no Jewish, too, as well. There are no Chechens, too, as well. There are no Kazakhs, too, as well. There are no Armenians, too, as well. There are no Frenchies, too, as well. There are no Japanese, too, as well. There are no Chinese, too, as well. There are no Vietnamese, too, as well." Finally, the guerrilla dug this tune and started to bang it. The shrink took a guitar and a 90-minutes jam session is started.

    After that, the guerrilla asked: "So, are there really no Nazis at all?" The shrink answered: "You bet! There are no Nazis and no you or me. It is just a one huge delusion about the fact that there is something somewhere. But there is only nothing anywhere, dig it? Look, man, how cool it is: there is nothing anywhere at all." The guerilla finally dug it! Oh boy, it is so funny! He was making fun of it for whole three hours, even became tired of making fun of it.

    Then he said: "Wow, it is so cool! There is nothing anywhere. There are no bloody Nazis as well. I must go to the woods and tell my comrades. They are sitting there so scared they even can't go to the city to buy some bread." The shrink answered: "You didn't quite get it, bro. There is no city. There is no bread. There is no your comrades. There is only a global delusion which everybody believes in, like little suckers, like if it something somewhere."

    The guerrilla replied: "No, I can't agree with you on that. Okay, there are no bloody Nazis - this is even cool. There are no comrades - okay, I don't fucking care. Everybody knows: "No means no!" But there must be something somewhere, dammit! Somewhere must be something real, concrete. Otherwise I am totally lost."

    The shrink said: "You know what, bro? Hang around here for just a week. Relax, fix your mind up. After that, you will be able to dig everything as it is." The guerrilla replied: "I am really sorry. You are a good man and everything. But you, probably, will excuse me. I'll sit here just for a little bit and then I have to go to catch the last train. Because, you know, it is so boring to walk back to the woods on the railroad tracks by foot... I also need to buy some bread, as well. I really have to go now." The shrink answered: "No problemo, guerilla man. Lets have one more smoke and you can go wherever you want." And he fetches an already rolled joint from his desk.

    So, they smoked. Then smoked some more in the morning. Then, followed it up at night, played guitars, sung some songs, drank some tea. Everything is great when you follow such a nice day schedule! Then, in the morning, they picked some weed on the front lawn and cooked some brownies. Bit by bit, the guerrilla is finally settled in asylum. It is so cool in an asylum - people are really funny there, coolest freaks ever. They sowed all the backyard with the weed, they even have a six-acre farm in countryside. Next fall, they are all going there for harvest. By that time, the guerrilla recalled that he needs go go to the woods. So he took a train and went to the woods.

    In the woods, comrades told him: "Such messengers are good only for calling the Death! While you were out, Americans sent us humanitarian aid corned beef. And English sent us humanitarian aid condensed milk. And Dutch sent us humanitarian aid selected weed. Do you see how cool it is to be a guerrilla? You sit on your butt doing nothing and everybody helps you. Then, our troops will come and give us all medals or even higher decorations. Our people must win because they do not have any other choice. Our Forces will come, and everything gonna be all right!"

    Original Russian text: (c) HighDuke


    English translation: (c) juzy

  • Big baby jesusBig baby jesus Regular
    edited August 2010
    Rastaman folk tales: Tale about the Unburnt Kush

    So, here is a banker. Like, a normal suite-and-tie banker, a workaholic anonymous who, in fact, doesn't enjoy his job! He doesn't like it at all! It makes him sick and crazy but he still works and works and works. It's because he wants to make such a fortune to never work again but to put it in into a good bank and live on annuity somewhere in countryside, far away from mundane vanity and sins - everybody wants that these times! Or, at least, all people say so - ask anybody, they'll tell you the same thing: to the countryside! To the solitude! Not to see, hear or remember all this life anymore, not to know people you don't like, to watch the stars and live gently - this is today's hot trend. Then, after ten years, they still have the same job, they even didn't take a vacation since then, but they are still dreaming the same dream: we just save little bit more and go to the countryside! Nevertheless, everything with their life is all clear and very sad. But why to weep - You Need to Work!

    Yep. But this banker I am talking about - once he got luck. He either won a jackpot, or made in his bank such a big deal of money that it definitely will be enough. Of course, he didn't move to the countryside - what a banker could do there? He bought a condo in a small town, moved there his clothes, books and stereo - but didn't take anything else, even T.V. He left all his worldly possessions to his wife (or whoever he had), everything including his car and brownstone, yes. He left to this small town, locked himself up in his condo and became TOTALLY HAPPY! Like, a for whole month he was totally happy, then for another month - well, just happy, then for two weeks he was just okay, then... it was also good, but not really much. Because he wanted to socialize with people, and locals -

    Well, locals. I wouldn't say that the locals were total jerks and assholes, not even total bastards, but, like, regular townsfolk. But what you can talk with them about if you do not watch the T.V.? Of course, there are definitely some positive people there - every town has some positive people, but they are either totally broken or drunk every morning or stoned so much that it is scary even to approach them. I should say that our banker smoked pot, too, but did it very quietly, so nobody will know - even his wife or whoever he had.

    Finally, he got a craving to smoke. He didn't want to buy from local pushers, because they gonna stalk him afterwards and everybody in the town will know he is a pothead. He didn't want to go to his old dealer in the big city - because, you know, if you come there just for a bag, you know... there is a dozen of reasons not to go there. But he still wants to smoke ganja. Once, he entered his condo building and felt a very familiar smell! He got up to his floor and saw an old man from the next door smoking on the stairs. According to the smell, he is smoking something r-really interesting! The banker, going by him, slowed down just a bit - just for a fraction of a second, but old man understood it right. He looked at the banker and asked: "Uhm?" The banker just nodded and almost instantly got a damn-great charge. Then, they came to old man's condo and rolled one more reefer. And, of course, smoked it up.

    Then, everything is alright, but the old man started a regular old folk's rant - like, how it was great in old times and how it sucks now, and more bull like that. Indeed, this old man isn't positive at all and so-o boring that he can break the groove even after the best weed. The banker asked him very carefully, trying not to offend: "Sorry, Mr. Bubba Joe, I really have to go, thank you very much, the weed was great - can you tell me where I can buy it?" Bubba Joe answered: "It is my weed, I grow it myself. So, neighbor, please feel free to drop by my place to sit together, smoke and chat about life."

    Poor guy even winced at the thought of this prospect. Of course, he didn't show it and kept the smile, but the old man understood it right. He told to the banker: "Neighbor, please feel free to tell, if something is wrong. I understand that you are not up to chat with me - I saw it for a long time, even though you didn't tell me that. I am not offended: you are young, I am old, what we can talk about? You know what? I'll give you an ounce of weed - you are a mature smoker and won't binge it up. It should last you out for a long time."

    So, he gave him an ounce of weed. The banker tried to reach his wallet, but the old man refused: "Please, no money, I am not selling weed. When you finish it up, just come again. Or, even better: take this blim of kush. It will not just last you out for a life, it will be even leftovers. But be careful with it, man, mind your mind!"

    Of course, the banker thanked him and whisked away to his hole. He rolled a joint, turned on music, filled a warm tub and did whatever they bankers do with the weed, I dunno - anyway, he made his day! After being straight-edge for such a long time, he smoked up the ounce in a week. Then, a whole week he looked at the blim - to smoke or not to smoke? And, finally, he smoked it.

    And - nothing. I mean, really nothing. Nothing is around - just darkness and warmth. He sees nothing, he hears nothing, and he feels such a joy and pleasure that there are no words to describe it. Whole eternity passed in this dark calm - well, not a real eternity, just a standard pothead eternity. Then, everything ended. He looked at the watch - only fifteen minutes passed! Wow!

    He rushed to the old man and asked: "Bubba Joe, I realize you do not sell the weed and I do respect your principles, but can you please make an exception for me? I really liked this blim and I would buy more stuff like that, at your price." Old man answered: "It is a pleasure to treat to a neighbor even for free, but I do not have any. You'd better look at your place."

    He told it THAT way that the banker immediately understood: "I'd better look at my place." He came home, looked in his stash - the blim is back there! The banker put it into the pipe, puff-puff - and he got fifteen minutes of eternity again; and again, and again, and again.

    Finally - no, he wasn't tired, the heaven can't be boring - he just got used to it. He thought: "Why I am always looking in front of me? Why don't look around?"

    He looked at the right - nothing. He looked at the left - and saw two yellow eyes. He asked it: "Who are you?" It answered: "I am a yelloweyer." He asked: "Why thou art here?" The yelloweyer answered: "For the same reason." So, little by little, the conversation started. It was so pleasant - nobody plays an attention whore, nobody passes away, all topics are interesting, all words are clear, all names are familiar - wow! It is THE conversation! Then, when the eternity ended, the banker puffed the blim again and continued the contact with the yelloweyer. Eventually, it became their custom - they meet and talk five or six times a day and they don't need anything else.

    It is good, indeed. Very good. But finally, the banker freaked out: "Why I feel so good? It is impossible that it is so good for nothing... It is not without purpose!" Once he asked the yelloweyer: "Dost thou knowest, why we are together?" The yelloweyer answered: "Because we enjoy each other, that's why." The banker replied: "But... why... Thou, for example... How didst thou getst here?" The yelloweyer answered: "Jah sent me." The banker asked: "Who is Jah?" The yelloweyer replied: "Well... Jah is such a good force which brings good people together."

    At this moment, the banker became really scared! "No way! How could some force, even a good one, mess up with my personal life and decide what's better for me?" He is totally freaked out. After that, he didn't touch his precious blim for a month. He decided to get a life: he tried to read books - but he didn't feel like reading, he tried to listen some music - but it flied around his ears, he even bought a T.V. and a DVD - he enjoyed only a couple of movies, then he became bored and sick of them and, finally, he gave up - he took the blim from the stash and smoked it again.

    The yelloweyer met him and asked: "Hi! Long time - no see... While thou wert out, I tried to read books and realized that the world's fiction is totally meaningless. The music is pointless, too - it flies around the ears, but it doesn't touch the soul. Then, I tried to watch some movies..."

    The banker interrupted him: "Listen, yelloweyer, probably, thou art me?" It answered: "No, pal, it is not possible. "Me is me, thou art thou" - remember this nursery rhyme? The banker told: "A-ha! Now I know for sure that thou art me, because my dad sang it to me when I was in a cradle." The yelloweyer answered gently: "It is still impossible, because... ME - is me for myself and thou for thyself, THOU - is me for thou and thou for me, HE - is Jah who brought us together, WE - are thou and me, YE - it is how to call jerks and bastards, and THEY - are all those jerks and bastards we are not interested in. That's how it is, bro."

    After that, the banker chickened out, as he never did before in his life. He hid the blim as far as possible, shaved himself, put his clothes on and went to his old dealer in the big city to buy some normal weed and return to the reality. He brought the weed home but decided to smoke it not in condo but on the stairs - just in case. So, he smokes it on the stairs... some neighbor goes by him and slows down just a bit - just for a fraction of a second, but... I hope you understood what happened next.

    Original Russian text: (c) HighDuke


    English translation: (c) juzy

  • Big baby jesusBig baby jesus Regular
    edited August 2010
    Rastaman folk tales: Crocodile jataka

    Once Jah Buddha sat under his tree and had a conversation with his disciples about the boundlessness of boundless and nonexistence of existing. Their discussion wasn't really profound but kinda extremely pleasant. It smoothly passed onto another interesting subject: how funny it is to smoke up square first-timers, especially girls. For some reason, Jah Buddha didn't like this topic and finally put in: "Girls, yeah. Girls are obstacles in the way of enlightenment. It reminds me an episode from my practice which happened five or six centuries ago. Let me tell you the story..."

    So. Five or six hundreds years ago the very crocodile lived in a lake. He was such a crocodile that when he showed up from his burrow, all living creatures around hid their asses, trembling. It's because everything he did was eating somebody. So, he swam in the lake and saw a wasted toad, recklessly steering almost right to his jaws. The crocodile was surprised: "Hey, toad! What are you, nuts? Are you tired of your life or something?" The toad answered: "Oh boy, this is an interesting question! It is a kind of question I should think on it to find out if I am really tired of my life. Instead of all this thinking why don't we better drink some whisky?" The crocodile meditated on it a bit and told: "Sheesh! I lived so many years and never tried whisky in my life." The toad replied: "Then what are we waiting for? It's not a rocket science! Let's go!"

    So, they swam to get some whisky and wasted themselves as the model boozehounds, reasoning all the time about if the life is worth living or not but didn't arrive to any conclusion. They decided to postpone a final debate until the next paycheck. They started to meet for discussions two or three times a week. The toad insisted: "Everything is a crap in this life except of whisky and sex, which, however, also can be replaced with whisky." The crocodile gradually adopted this theory and so got into it that he even started to eat only every second time especially since tough guys don't eat when drink and there is no appetite during a hangover anyway. So, now you know how it was...

    Once the toad woke up with massive wicked hangover - it was so fucking nasty that eyeballs were out and the head swelled twice a size. And no bloody money left to buy some cure. By the way, it is a real-life illustration of the principle that suffering arises from attachment to desires. The toad swam up to the shore hoping to meet some of her buddies to solicit at least one beer.

    On the shore an old wolf sat and smoked a reefer. The toad jumped to him: "Wolf, hey, wolf, look at my horrible suffering, would you please buy me just one drink?" The old wolf answered: "Listen, toad... Let me shotgun you and you'll fell much better. Just inhale and don't exhale as long as you can." The toad immediately opened the mouth and old wolf blown her up wit such a fat shotgun she even tossed up and fall into the lake! She came to consciousness only at the bottom of the lake and felt as high as she never did!

    And, here he is, her friend the crocodile - hangover covered him with pimples, so he looked like a huge cucumber. He told: "Uhm, toad... If you would know, how ruined I am..." The toad answered: "Swim up to the shore, there is a do-good old wolf cures everybody."

    So, the crocodile floated to the shore and saw that the old good wolf is sitting there being already totally good enough and looking at him with square eyes and wide-opened jaw. The old wolf told in shock: "TOAD! IT'S ENOUGH FOR YOU! EXHALE NOW!!!"

    The crocodile gathered all his breath and exhaled all of a sudden! And, suddenly, dug it all! He dug everything so much that he soared over the lake for whole three days, preaching dharma to all the beast of the underwater kingdom. Then, he became a wise airplane and flown away to the sky. He never ate a living creature again but perfected himself in overcoming passions and reached full self-realization in ninety-six days after his historic exhale.

    After finishing this edifying story, Buddha told: "Those times, Anslinger Buddha was a crocodile, Lucy was a toad, Ricky was a wolf, the vortex of mundane passions was a lake, whisky was deuce a quart, my teaching was a reefer, and I was a shotgun myself."

    Original Russian text: (c) HighDuke


    English translation: (c) juzy

  • Big baby jesusBig baby jesus Regular
    edited August 2010
    Rastaman folk tales: About the doomsday device

    The defense minister made an exhibition of himself. He treated the president with a Greek Plonk Brandy. He bought it in a duty-free. The president almost puked after the first sip. After catching his breath, he started to swear foully then told: "They must be killed for that!"

    Of course, it was too rashly of him. In fact, it was just a saying. But the defense minister understood it like a soldier and started a draft. Next day he reported to the president: "We are ready to start a war with Greece. Just issue an order - and we'll start to kill'em all!"

    The president told: "You want to be a hero, eh? May I remind you that the Allies will take their side?"

    The defense minister told: "Fuck the Allies! We have four five hundreds twenty ten of A-bombs! If the Allies will take their side - we'll kill'em all, too. They deserved this fate long time ago!"

    The president told: "Everybody has A-bombs these times. Everybody also has H-bombs, V-bombs and so on... All that we have, everybody has, too. So stop the draft and start to take a Valium, man."

    The defense minister told: "What if we were having a weapon that nobody has?" The president answered dreamily: "Well, if the Queen had balls she'd be the King." The defense minister told: "I got your idea! We'll have such a weapon!"

    And he summoned scientists then told them: "Hey, nerds, invent for me such a weapon that nobody has." The scientists answered: "We already did."

    Then, the defense minister asked them: "So why didn't you make it yet?" Scientist answered: "Well, we're out of funds, and this shit is expensive - it'd cost a truckload of cash."

    The defense minister coughed up a full truck of cash from his own stash and gave them a three-week deadline. The scientists took this money and did what they invented long time ago.

    So, they made a ganja-generator. It is such a thingamajig that treats any grass with special rays - ANY grass, even one from your front lawn! - and after that it has 20-30% THC. They spent hundred grands on this smart thingie, and yoinked the rest of cash in a sec. For the last two hundred bucks they bought brushes, paints, clear plastic, an emergency siren and three Xmas lights. Then they took a broken commercial fridge from someone's garage, removed condenser coils from its back, put Xmas lights instead of them and covered the fridge with dozens of old motherboards, connected them with cables, attached some valves, capacitors and transformers everywhere it's possible - so now it looks like a cyberpunk mainframe. They covered all this muthafucka with a clear plastic box, put an emergency siren and an accumulator inside the fridge and disguised them with a crazy construction made from the fridge coils and all the scrap metals they found in their garages. Then, they weld wheels and a huge knife-switch to the fridge, painted it khaki and covered it all over with scary drawings - it's so funny to do such an artwork when you are stoned! Finally, they put a huge padlock on the fridge door, put a digital lock on the switch, rolled this piece of crap to the defense minister and told: "Here is your super-weapon!"

    The minister told: "Wow! But how it works?" The scientists answered: "Well, it's easy. Look, if you put this switch on - the mechanism inside will start the process which burns thru the superstring which holds together our entire space-time continuum so all the Universe will cease to exist. Simpler to say, this muthafucka can destroy the entire world in thirty seconds!"

    The minister told: "Good job, eggheads! This is the real super-weapon! Now we can really conquer the world!" He ordered to hide the super-weapon in the super-bunker, came to the president with a report and demanded to test the weapon ASAP, so all the world will see and tremble.

    The president told: "But how are you going to test it?" The defense minister answered: "This is simple! We bring the device to a firing range and call the media. I will come before them in my full dress uniform, deliver a speech and pull the switch... Ta-dam! And everything disappears!"

    The president told: "Well-well-well... You will disappear, I will disappear and the media will disappear, too. It's kind of destroys all the universe, right?"

    The defense minister told: "Don't bullshit me, man! They won't let me pull the switch. They gonna grasp me by the hand, grovel at my feet and lick my boots! This way, we will conquer the world without a single shot and will dictate it our own rules!"

    The president told: "But what if they won't be frightened and won't grasp you by the hands? If you will really have to pull the switch?"

    The defense minister answered: "Then we commence on the plan 'Yes We Can'." He took his cell and called: "Yes We Can, guys!" The president guard broken into and canned the president immediately. The minister told him: "Don't take offence, bro. Now you will go on a vacation for a couple of weeks. When you'll be back - you will rule the world."

    Now everything goes according to the defense minister's plan. A press release is issued, the day of testing is set, media are accredited, and military attaches of rival countries are invited. The world's reaction is slightly ironic, though. Newspaper put it into the oddities column, journalists are making jokes of it, and the defense minister is getting mad. He already is ready to destroy the world for real and for good without any remorse.

    Finally, the D-day came. Media and servicemen are on the range. Soldiers in their full dress uniforms are solemnly ook out the doomsday device, uncovered it and stood stock-still in a guard of honor. Journalists are giggling: many of them already recognized a commercial fridge in this device. The defense minister frowned at them, comes to the knife-switch and delivered the following speech:

    "Ladies and gentlemen! Today we will demonstrate you our new super-weapon, which is based on modern physical theory of superstrings. Now I'll pull this switch on and turn this world off, forever and irrevocably. Objections and petitions will not be accepted anymore - you had whole two weeks to submit them. Instead of that you were making fun of it, disbelieving me - now you gonna pay for it!"

    And he is taking off the digital lock from the switch - slowly, because his hands are shivering. Journalists became silent, soldiers became silent, the dead silence set in! At this moment, one journalist yelled: "May I ask you a question?"

    The defense minister roared with a demonic laughter: "You will ask your questions after the test!" He pulled the switch... and it started to blink! and wail! and a loudspeaker started counting out: "Thirty... Twenty-nine... Twenty-eight... Twenty-seven..."

    A stunning toilet smell covered the range. At this moment, everybody crapped their pants, even cynical journalists. Somebody ran away, somebody even tried to hide in a pit, somebody started to pray to the Lord for the first time in their lives. The defense minister was standing there pale but proud, holding the switch tightly and repeating silently, only with his lips: "Twenty-one... Twenty... Nineteen..."

    On the count of "Fifteen..." he finally gets it and starts to cry quietly. On the count of "Eight..." he's trying to put the switch back. But the switch is an old, Soviet-made one - it jammed tightly and can't be moved without a sledgehammer. On the count of "Two..." the minister is already hangs on it with his entire hulk, setting his feet against the wall - but no way! they knew indeed how to make knife-switches in the Soviet Union! On the count of "Zero..." the minister passes out and falls to the ground - and, after just a few seconds, journalists are came to themselves and ran to him, pushing each other, to make shots which will be on the front pages of all newspapers tomorrow! Even soldiers can't put them away, such excited they became!

    After such an embarrassment, the defense minister lost his prestige even to himself. The president returned from the vacation and put the minister into a nuthouse. Then, he personally visited the scientists, decorates them with State Awards and had a long conversation about needs of national science. Finally he asked, trying to make it look as casual as he can: "But, why your device didn't destroy the world, after all?"

    Scientists answered: "We made it fool-proof, that's why! If it is blinking and wailing and the switch is stuck - it means the protection is activated. In fact, it is not that easy to destroy the Universe. There are some tricks we didn't show to this military guy. If you want, we can explain and show them to you."

    The president tells: "Thank you, but I don't need it. And... you know what? Disassemble this damn muthafucka apart and destroy all the design documents, so it won't put idiots into a temptation. We don't need such a weapon now. We'd better invent something to make military guys to stop bullying and start thinking. And to make the rest of people to stop to confront, fight over nothing and blame each other, but to calm down and mind their own business instead. Can you, scientists, invent such a thing?

    Scientists answered: "We already did! We even built and tested it - it is even ready for mass production!"

    And they demonstrated to the president their ganja-generator.

    Original Russian text: (c) HighDuke


    English translation: (c) juzy

  • Big baby jesusBig baby jesus Regular
    edited August 2010
    Rastaman folk tales: About Fido the Cat

    Kids were cooking magic milk. From a local ditch weed. Fido the Cat watched them closely. They already stumbled over him fifteen times, and squeezed his tail in a door, and stepped on his paw, and spilled milk on him little bit, but he is still wandering around. Interesting, duh.

    Suddenly, the lookout runs from the balcony to warn-a-brotha that mom a'comin! The conspiracy started: they cleaned the kitchen ASAP, put the milk pot on the balcony and like nothing happened at all. Like they are just watching T.V. Fido the Cat checked mom's bags, rubbed against her pantyhose, allowed her to caress him and went out to the balcony. Like, to get a fresh air - and to check what the kids have cooked, of course.

    He moved the cover aside and smelled - kinda edible but too hot. In a half of hour he smelled it again - it looks cold enough already. He licked a bit - it tastes sucks but is still edible. He licked couple more timed - eww! It's nasty bitter! He climbed the railings, slacked there for another half of hour and suddenly realized: "Wow! Such a funny milk!" "I need to have some more of it" - Fido the Cat decided. (By the way, it is the first sign that the magic milk works.)

    He got into the pot again when Jill the Crow flied by. She sat on the railings and asked: "Tasty, eh?" Fido the Cat answered: "In fact, it's yukky but extremely funny. Come and try it if you want."

    The crow was extremely surprised: usually Fido the Cat clicking his teeth and waving his paws on her - and now it's such a generosity and goodwill? Why so? Is it a dirty trick? But she flied off the railings, sucked up a half of ounce of the milk and... she can't rise again - she became stoned momentarily. Birds have fast metabolism and small weight, and chicks are definitely greedy for a free stuff.

    So, they are lying on a balcony in the middle of rainbow, Fido the Cat and Jill the Crow. They are realizing the essence of being and the immensity of the Universe. The crow told: "Wow! It must be so funny to fly under this stuff..." The cat answered: "I dunno... I'm not a flyer myself... But if you want to, I won't mind."

    The crow told: "Yep, I would fly, indeed... if not those somber walls... Walls are pressing down, not letting me to rise." The cat told: "Which walls are you talking about? The plywood is rotten, push it - and it will fall away! There is a hole under the desk, let me show you."

    They climbed under the desk and examined the hole. The crow told: "I really doubt I can squeeze thru this hole. Look how big I am - five feet of wings only." Fido the Cat answered: "You are wrong, crow. I am twice bigger with you nonetheless wingless but I fit this hole as 1-2-3. And he absentmindedly showed to the crow how he fits it and, just accidentally falls down a little bit.

    From the fourth floor. And, on the second floor local boozehound Barnie brought some whore home and locked his mom out. The mom was standing under the balcony and cursing this scumbag. Barnie leaned down the balcony and told -

    well, he just tried to tell some cynical curse, but in fact he told: "OH, SCREW IT!" Because Fido the Cat fell on his back and clung to him with all his claws but Barnie didn't put on his wife-beater or even boxers so he is totally naked and shit happened! With such a surprise, he almost fell down from the balcony himself, trying to shake the cat off his back but the cat dug into his back even harder, also yelling: "OH-MEOW-IIIT!"

    Then, Barnie's whore ran out to the balcony, wrapped in a bed sheet, tried to catch the cat, lost the bed sheet and ran back. Barnie is rushing about the balcony, slipping on the bed sheet and breaking the stool with his head. At this time Fido left him alone and jumped to the next balcony because he really disliked Barnie. Such a weird guy, naked as a savage, cursing like a pirate, waving hands, breaking innocent furniture - what can you talk about with such an obnoxious person?

    There is Monica the She-Cat on this balcony. They're not letting her outside, so she's suffering every month from very unknown reasons. Fido understands immediately what her suffering is, but she tells him: "Leave alone, gentleman, don't you see how sick I am?"

    Then, Fido told: "Listen up, sis. I am... uhm... Fido the Flying MD, and I will remedy your illness right now." Monica started to realize what kind of treatment it is and told: "Oh! Not here, please!"

    Well, if lady asks "not here" then "not here" it will. They crouch into the cozy corner behind the skis and sleigh, Fido mounts Monica and bites her scruff just a little bit - only to realize the very next second that he should bite it harder. Because Monica immediately dodges, hisses and slaps his face. Sleigh falls, skis fall and Arnold the Bull Terrier runs out to the balcony. Monica yells: "He's not a doctor! He's a sex offender! Bite him, Arnold! Bite this villain!"

    But Fido the Cat is already sitting on the tree branch across the balcony and thinks: "Who the fuck can understand those women? She's wriggles in heat then slaps me in the face. Stupid biatch! And stupid I am: 'Arnold the Flying Penis' - oh, crap! Fido, not Arnold! My name is Fido! Arnold is this toothy jerk which barks on me right bow. Psssh, Arnold, psssh, stupid bodybuilder! Jump to get me if you can!"

    So Fido is taking his time teasing the dog and, all of a sudden, three crows are flying to him. They sat on the branch beside him and started to pressurize: "Listen up, Fido guy, our friend Jill came to your place but never came back - what did you do with her? Also, what are you doin' around our nests? We, crows, don't like this kind of shit."

    Fido answers: "Peace, man! Jill is okay, she's just pecked too much of magic milk and can't fit the hole anymore. Fly there and push her off to boost your karma. I was droved in here by this jerk which is jumping on the balcony, spitting around in anger." "I will rest here a bit then go home as I am not fucking interested in your nests" - Fido tells. However, in fact he is really interested to rummage the crows' nests, so his words sound so false and unconvincing.

    Without wasting any more words, the crows are taking off, regrouping and diving on Fido. He already realized what gonna happen now, rocks the branch, screws up his eyes and jumps somewhere sideways - to get away from the crows and avoid Arnold. He gets to an open window on the first floor, hides under the table and, at this time, the milk finally blitzed him as a lil' baby.

    He started to bad trip with people and crows, feet and wings, hands and beaks, with scary crazy motion around him, falling chairs, breaking dishes and strained ominous scream: "See through the prison bars, Joe Cat, see where the gallows stand!!!" In this kind of situation it is so human to screw up the eyes and run away in panic - but Fido drives himself into the corner and starts to convince himself: "STOP! It is just a freakout, it is not really scary. I'll sober up and everything gonna be alright."

    And the freakout finally stops - but the crazy chaos is not! Fido carefully looks out from the table and sees that it isn't a trip. Those are real crows. Just mechanically, they flied into the window and now rushing about the room in mortal terror, old people are trying to catch them with brooms and rags, Johnny Cash is playing on the stereo - just imagine what kind of mess it is: five drunk seniors and three crows in a small bachelor apartment! They had a partay here, and now salsa is flowing down their pants, pizzas are sticking to the walls and who knows what it will end up with.

    Fido starts to think over a plan, how to quietly escape from this along the wall from this nuthouse and hide behind the toilet... or below the couch... - but, all of a sudden, he noticed on the floor, just in few feet from him, a sliced salmon, extremely tasty and healthy! That's it! Now all hit thoughts are about how to smartly sneak, snatch it quickly, and retreat behind the stove and...

    So, Fido drops to his forepaws, untwists his butt to give an additional acceleration to his bulk and sharply pushes himself away with his hind paws but forepaws didn't do the trick, turns over the head, rolls away from beneath the table, receives mighty kick up by old man's foot, flies up two feet, rebounds from the fridge, gets a broomslap, evades the broom in a daring stunt, lands up on the window - but suddenly a crow flies into him! She just decided to fly out thru the window... what an unlucky time, you stupid bunch of feathers! Sure as a fuck that she didn't. But she knocked Fido from the window.

    He was lucky it's only the first floor and there is a bush under the window. But this bush is totally wrong; it smells death in a mile. In this bush lives a horrible beast named Uncle Sam, fed up by old folks. Fido doesn't want to fall on this bush, but he does. Directly to jaws of Uncle Sam, which was already watching his favorite window dreaming about something big and delicious. He can catch everything tasty with his teeth right on the fly, no matter from which floor it was thrown. His jaws are like a coffee table and his teeth are like a hell tickets' punch, click - and you are no more!

    So as Fido slowly, slowly, for a whole eternity falling into this horrible jaws, zillions of thoughts are flashing as comets thru his brain, and one of them, lightest and brightest, flashing particularly cheerfully and untimely in front of the coming doom. Suddenly, Fido catches the comet's tail with his teeth and starts to desperately turn all four of his paws like propellers! And, before stunned Uncle Sam's very eyes, he swiftly gains height - and flies up to his sweet, sweet home's balcony!

    There Jill the Crow lies with her wings spread apart and her beak agape. She tells: "You know, Fido, something is wrong with me. Probably, I will not be able to fly soon... But I realized SUCH a thing! In short, I understood a very important thing... in fact, to fly - is not just to flap wings, it is much more... spiritual, shall I say. And the wings are really an obstacle for that - for example, for you it is much easier to dig into because you are not attached to wings as you kinda can't fly... in mean of common sense - but, if you dig it, you can fly indeed, right in the heavens but not just picking at the air, man! And the heavens - they are not just a fucking air, they are such a place which exists everywhere and nowhere at the same time... generally speaking, heavens are not a place! Because place and time are really doesn't matter at all anymore when you start to really fly. Dig it, man?"

    Fido just smiled to her and answered: "Don't worry, Jill, you'll sober up soon. I am already almost sober myself."

    And, the magic milk blasted him again.

    Original Russian text: (c) HighDuke


    English translation: (c) juzy

  • Big baby jesusBig baby jesus Regular
    edited August 2010
    Rastaman folk tales: Chest jataka

    Once Jah Buddha sat under his tree and told his disciples about the logic of infinite non-existence. One disciple asked him: "Well, okay... If nothing really exists and ganja helps us to understand that... But ganja itself exists or not?" Jah Buddha answered him: "In fact, ganja doesn't exist anymore, because we smoked it all up." But the disciple still was pestering him: "What if I go and buy a dime?" Jah Buddha told: "Y'know, it would be a good thing to do. But you will only find out how illusive the ganja is, because here are a lot of us and your mere dime will cease to exist as 1-2-3." The disciple told: "Well, in this case, I'll bring an ounce." Then, Jah Buddha told: "Stop the bullshit. You don't have enough money to buy a whole ounce." The disciple told: "You bet - I'll bring it! I know the place where they can give it to me for free just because I'm a good guy." Jah Buddha told: "Why bet? Bring it, if you can. Let's see, does it exist or not."

    The disciple got up and went to the darkness with a distinctive step. Jah Buddha followed him with his eyes and told: "Listen, brethren, this dude not only in this life was so persistent and clinging to his illusions. Once upon a time, a three-eyed ogre lived. He was, in fact, a smart guy, but quite a metrosexual: he loved everything beautiful. Once he saw a beautiful princess and stole her immediately. The question is, what could he even do with her - she's that small so he can't pull her even on his little finger? But she's so beautiful! He put her in his palace to admire her. When being away on his business trips he was always putting her into a golden chest and swallowing the chest. When coming back he was spitting the chest out."

    Once, they flied to the sea in this manner: princess inside, ogre outside. At the sea, the ogre let her out of the chest and went swimming and the princess was splashing in the shallow water, because not all princesses are really into swimming, especially with such a three-eyed monster. In meantime, a winged warrior flied by. The princess just winked at him and pointed to the chest. He got the hint and dived under its lid immediately. At this time, the ogre returned from the sea and asked: "Did you have enough of swimming, my treasure?" The princess just nodded assent and climbed into the chest ASAP. The ogre gulped the chest and just going thru the forest.

    Now, he saw his friend hermit. The ogre told him: "Hello to you, wise man." The hermit told: "Hello to you, three-eyed ogre, and to those two inside of you." The ogre was astonished: "But who is the second one?" Voice from inside answered: "It's me, the winged warrior. If you, big scarecrow, won't let me out ASAP, I will cut you open from inside and go out by myself." The ogre immediately understood that he got into a hot water. He spitted away the chest - and the warrior jumped away from it in a flash with the princess, and soared above the sky, where the ogre won't be able to reach him. Yoink! There was a beauty - and there is no beauty! You, probably, already understand that those times our friend who went for an ounce was the three-eyed ogre, the princess from the previous tale was the princess, the wise crocodile was the winged warrior (after that, he was exiled into crocodiles for an adultery), and I was the wise man myself, because who else? Let's smoke some more and bye-bye."

    The favorite disciple Ananda told to Jah Buddha: "But what should we smoke, teacher, if the ganja doesn't really exist?" Jah Buddha answered to him: "Well, we do not exist, either. Nothing exists at all. We will smoke Chesterfield - don't consider it an ad, because those cigs are really sucks but they are most tolerable among cheap ones. Let's smoke Chesterfield indeed, and I'm passing out."

    Original Russian text: (c) HighDuke


    English translation: (c) juzy

  • Big baby jesusBig baby jesus Regular
    edited August 2010
    Rastaman folk tales: About the sausage
    (for the punk Nixon from Khovrino)

    Nixon, you are asking me do I have a tale about a sausage. Of course, I do have a tale about a sausage. But it is not a folk tale, I specially invented it myself so it will be a tale about a sausage. Listen:

    "So, there is such a sausage. Such a brand-name, pimped out, smoked dry sausage, so tight it can't be broken even against a knee. She's lying in a showcase and enjoying herself very-very much because she's so cool, expensive and elitist. She thinks: "Some cultured people will come soon. They will buy me, bring me home and hang to the wall and I will decorate their residence."

    One fine day her dream came true. An elegantly dressed lady comes to the deli and chooses exactly this very sausage. The sausage sits in the bag, proudly sticking her head out, and looking down upon the mere world: take off your fucking hats, I'm coming home. Then she's seeing such a picture in front of her: there are kind of wieners or something like that on the sidewalk - yukky colored, irregular shaped, crumbly built, and they are smelling so low-quality that her highly developed aesthetic sense is gravely offended by this view.

    The sausage tells them: "Poor things! Why you degraded so much and are not looking after yourself at all? Nobody will buy us like that because your look, frankly speaking, is so unhealthy. You should enrol into a shaping class, do some bodybuilding, find good garments, take some MSG - and gradually you'll get normal, marketable look. This "kinda wieners" are answering: "Nothing can help us now, sister. We also used to be sausages - probably, even better ones than you, but a foul outrage was committed upon us - we were eaten up then shitted out. And now we are lying here in sorry condition and just dying quietly." The sausage asks: "But what did you do to deserve such a punishment?" The "kinda wieners" answering: "This is our sausage destiny, sister. You won't even properly enjoy finding a home - you will be eaten up then shitted out. You too, sister, will be eaten soon, so enjoy yourself while you are alive and don't mock at ones who are already lying at a sidewalk."

    The sausage is asking: "But who will eat me?" They answered: "The lady who carrying you in a bag will eat you. She bought you in order to eat or to put you at the mercy of somebody else. You, sis, simply don't know the life, and it is harsh and unjust to our sausage race."

    The sausage became outraged: "Sheesh! They are eating us and we are keeping silence? No, this trick won't work with me! I will fuck them all straight away, starting from this very lady!" Suddenly, she jumped out of the bag and started to fuck the lady extremely cruelly: jumping into the asshole then jumping out of the mouth then back to the asshole! At the fifteenth time the lady didn't endure this torture, fell beside the "kinda wieners" and started just to die quietly. And the sausage flied away, fucking all people she met - of course, not for a sexual gratification but for a demonstrative punishment of all the humankind which offended her.

    Nobody is left on the streets very soon: people hid in their homes and battened down all hatches waiting until the rabid sausage calm down. But the sausage still flying and flying, searching whom else to fuck. Suddenly she sees a guy sitting with crossed legs so his ass is totally protected. She thinks: "What a smart asshole! Nice try, pal: you won't sit like that forever. You will stand up sometimes - then I'll fuck your brains out. So she buzzed around him. But the guy still sits and sits. One day. Two day. Three days. Four. Five. Six days passed - but he still fucking sits! Finally the sausage lost her temper and asked: "Dude, why are you always sitting and sitting? Get up, stand up, for God's sake, take a stroll - or all your life will pass like that and you won't see anything in the world." The guy answered: "What a good thing could I ever see in this world? How people are eating sausages - or how the sausage is fucking people? I think both of these things ain't worth watching."

    The sausage tells: "Wow! You are a sage, probably?" The guy answers: "Yes. I am a sage." The sausage tells: "Then tell me, the wise man, why such an escobar season happens in the world that people are eating us, beautiful and proud creatures, and transform us into a shit?" The sage answers: "They are eating not only sausages but everybody they can catch." The sausage asks: "So they are that evil, ain't they?" The sage answers: "It is not because they are evil but because they need to eat somebody all the time, otherwise they'll just die." The sausage reflected upon it and asked: "Tell me, the wise man, why it is so? Why we can't live a normal life so nobody will eat anybody?" The sage answers: "It's because the God created the world this way, and now he's looking from the heaven and enjoying everybody eating everybody."

    All of a sudden, the sausage was stricken by the enlightenment: "That's who's guilty in everything! I gonna fly to the sky and fuck the God himself to give him a sweat and painful lesson! What kind of a fucking grand architect he is?" And, with these thoughts, she soared to the heaven and all people finally took a long breath. This way one wise man, sitting calmly in a lotus posture, saved for good the whole world.

    So, the sausage is flying to the heaven and suddenly she meets a flying sausage just like her - but skyscraper-sized and so hard nobody would be able to bite it thru. The sausage tells her: "Hi, sausage! Where are you flying?" She answers: "I am not a sausage. I am a ballistic missile and I'm flying to the crappy town of Shanghai to spare no one of measly local people and to motherfucking fubar their stinky tenements at the roots." The sausage tells: "How silly of you, sis. I was this stupid myself until an enlightenment befell me." The missile asks: "Well, and what kind of enlightenment it was?" The sausage tells: "Behold! The people are not guilty. The God created them such a douchebags so they can't behave better because otherwise they'll just die. When I was younger, I also fucked them - one at a time, everybody I can catch - and now I understood that individual terrorism can't change the world. So, I decided to get to the God himself and cruelly fuck this biatch for everything he created down here."

    The missile tells: "Wow, cool! Let's fly, sister, to him together: you'll violently fuck this skunk then I'll fubar him to four hundred eighteen pieces to destroy him at the roots!"

    So, they flied to the very heaven. And the heaven is such a maze - like an Internet without a browser. They are flying and flying there but still can't find the God. It's not because he's not there - he's just hidden so smartly, so one can search him for a long while, especially with such stupid obsessions. Wise people say that after a thousand years they'll become so fucking frustrated that they'll return back to the Earth. But, frankly speaking, why the fuck should we care what gonna happen in a thousand years? In a thousand years we all gonna be in totally different place and in totally different condition, so all those sausage and missile schemes will look a baby-talk to us comparing with what we will face."

    Original Russian text: (c) HighDuke


    English translation: (c) juzy

  • Big baby jesusBig baby jesus Regular
    edited August 2010
    Rastaman folk tales: About three druggies and good man Valera

    Druggies came to the club but NADA is there. Boys are stiff, girls are ditzy, only drunks are dancing, and DJ is a dancefloor killer. There are no sits left in the chillout, everybody is angry, everybody smokes tobacco and nobody already waits for nothing. Oh boy, it sucks!

    Druggies went outside and started to look up for another opportunities. One pulled out his cell, called guys on another party, then on more party, then somewhere else. Second one pulled out his iPhone and started to browse the Internet. Actually, he's more poseuring than browsing, because he just bought this iPhone and isn't very well with it yet, spending five minutes just to open an email - but looking so damn serious - like a circus manager.

    Suddenly, the first druggie went out of money on his prepaid cell and told to the second one: "Let me use your cell." The guy gave him the iPhone and for five minutes was making fun about how he tries to find buttons on it. Finally, he told: "You are so lame, man. Tell me the number and I'll dial."

    He dialled and called. Nobody is at the first number, nobody is at the second one, but guys at the third one answered: "Everything is here, DJs are cheerful, bouncers are our friends, so everything is positive." "Well, give us the directions then." Guys started to explain but the iPhone battery dried up. It already popped up a warning at the very first call and now is totally empty, so they've got a brick.

    In meantime the third druggie is making video of their dances on his phone. He just bought a cell with a camera and shutterbugging just everything around. They told him: "Stop playing with it, man. We found a great partay but we need to make a call. He dialed - but nothing. No network coverage. And he can't even swap the SIM-card as his cell is CDMA.

    They are so lost: should they try to catch a taxi and go don't know where or stay in the club and wait for don't know what? Then, out of the club comes a man, which doesn't really belong here - neither by age nor by dress-code. Aged man in denim leisure suit with a beard and untrendy haircut, not a clubber at all - what the fuck he was doing in the club? But it doesn't matter - the important thing is that he should have a cell.

    A druggie approached him and asked as politely as he could: "Do you have a cell, sir?" The man answered: "Yep." And pulls out a huge radio, antique one, like a half of a brick.

    The druggie tinkered with it for a while, pressed all buttons - but nothing happened, even the display didn't turn on. He asked: "How to turn it on?" The man smiled and asked: "Why would you need to do that?"

    The druggie told: "Uhm... I wanted to make a call." The man replied: "Well... Now I see what your problem is. It's not what you think. It's my stash box."

    He took the radio, opened it like a cigarette case, took a joint and gave to the druggie. He told: "It's enough for three, even four, people." Then, he got into his car and drove away.

    Well, the druggies puffed up the joint and stoned right in the front of the club. They stood quietly, enjoyed a magic music, sometimes even danced, but they didn't return to the club. It's so cramped, stuffy and loud there and outside there is a lot of free space and stars, and the best sound is exactly in this spot. The chemist already came to the club and brought everything is needed, so everybody in the club bought what they need and he still got a lot. He already came outside and asked the druggies: "Guys, need speed? Guys, need acid?" They answered: "Nay... We're already high..."

    By the way, it's a real story. The very man who smoked up these druggies told it to me. He lives in this club in the cold season and in summer he lives south of the border. He's a good man, his name is Valera: he's a mechanic and an electrician and a cabinetmaker and a pot grower - the jack-of-all-trades! And he drives car like he was born behind the wheel - by the way, that's how we met.

    I was in rush, tried to hitch a ride and Valera stopped. I got into his car, heard the music in, told him something, he answered me something, and we already understood everything about each other. He asked me: "Do you smoke pot?" I told: "Uh-huh." He opened his radio, took a joint and we puffed it up the two together. After that I was not in rush anymore and we were just driving around the town, listening music, talking about all kinds of positive things - for three or four hours - until we sobered up. Then he drove me home and didn't take any money nevertheless I honestly tried.

    I told him: "Valera, let's write down our phone numbers?" He told: "I don't have a phone - I'm not a drug dealer, why would I need it?" I told him: "Well then, maybe you have an email or ICQ or some other way to get hold on you? You are such a nice guy, Valera, and I do not want to lose contact with you like that."

    He told: "Take it easy, HighDuke, you won't lose me. The Earth is round and there is a lot of ganja, so we will meet each other.

    I hope that we will meet indeed, and not just once. Because, you know, Jah and so on. And, finally, I know this club and I can always go there to visit Valera. It's far away, like twenty five miles from my city and it's harder to get there than fly to the Moon - but sometimes I need to do it anyways.

    Original Russian text: (c) HighDuke


    English translation: (c) juzy

  • Big baby jesusBig baby jesus Regular
    edited August 2010
    Rastaman folk tales: Mousey tale (third hippie story)

    Here is a story which happened with an old rastaman. So, the old rastaman wakes up at his place and thinks two thoughts. First thought: "Wow, cool." Well, this thought is just abstract, he always thinks like that when he wakes up and his stash is full: "Wow, cool." Because it's cool indeed. The body is like a feather, the brain is like a colander, the stomach is empty. So, this is a second thought: "It would be nice to just stand up and munch the yesterday's leftovers. Because it's a lot of leftovers there, like a can of spam, a loaf of bread, a half-pot of mash, so it's kinda quite a lot of leftovers out there. So, he stands up and goes to munch'em.

    But, in fact, there are no leftovers - just an empty pot. There is even no bread. Nothing left at all, in fact. The rastaman thinks aloud: "Who gobbled up all my leftovers?" Then, an ominous sepulchral voice answers from under the dresser: "IT'S ME WHO GOBBLED UP YOUR LEFTOVERS!!!" The rastaman was even surprised: "What does it mean "I gobbled up your leftovers"? It's not even ever possible that I gobbled up your leftovers. Well, you know, don't scare the shit out of me, because it's not about your leftovers at all. How it could be your leftovers in my place? It's a load of bull, man..." But the voice answers: "Moron! I'm repeating you one more time: I gobbled up YOUR leftovers!" The rastaman tells: "Who are you to call me a moron in my own place? If you are so cool, get out from under this dresser and I'll show you who wear pants in this house." The voice answers: "YES, I AM COOL! HOLD ON TO A CHAIR, BASTARD, I'M COMING FOR YOU!!!"

    So, the rastaman grabbed a chair. He stood and waited but nobody came from under the dresser. He waited up a half-hour of minutes and went to buy some bread. After return he sat and started to eat. Suddenly, a voice from under the dresser told: "Dude, don't be such a douche! Gimme some bread!"

    The rastaman looked up and saw a green mousey with red eyes waddling out from under there. Mousey tells: Please, gimme some bread!" The rastaman answers: "Bread? Ass spread! That's to you for calling me a moron. Go back under the dresser and don't disturb me when I'm eating." The mousey gets under the dresser and starts bitching from there: "You are a douchebag, muthafucka! You grudged a poor mousey the very food she eats! Wait, I'll come out at night and eat everything up again."

    And she disappeared. The rastaman was scared. At night, he's either asleep or stoned, so he doesn't control the situation. And the mousey, she's, you know, doesn't sleep at night and she can see in the dark. Now he needs to get into a trouble to hide food from her, so she won't eat it up. It's so boring, like being at the war, and now he can't even smoke up like he used to - he should think about the mousey all the time, so she won't eat anything. He rolled a joint and smoked it up - but no high at all! What a fucking mousey - she came and messed up all his life.

    The rastaman thinks: "Well, probably, I should find a rastafarian cat and enlist her to deal with the mousey." It was not a big deal to find the rastafarian cat. Because since she drunk up rastafarian milk last night she's still lying in the middle of the room like a sack of weed. The rastaman starts to pull her about: ears, whiskers, tail and so on. Finally, she opens her left eye and tells: "Wow, cool. It would be nice to munch some leftovers now." The rastaman patiently and clearly explains her situation with leftovers and the mean mousey, which mousey should be eaten by the cat ASAP. The cat listen him attentively then tells: "Dude, I understood it will be no breakfast today? Well then, I'll chill out a bit, m'kay?" And closes her left eye back.

    Then, his friends-rastamen come and find their buddy scared as a hell lying on the floor beside the totally wasted cat. They tell: "Don't shit, dude! We'll smoke a bit and kick the shit out of this mousey, so she won't cause trouble anymore." The mousey answers them from under the dresser: "You'll wear your asses out trying to kick my butt, you red-eyed mooses." She's teasing them, indeed. But she doesn't come out from under the dresser.

    The rastamen went postal and made up an atrocious scheme how to drive out the mousey from under the dresser and to punish her harshly. So, it goes like that: two rastamen shall stand on chairs and shake the dresser from the top, one more rastaman shall bang the dresser with his fist, one more guy shall rummage under the dresser with a mop and another one shall wait beside the dresser with two bottles to throw them to the mousey when she comes out. They puffed up a fattie and proceeded to execution of their scheme. So, two rastamen stood up on chairs and started to shake the dresser. One more rastaman is rhythmically banging on the dresser with his fist; one more guy is rummaging under the dresser with a mop with the same rhythm. And the old rastaman is banging bottles to the same rhythm. Gradually, they all tuned up to each other and started to jam something industrial, like Einsturzende Neubauten.

    So, they jam like that for fifteen minutes or even a half of hour, and suddenly hear that somebody is playing a guitar along with them. The sound sounds unfamiliar, definitely not from local scene, but cool, smooth and, what's most important, really matching their jam. They looked around - and saw some dude of mysterious name and origin. Rastamen asked him: "Hey, dude, where are you from?" He answered: "I'm from Quebec City. I was passing by your place, heard your percussions jam and decided to join with my guitar. Rastamen told: "We are not jamming, man. We are driving the mousey from under the dresser."

    The quebecois looked under the dresser and told: "Well, dudes, you can try like that until the end of the season. Because she's already is under the floor. You have a hole in the plinth and she skipped there when you started to jam."

    Rastamen checked it out and found that there is indeed a damn huge hole down there. And told: "Wow, what a bright guy! We were clowning around with bottles and a mop. And you, man, immediately understood that she skipped. Listen, dude, maybe you know how to put down this biatch so she would never cause trouble anymore. Because she's staying here just one day and already bugged everybody." The quebecois told: "It depends on what kind of mousey you've got." The old rastaman told: "Well, she's, you know... She's, like, scary, green one with eyes like cherry tomatoes." The quebecois answered: "It's not a problem at all. Give up doping for a week and she will disappear by herself."

    All the rastamen started to rumble: "Stop bullshiting us, man! You are talking like a fucking shrink. How it's even possible to do not smoke for a whole week without going cucu bananas?" The quebecois told: "Let's try another way, easier one. Let's bake some brownies, put few of them on a dish and leave in the middle of the room. They mousey will come over at night, gobble up the brownies and become stoned. We will catch her and send back to Mexico, because she clearly doesn't belong here. Let send her straight to Mexico. But first we need to move the dresser to another corner." Rastamen thought on it and told: "Dude, it there any way to do NOT move this dresser? It's so motherfucking heavy, like a pickup truck." But the quebecois told: "We do need to move it, dudes! I dunno why but I feel it with my gut." And without further talking he stood up and set his shoulder against the dresser. Meeting his wishes, all the rastamen helped him to move the dresser to another corner - quite fast, without any smoking breaks and even almost without swearing.

    Then, they quickly picked some weed on the backyard, cooked brownies and ate three of them each other, and in a half of hours they were already totally fucked up. They are sitting on the floor and looking obsessively on the dish with brownies, waiting when the mousey will come and start to eat them. There is swirling and stir on the dish, flowers are growing, birds are singing, whole universes are emerging and disappearing and stuff like that. Suddenly a green mousey appears, jumps on the brownies, starts to wriggle and roll on the dish, runs, jumps and eating, eating, eating - and finally she gobbled up all brownies and stoned in the middle of the dish. Rastamen understood that they need to catch her now, and start to catch. And she starts to crawl away from them. So they are crawling after her and she's crawling from them. They crawl and crawl and finally the mousey dives below the dresser. And the rastamen hit their heads against the dresser and think all together: "Fuck! What a fast biatch!"

    After fifteen minutes, rattling, dull strokes of a head against the wall and loud swearing starts under the dresser. It's the shit-scared mousey tries to find her hole in the plinth and of course can't find it. Because the dresser was moved. So she runs below the dresser, rams the plinth and yells: "Those bastards walled me up!" Then, the quebecois poked his hand below the dresser, took the mousey from there and asked: "Got your ass into a huge trouble, green one?"

    The mousey evaluated the situation and understood that she in a trouble indeed. And told: "Dude, I plead innocent. You know, yesterday I've got horrible munchies. Isn't it okay to eat something?" The quebecois told: "They will always give you food, if you ask politely. Just don't behave like a jerk, m'kay?" The mousey told: "But he assaulted me first and didn't give me any bread." The quebecois told: "Are you really that stupid? It looks like you didn't get what I said and should get a lesson." The mousey understood that the dude really means business and he's not a pacifist at all, so she told: "Okay, okay, okay. Yes, I understand everything, it was totally my fault, please don't give me a lesson. I already understood everything. I will not cause trouble anymore. Please just do not give me a lesson."

    Then, the quebecois put the mousey on the floor and told: "Watch your step. If these dudes complain again - two hits and you're out. Capiche?"

    The mousey answered quickly: "Yes, officer!" And dived back under the dresser. In half of hour she came back and told: "Guys, I don't understand... Where is my hole?"

    But rastamen are already napping - it was a hard day for them, indeed. They are tired, and so on. The brownies added up as well. And they don't fucking care about her problems, even the rastafarian cat ignores the mousey. Well, the mousey stayed there until the morning, didn't find any hole, gave up and got lost. And nobody saw her there again.

    Original Russian text: (c) HighDuke


    English translation: (c) juzy

  • Big baby jesusBig baby jesus Regular
    edited August 2010
    Rastaman folk tales: About nice people (classic case)

    Once, three nice people were sitting in the kitchen being already mad nice. They are sitting and slowly talking about some movie by the German director Fassbinder, which title they can't remember, but for some reason they still want to. Incidentally, other distinctive topics and some jokes arise, the music is playing and virtual airships are flying by. So, it's, like, a good evening in a nice and quiet company.

    The phone rings. Hostess picks up the call and listens for a long time, waiting to hear something. Then, puts it back and asks the host: "Somebody is calling you again and disconnects when hearing me." The host tells: "Why are you thinking its calling me? Maybe, it's calling you and after hearing your voice disconnects immediately." These words puzzle the hostess; she tries to concentrate and freezes for like five minutes; then the phone rings again. The host picks it up himself and starts to talk with somebody; then it rings again and they finally realize that it's the door bell rings, boldly and persistently.

    The hostess tries to keep her face and tells: "Listen up. We are not waiting for anybody." The host and the guest open the window immediately and empty the ashtray out there ASAP. Then it turns out that the guest still has a dime bag, and what they gonna do with it? Throw away? No way! Hide it in the flat? It can put hosts into a trouble. The only way is to fucking smoke it up to do not surrender it to the enemies. They quickly rolled a reefer and smoked it like they are on a puffing contest.

    By the way, the stuff was quite good. They cheered up and started to loudly discuss how they almost shitted their pants after some stupid phone call which, in fact, probably never happened. Or, maybe, it happened indeed, but who really cares? Pigs don't know that somebody's here and they may think that nobody's home. They'll wait a bit then ten-forty-two to munch donuts and tell those ten-double-zero stories to each other. Maybe, they didn't really intend to can anybody, just rang the bell as a prank to put those damn hippies into a bad mood. But no way! Our mood isn't too weak to be spoiled that easily! To retaliate, let's call them back right now and tell: "Sorry, guys, you can relax for today - we're totally clean now!" Wait a sec, don't trouble trouble until trouble troubles you - they can come to check it out. And even bring something - to plant on us. Let's call the firemen instead or, even better, call four-one-one and ask when the August will finally come. Because it's October and October all the time, and still no August at all. Well, Russia is the motherland of October. It used to be written on Soviet propaganda billboards. Wow, guys, it exactly hits the spot: the motherland of October it is. But the October isn't so bad, after all: Oktoberfest, October Revolution, Halloween and other funny activities.

    There is a question: what if it weren't pigs? Those who ringed the door bell. What if it was something big and interesting and it passed by because we freaked out? But how to find it out, if it already came and passed by and will never come again? Especially because they don't really feel like lift their butts and go to see what it really was, albeit, from the other point of view, it would be really interesting to find it out. Finally, after some efforts, the host stood up and looked out of the door.

    There are two more nice people out there leaning on railings and having some slow conversation. When they saw the host they bucked up a bit and told: "Wow! Dude, what's the title of this movie by Fassbinder starring Banderas about a fat Indian?" The host remembered that the movie is called Gone with the Wind but it's not by Tarantino at all. He also wanted to find out did they ring the door bell or not - but those nice people are already totally nice and can't fucking remember. Probably they rang or probably they still didn't but they definitely didn't see any pigs out there either. The kettle is finally begun to boil and everybody went to drink tea.

    Original Russian text: (c) HighDuke


    English translation: (c) juzy

  • Big baby jesusBig baby jesus Regular
    edited August 2010
    Rastaman folk tales: About Satanist and Godist

    There was a Satanist. True Satanist. He didn't believe in any god, only in His Satanic Majesty. Black leather-clad in the summer and in the winter, wearing upturned cross on his neck, 666 on his nape, and Satanist pentagram on his chest. At home, he had a black altar with real horned skull, upturned crucifix and a lot of other those satanic thingamajigs. All his life he dreamed to make a bloody sacrifice to Satan. Preferably a seven-years-old baby, or at least a kitty, or a puppy, or a pigeon... But it was just wet dreams - because in real life he was unable to kill even a cockroach. Sometimes, after stumbling on it accidentally, he didn't sleep for several nights, stricken by the conscience. What kind of bloody sacrifice he could make being so poor in spirit?

    Other evil Satanists were always making fun and bullying him. Of course, he could lie that he wastes ten babies a week as some kind of Aleister Crowley. But he not only didn't have an experience in making things up - he was totally unable to lie and always told the truth. That's why he didn't visit Satanist parties and spent most time at home reading black books, listening death metal, watching horror movies and sometimes even porn. He watched porn with his wife. His wife was funny - black-clad goth beast, skinny, boobless and pesky... but he loved her very much. And he never cheated on her. He knew that Satan approves adultery; his wife didn't mind against it, he didn't mind against it himself but... it never happened. He simply didn't have any time for it because of work, family, household chores and so on.

    He worked in sales. He was a salaried salesman. All his managers respected him. They told: "This guy maybe a freak but an honest one." Salesmen often steal from their companies, especially the salaried ones, but this guy didn't know how to steal and never tried. So he lived only on his salary, and considered it a good one. Actually, his salary indeed became quite good over the time. In fact, everything was good in his life, and he thanked his Satan for it every day. Exactly like that: he stands on one knee before the black altar, bows his head and tells: "Thank you, Lord Satan, for my daily bread and forgive me if I did something wrong."

    One day, the Satanist died and came to the paradise. Not because he was so righteous - the paradise is not a reward and the hell is not punishment. When you die, there are zillions of roads open in front of you. You fly where you want and finally arrive where you belong. But the Satanist was a conscious guy and believed that after death all Satanists must go to hell. So he ignored all zillion of roads opened to him, and flied where he the least wanted to be. He decided to fly to the most unpleasant place for him. And finally he arrived to the paradise and started to suffer excruciating torments.

    He didn't find any Satan out there. No devils, no cauldrons, no chains, no hooks and no other hellish strap-ons. But he was waiting that they will appear at any moment and suffered from that waiting. Other paradise inhabitants told him: "It is the paradise, stupid!" He pretended that he agrees, but thought: "How stupid they are themselves!" But even these proud thoughts did not make him happy, because he was even unable to gloat. He was suffering for himself and for those poor souls who don't know their destiny. And he didn't tell them anything because, first, he was too shy, and, second, they won't even believe him if he would.

    In meantime, the paradise inhabitants complained of the Satanist to the God. "O Lord, please save him. We are worrying - why he is so gloomy and somber?" The God heard their prayers and came to save the Satanist.

    When he came, the Satanist told him: "I do not believe in you. I believe only in Satan and I don't need your snotty salvation! I was born for eternal night..." - and he started to declaim such a bombastic bullshit that even the God himself wasn't able to stand it and withdrawn, covering his mouth with a palm to hold a loud laugh.

    The God came home and dressed up as the Satan. When he came - the Satanist believed in him outright. He fell on his knees, trembling - either from fear or from excitement. And told: "Hail to you, my Master! Bring me to the infernal sorrows!"

    The God made up a satanic face and answered with satanic words: "Fuck to you - not infernal sorrows! Who are you to demand sufferings - sinner? villain? lawyer? You are lived all your life as a fucking lamb - never stole even a bag of chips, never slapped your biatch, never cut a tree, never set fire to a house, never molested a child! To torture you is like to fuck a shit - even devils would disdain it. You are torturing yourself - but it is too fancy for you as well! You, worthless soul, must be condemned to eternal happiness so you won't be ever able to suffer again - this is the punishment I invented for you. Enjoy it, you douchebag, and don't you even dare to suffer again!"

    The God became so enraged that he even for a moment became to feel himself a Satan, like in Stanislavski's system. But he collected himself on time and retired majestically, bursting with a hellfire ultimately.

    After that, the Satanist became particularly happy and positive, like some kind of Hare Krishna guy. Of course, somewhere deep inside he was unhappy because of this unrestrained happiness to which he's doomed until the end of the universe - but, in total, he was more happy than unhappy because he could not be not happy, he could not disobey the Satan's orders! When a man is happy it is good for him - no matter what. And, if he's even unhappy because of something good it is still better than being unhappy because of something bad. Finally, even the stubborn Satanist realized that - and resigned himself to his compulsory happiness.

    Okay, well then. Now let's talk about something else. I mean, about the Godist. How he lived, how he died and what happened with him.

    Of course, the Godist believed in God. It doesn't really matter to which one - the important thing is he believed not in Satan. He observed his commandments, regularly prayed to his God and asked the God to forgive all his sins. And, let's say the truth - he was sinful as we all are. We humans are weak and that's why we sin. The Godist was also a sick man therefore he was just unable to do not commit sins.

    Since he was a child, he was sick with kleptomania and this disorder is incurable. It was told to him: "Thou shalt no steal!" - but he was stealing, he simply couldn't not to steal. And the people didn't understand that this is a disability - in fact, they didn't even care, they pitied their stuff. But they didn't have any pity for the Godist - they kicked his butt, showed him the door and bullied him. At home, he confessed his sins to the God - he was grown up very pious, an Honoured Godist in fourth generation! The God was forgiving him because the God is gracious. Unlike people.

    Sometimes, childhood diseases go away with the age. But Godist's kleptomania didn't disappear. In fact, when he came to the age, he obtained one more illness. It is called satyriasis. No, it's not about satire, it's more about a restless cock, pardon my French. The Godist never used such satanic words. He used women, sometimes men, very seldom - children, but no goats, lambs and so on - for the God's sake, it's a mortal sin! Of course, any debauchery is a sin, but what a man could do with his disability? Only pray for forgiveness - and the God will forgive, of course, if he prays Him the right way.

    Needless to say, the life is really hard for such a disabled person living amongst healthy people. Those healthy people are so arrogant, intolerant to disabled and prone to physical violence. But the God was always saving the Godist because he believed in God and prayed every day: "O Lord, forgive me! O Lord, help me!" The God kinda loved him and leaded him in his life. To deliver the Godist from tormenting by mean people, the God made him a Holy Inquisitor. And the Godist started to... of course, not to torment, but simply and honestly burn people at the stake - to deliver God's justice in this sinful world.

    Does this Godist look ancient? Indeed, he was ancient and I truly hope that there are no such Godists anymore. He died long time ago and went to the hell. Not because he was sinful: the hell is not punishment and the paradise is not a reward. Simply saying, when you die, there are zillions holes open in front of you and you move where you want. And, finally, you arrive where you belong. The Godist believed that he must be in paradise - and unstoppably strived to the light, where an angelic music plays and divine fragrance smells. But because of his bad taste he came where disco balls blink, pop music thunders and it smells pussy. Into the hell, oh yeah.

    Some of you would think this IS a paradise. The Godist thought it as well: not just thought but truly believed. He thanked the Lord and started to settle in this magnificent paradise.

    He met his deceased friends, found new contacts and was introduced to celebrities. Every day, he was so amazed: how many unworthy souls there are in the paradise, vicious and unbelieving, which are clearly do not belong here! The hell inhabitants didn't tell him where he fallen into. Many of them didn't understand it themselves - and ones who understood was keeping mum and making fun of the naive noob quietly.

    In meantime, the Godist developed the following theory: the God in his endless mercy sometimes allows unworthy souls to the paradise - and we, worthy ones, should become a neighbourhood watch! Our goal is to do not let sinners consider this place a paradise but make it a real hell for them! So they spit blood and cleanse their souls by suffering!

    From now on, the blood began to flow from all hell's wash-basins and total suffering increased by, like, four hundred percents. Because there is one feature in the hell: all desires of everybody come true here. No matter what thou wished to thy neighbour - yoink! here it is. Of course, nobody desires any sick shit - quite the contrary, everybody thinks: "I gonna wish something r-r-really good right now!" But, at the end all the wishes come true and everybody is in a deep shit - and most of the shit comes from the people who wish only good to others.

    So, many of hell inhabitants suffered from the Godist. They started to search who is guilty but the Godist exposed himself. On one of hell's forums, he created a thread about his theory and was pwned and banned ASAP. But he respawned immediately, because in the hell nobody dies forever - just being reformatted according what he wants from this life.

    The Godist became a rabid dog. But he took a totally wrong lesson from it. He got better nose, faster legs, different view of the world - and he decided that he's a Revenge Angel now, he can see the true essence of being and his life goal - is to put the sinners on right track. When he realized that he started to run around the hell, jump and bark on people and bite them - but somebody wished him a dog's death immediately, and it was the end of his career as an angel. In his next reincarnation he wasn't able to run anymore. Because he became a tree.

    More exactly, he became a bush - not even a bush but a shrub of some unknown but very thorny specie. And he understood it as a next promotion - now he is like a pillar on which the vault of paradise rests. And his goal now is to grow and grow - to expand the paradise extensively.

    So, he started to grow - not so much upwards as in breadth. He spread out as the Berlin Wall, giving no peace to everybody in the hell. He pestered everybody so much that the once all hell inhabitants gathered to volunteer for a spring cleaning, uprooted the Godist and burned him without any remainder. And the Godist became a Lady Slippers Infusoria.

    Of course, he understood it his own way. He decided that he became a God! And he created his very own world inside himself with own hell and paradise, own Satanists and Godists and whole lot of stuff. At first, he also wanted to create a particularly heavenly world, but finally he built neither fish nor flesh - but still thought that his world it the most right one. And all Godists of this world believed in him as in God, and for Satanists he created their very special Satan so he won't have to dress up as a Satan himself. He settled up in hell much better than this Satanist in the paradise - or didn't he? I dunno... Really, what's better: to become the God or to attain the eternal happiness? Or to combine both these goals and finally build such a Universe where everybody's happy and nobody's bored? Well, this question is so complicated a philosophical - and I am already out of weed... and sobering up...

    Original Russian text: (c) HighDuke


    English translation: (c) juzy

  • Big baby jesusBig baby jesus Regular
    edited August 2010
    Rastaman folk tales: About all the shit (first Moscow tale)

    There was in Russia a dude named Kuntello. You would say who cares: one is Othello, another one is Kuntello; but I tell ya, life ain't easy for a boy named "Kuntello". Everybody bullied him in the kindergarten, everybody bullied him in the school, and what's more - he was rejected during the army draft because of his name. They told him: "Here is an army, not a motherfucking circus, and we don't need any clowns. Change your name ASAP and come back to the enlistment office." In fact, he didn't fucking want to serve so he jibbed at their offer, refused to change his name and didn't have to serve. He tried to apply for a job but all HR guys are falling down rolling on the floor laughing and saying: "Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off, dude with such a name." Finally, he found a job at the shit-pumping station, married and changed his name to Vasya Petrov. And he started to live normal life. Yep.

    Then the financial crisis happened, shit mysteriously disappeared from all the country, three of four units of the shit-pumping station was stopped and all the potheads was laid off first, including Vasya. Not just because he liked to smoke pot - well, in fact, he did, so what? Pot is not a drug; it doesn't impede but even improve one's work performance. He was laid off not for that but because of being young and lacking seniority, so the union refused to help and he was kicked out like a piece of shit.

    He thought: "Oh shit, I am screwed! I need to find a fucking job." He sat on a bench near the shit-pumping station, lighted up a cig and concentrated. Suddenly, somebody told: "Hi, Kuntello, long time - no see!" He answered automatically: "I am not a Kuntello, but the Vasya Petrov." The voice rejoined: "You might be a Vasya Petrov for somebody else but for me you are Kuntello. I'm your school bench buddy." Vasya lifted his head and saw that it's really his school buddy with whom he sat at one bench. He stands there looking so well-off, like rich and cool and even like some kind of nouveau riche. Wait: he even not stands but leans out of his car, from a Merce - phew! You would even say - in a Versace suit! It's just an urban legend - Mercedeses, Versace suits, satellite phones and all this bullshit. Dude, the real life is not that sketchy, the real life is much more diverse - so, the guy is leaning out of some motherfucking cool imported car and says: "Hi, Kuntello, how's your life?" Vasya answered: "Life is shit - I'm fired and broken, wife is bitch, kids are fappers. I'm totally messed up." The buddy offered: "I'll give you a job in my company. You'll be a traffic signs officer. The salary is decent."

    What is a traffic signs officer? It's, like, they give you a table of proper traffic signs and drive you to your area. You go along the road and mark all improper traffic signs grown up the last night. Then, you whistleblow to the special team which cuts them off. Indeed, it is a very important and useful work. So, Vasya is walking down the road and checks the traffic signs. It's not an easy job - there are no easy jobs, every job has its own quirks. For example, this particular sign looks totally legit: one car overtakes another one; but for some reason one car is painted upside down and the second one looks totally weird. This issue needs to be investigated - should this sign stand here or not; maybe, it's totally misplaced because the guy who painted it had a hangover and daubed such an ugly crap. Or, vice versa, everything is painted properly, but the sign is obviously misplaced, like, standing in the middle of the road and people are always hitting it with their foreheads. No instruction can provide for this kind of shit, you have to have a common sense, man! So, this is kind of job you can't excel not being high. Vasya hid behind a proper traffic sign, rolled up a joint, smoked it up and went further.

    He's going and going, and suddenly sees a sign with a spoon, a fork and a shotgun in between. "300 M" is also written on it. He came 300 more metres and saw a shawarma place, some kind of Middle-Eastern-looking wagon. He came in and saw a table with a spoon and a fork on it. He sat at the table, took the spoon into one hand and the fork into another hand. A Middle Eastern guy came and asked: "Why are you sitting here?" Vasya answers: "Uhm, you see... Well, I saw a road sign with spoon, fork and shotgun. I came and checked: all is correct. Here is the spoon. Here is the fork. How about a phat shotgun for me?"

    The Arab became very serious and told: "Come here." And went somewhere behind a curtain. Vasya stood up and also went behind the curtain. There is a long corridor with many doors out there, and the Arab walks already somewhere far-far away and sings some scary song in Arabic. Vasya stood and thought: "Why the fuck should I catch up with him?" So he came to the first open door. There is a big inflatable bike, an iron horse and a wooden skillet. Vasya mounted the bike and started to ride around all those corridors. A traffic officer stopped him and told: "Who the fuck are you?" Vasya answered him boldly: "You who the fuck are? You are a fucking officer - and I am an officer." The traffic officer answered: "What are you telling, man? It's just a load of bull. You are not digging it, man. Your bike is inflatable and you are a dickhead from a shit-pumping station yourself. And you are still asking: LINGERIE, LINGERIE! Suck my dick instead, no darn lingerie for you!"

    Vasya gently kicked his butt with a bike and told: "Dude, try to listen to your own bullshit! What the lingerie you are talking about? You'd better tell me, what your poison is and who's pushing it?" The officer answered: "Over there, behind the corner." Vasya mounted the bike again and rode behind the corner, - and there, indeed, all the shit and a shitload of all other stuff. But we are not looking at all this shit but daringly race thru and level up. There we are getting rubber boots, huge shit-thrower and a lot of shit to boot. And we are going to pwn the monsters. But monsters are running from us like sissies because they are immune to bullets and to flame but not to shit! Now we understand where all shit disappeared and why our shit-pumping station was closed. We boldly complete this level, pick up some magick phat lewt and become real munchkins. But it is not the end of the story yet...

    Indeed, it doesn't look like the end of the story. Vasya goes further, he goes and goes, he goes and goes, he goes and goes and finally comes to another tale. About an institution for special children. So, there was retarded children of retarded parents. Retarded educators and retarded nurses watched them over in a residential school. One retarded child had name Kuntello, and all retards bullied him and told: "Wow, you are a real retard. You, retard, should exchange your stupid name to less stupid one." But it was just bullshit, because nobody wanted to exchange his own name with him. So, Kuntello stole the name Fokin from another retard and he fucked everything up immediately. Then, he changed his name to Alaindelon and became an alaindelon. Then he changed it to Petrov-Vodkin and became a gorbachev. The perestroika was started, vodka was banned and ganja was legalized. But Vasya told: "Why the fuck to ban anything? Let's legalize everything and let people decide by themselves." But he was answered: "YOU CUNT TELL THAT, KUNTELLO!!!"

    Finally, he realized what his fault was: he snatched the new name but grudged to throw away the old one. Why to grudge at all: if you don't need something, throw it away immediately, not cache it in your stash so they could bust you when you expecting it the least. Disappointed Vasya sat on a tree stump smoking his reefer then he heard the whistle blow and I had to go into the forest. It was forest inhabitants there and they were the ones who told him about all the shit. He returned to the people wise and enlightened, came to his buddy-former-boss and told: "It ain't easy to police traffic signs, because I'm getting wasted all the time. But I heroically overcame this thing and now I know more than you about all the shit but I can not teach you because you won't dig it, man." The boss understood that he's in a real trouble and made Vasya his sidekick. Later, Vasya made his own way in the world and became a bigwig in this mysterious country and even outside its borders.

    Original Russian text: (c) HighDuke


    English translation: (c) juzy

  • Big baby jesusBig baby jesus Regular
    edited August 2010
    Rastaman folk tales: About two leaves

    Here it is - one more story about an old rastaman. He strolled down the flea market, making fun of everything around. And everything is so funny out there! Funny puppies, funny kittens, all kinds of bikes, Chinese-made radios, ghetto blasters, some flashlights... music is playing everywhere, people are smiling and babbling something illegible but still funny. Wow, it's so cool when the spring is came and everybody's smiling. Even if you got no money, it's still cool.

    So he was strolling around making fun and smelled a steakhouse from the right. And smelled a hot dog stand from the left. The pig woke up in his stomach and said: "Oink?" But the rastaman answered: "Yoink! Slow down, you ridiculous animal, let's have a lunch at home. I have no money neither for a steak, nor for a hotdog, not even for a popcorn."

    The pig repeated: "Oink! Stop selling me bullshit, old rastaman! No money, no money... Take this jackson out of your pocket and buy me a steak A-S-fucking-A-P!"

    The rastaman said: "Well, yeah. I indeed have twenty dollars. But I can live whole five days on this money, and it we eat a steak now - so what? Let me buy you some popcorn. Or a hot dog."

    But the pig is a stubborn animal and don't want to even consider any popcorn. It stamps its feet, squeals all over the market: "I WANT A STEAK! I WANT A STEAK! I WANT A STEAK!" and forces him to go to the steakhouse. But he's not a whimsical kid anymore, he's an old rastaman, and should be the master of his own pig. He stopped and said: "Listen up, you pig. Go to hell! Why you got into a habit of counting money in my pockets? To spite you I will spend this money on... well, I'll spend them on what I want." Saying that, he boldly turned away from the steakhouse and narrowly looked in front of him...

    ...and saw a marvelous plant. No, not the one you just thought about, but a really funny one. It grows in an old olive-oil tin and it is so bushy and branchy, with countless leaves on it, and all those leaves are, like, glowing from the inside. Such small round leaves, not like anything else's, but they look really drugged. So, this thing is standing on the counter, shimmering like emeralds, and it's so funny that even the pig shut up and stopped to bitch. What a darn cool plant!

    There is a seedy old man behind the counter. The rastaman asked him: "What's the... plant it is?" The old man answered: "It's a coca bush, son."

    Then, the rastaman asked: "Really, a coca bush?" Old man answered: "Really, really. Coca bush." The rastaman asked him: "Is your coca bush expensive?" Old man said: "No, it's not expensive, just twenty dollars." And blandly looks right to the eyes, like he understands everything.

    The rastaman said: "Wow, man, how do you know that I've got a jackson?" Old man said: "You, son, look exactly like twenty dollars." Astonished by such an insight, the rastaman took out his jackson and bought the coca bush. Of course, he immediately pinched off two leaves and chewed them up. So, he's coming home and listens to his feelings: does it make me high? Or does not? He's kinda feeling some symptoms - but it's kinda no symptoms at all. Or is it? Well, maybe, there is something, but who knows, how it is supposed to be, this mysterious coke high. And he can't ask for an advice because nobody knows.

    The rastaman came home still thinking does it make him high or not. He already drank some tea and rolled a joint but didn't smoke it because otherwise he won't understand do those leaves make him high or not. Probably it highs or probably it don't but he already feels so uneasy, fidgeting on the chair, tattooing and dangling feet - like something is totally wrong with this world.

    The rastaman looked around and suddenly realized what's wrong with this world. There is an UNWASHED CUP on the table! Alongside of it there is an unwashed spoon, a dirty dish with mummified food scrapings... What an ugly mess on the dining - oh boy, dining! - table! It's not even possible to survive this horror!

    The rastaman leapt on his feet and rushed to wash the cup. By the way, it was a whole-month-worth of dirty dishes in the sink - so he washed them all. Then, he cleaned up the table. And he cleaned the stove and the fridge. And he washed the floor and the window, dusted the ceiling and even washed curtains - wow! He hanged curtains to dry and immediately felt asleep.

    He woke up in the morning, like at 7AM, and thought: "Wow! Cool!" Because, you know, it's cool indeed. He went to the kitchen to munch something - and, wow! The kitchen is sparkling clean! The fridge is like brand-new! The window is shining! The floor is so clean he didn't even dare to step on it with dirty feet!

    The rastaman looks at all this cleanliness and suddenly recalls how he slept last night: on a stinky grey bed sheet, wrapping himself into a stinky dusty blanket... and the pillowcase - it's already became green because it was used as a filter when cooking magic milk - and they drank this dirty crap - ewww! Well, he puked all over his place instead of having breakfast then started to clean it up, do the laundry, throw away the garbage and fulfill other useful household chores.

    At this time, his friends-rastamen came over, so he tried to voluntell them to give him a hand. They said: "Calm down, man - let's smoke instead." But he said: "Wait a sec, wait a sec. Let's clean it up a little bit - then smoke." And he's, like, not stopping for even a second - working with a mop then with a duster then with a broom... Rastamen looked at this weird enthusiasm - and left quietly. The old rastaman cleaned up the entire apartment - and felt asleep.

    He wakes up next morning and sees that the apartment is clean like an operating-room and even the toilet shines like a Jedi Knight sword. He thinks: "Wow! What a feat! That's fucking awesome! With such a mindset I can probably even get a job!"

    He chewed up two leaves and went to apply for a job. He came and told to HR people: "Gimme the coolest job you have!" They asked him: "Who are you at all?" The rastaman answered: "I am a tractor, a nuclear reactor, a jack-of-all-trades, an ace of spades!" They started to laugh but he told: "Stop laughing! Gimme a job or I'll blow up like an inflatable Batman!"

    They started to laugh even louder but told him: "Well, the ace of spades, come tomorrow to meet with the executives, and you'll get a cool job." He returned home and, when at night his friends-rastamen came over he told them that he got a job. They congratulated him and presented a huge bag of premium weed. But the old rastaman told: "Sorry, I'm off for tonight. Smoke it on the balcony - but with closed door, because tomorrow is my first day on a new job and, you know... I should do my best."

    The friends resented a little bit and said: "Probably we'd better go smoke outside?" The old rastaman said: "Well, you know... Take no offence but... Indeed, you can smoke on the balcony... But if you want to go outside, it's even better. Because, you know..."

    Friends said: "Well-well-well, we understand..." And they got lost. The old rastaman went to bed immediately. In the morning, he chewed up two leaves and came to work. There is a plenty of work out there - well, the rastaman really got into it. Every morning he chews up two leaves and works hard all day then comes home at night and goes to bed. Two more leaves the next morning and back to work. Two more leaves and back to work. Two more leaves and back to work...

    He spent whole spring like that. And all the summer. Then the fall, the winter, the spring again - and the coca bush still grows and grows up. And the rastaman still works and works, works and works, works and still fucking works! The friends already gave up on him: he's done already... They don't come over or give him a call anymore.

    Once the rastaman received just another paycheque. As usually, he put it into the shoebox - but it doesn't fit anymore. It's, like, so full of cash that even the cover doesn't close. The rastaman thought: "Why the fuck I am still working and working? Isn't it a good time to have a rest? Tomorrow, I won't chew those two leaves anymore but smoke up and take a day off... or even a vacation... or even quit the job." Thinking about that, the old rastaman fell asleep,.

    Okay. In the morning he woke up, rolled a joint, licked it meditatively, twiddled it between his fingers... then put it aside, chewed up two leaves and went to work, thinking on the way: "Oh my god, what's wrong with me? I just wanted to have a rest... It's an addiction! I need to detox!"

    After thinking that, he went to an addiction clinic. An addiction counselor told him: "You are looking great, the old rastaman! Let me guess - you enrolled to a gym, found a job and quitted to smoke pot?"

    The rastaman told: "I would rather smoke pot. The pot is not a drug: you smoke it when you want and quit it when you don't. I've got a different addiction and now I'm totally lost. The problem is - I BECAME ADDICTED TO COCAINE!"

    The counselor said: "It doesn't look like that. Cocaine addicts are usually look antsy, with watery eyes and pale face. And you have healthy face, clear look and firm step. Maybe, it's not cocaine but Herbalife?"

    The rastaman said: "I dunno. Probably, it is Herbalife. It's a kind of bush - you chew up two leaves of it, go to work, and work until you fall asleep, the next day again - two leaves and go to work. And all the life passes like that! Just imagine it - Mr. Addiction Counselor: all the life passes like that and you can't even quit it!"

    The counselor said: "Well, it is called the normal life. All normal people live like that - even me. It may be an addiction but a very positive one, I guess."

    The rastaman said: "No! This addiction is not positive! There are no positive addictions at all -because all human beings must be free! People should work if they want or don't work if they don't want to - this is the right way. But when you are still working but already don't want to - this is a real drug addiction!"

    The counselor said: "OK. Let's call it an addiction if you wish. Give me your two leaves and I'll send it to the lab. We'll see what kind of narcotic it is, and then decide what to do."

    Okay then. The rastaman gave him two leaves, went home and felt asleep. In the morning, the counselor calls him and says: "Take it easy, the old rastaman! Your leaves are totally clean. No drugs, not alkaloids and even no Herbalife! You can chew it if you want - it won't harm you."

    And hangs up the phone. The rastaman looks at the bush, pinches off two leaves, smells them for some reason, puts them on the table and calls the counselor back, saying: "I understand that those leaves have no drugs in them - but what about the work addiction? How I got into this trouble?"

    The counselor told him: "Well, it is already out of my competence. Maybe, you just finally became mature..."

    The rastaman is outraged: "What the fucking maturity are you talking about? I'm not motherfucking old! I'm not even 40 - my whole life is in front of me!" He opened his stash, took a joint and...

    ...puffed it up with a terrific pleasure - like taking a sip of oxygen! It wrapped, pumped and raised him so high that he flied away like a little green cloud to the morning city, to the wild spring, to the boundless freedom, to the friends and the girlfriends... He forgot this entire "work" thing as a nightmare and presented the bush with non-drugged leaves to the counselor. Soon, the counselor moved to the capital city and became the superstar addiction counselor. He treated movie stars, musicians, TV hosts and Members of Parliament - even foreign presidents! He helped everybody, made a huge fortune and became world famous. But, of course, it's doesn't have anything to do with those leaves - this talent is given only to few. Everybody is unique.

    Original Russian text: (c) HighDuke


    English translation: (c) juzy

  • Big baby jesusBig baby jesus Regular
    edited August 2010
    Rastaman folk tales: About psychonauts

    There were once three psychonauts who lost in heaven. They looked around and saw the God. He stands in front of them and asks: "What are you heading for, valiants?" The first psychonaut answered: "To the heavenly California." The God told him: "Go behind the corner, take the bus two-o-two and take off at the second stop. It will be heavenly Netherlands at the bus stop then the heavenly Switzerland then, behind the kindergarten, the heavenly California is."

    The second psychonaut said: "I am going to nineteen-seventy-two." The God asked: "Why you need to go to the year of nineteen-seventy-two?" The psychonaut answered: "I was born there and I want to come back." The God told: "Go two blocks straight, there is a big hole in spatiotemporal continuity. Dive there then you will see how it works - and decide where to exit."

    The third psychonaut said: "I don't know my exact destination; I'm just looking for a very scary place." The God smiled and told him: "Well, dude, you've already found it. I gonna make you your total scary right here right now!" Saying that, he unscrews psychonaut's head then unscrews his own and swaps them. The psychonaut immediately saw himself in God's clothes in front of him and started to feel like he's a God but not exactly the God at the same time. And he told to himself by the God's lips: "Look, dude, there are seven windows in front of you. Each one has its own fear in it. Open a window and a fear will jump out. If you will be able to manage it - it will jump back, if you won't - bad for you!"

    But the psychonaut is not exactly a psychonaut anymore: he has only the head of psychonaut, but everything else is the Divine one - well, let's call him a psychonaut for now, because the head is more important. So, the psychonaut answered to God: "Why I should open them one by one?" And he opened all seven windows at once. Cops jumped out of the first window. Rabid dogs - out of the second. Terrible gangsters - out of the third. AIDS and the Black Plague - out of the fourth. And, out of the fifth one -

    - or fourth one? Well, let's count again: one - cops, two - dogs, three - gangsters, four - AIDS, five - jonesing, six - overdosing, seven - bunch of gay fagets. All this weird things fell on the brave psychonaut and in a minute torn his arms and legs as well as his head and turned all this things together with his body into a huge stinky pile of shit. Then, they scattered around all heaven, yelling wildly.

    Well. Our psychonaut looked on this situation with God's eyes and felt a horrible fear for the first time. Now he became a God and there is no way back - he has to take over all the Universe and work and work and work on it until the end of the world which could never ever fucking happens. That's how the God yoinked him and, in fact, meanly ripped him off. But, from another point of view, he asked for a trouble himself when looking for a fear. And finally he found one.

    While he's standing like that, a ballistic missile flied to him. And behind her, an evil smoked dry sausage flied and asked him threateningly: "Is it you the God?" The psychonaut asked her: "Why you need to know?" The sausage answered: "Because there is a total mess on the Earth, people are eating us, sausages, and you, the mean God, are looking on it and making fun. So, I decided to anally punish you for that." The missile said: "Indeed, sister! Then I will fubar him to four hundred eighteen pieces to make him cease to exist."

    The psychonaut caught the evil sausage and quickly bit away her head. Then, he told to the missile: "You want me to do the same with you, you measly snot?" The missile began to tremble: "No, I don't want it! It was a sausage's idea, I didn't want it at all, I was flying to a totally different place..." The psychonaut told her: "It doesn't matter where you intended to fly. Now I command you to fly to... No, wait, you won't fly anywhere but take me for a drive."

    So he mounted the missile and rode on her, inspecting his very own Universe. The Universe is totally run-down because the fears ran away from the windows, shitted on everything around and even ate five psychonauts. The psychonaut flied to angels and said: "Goddamn! There is a total mess all way around and you are slacking here doing nada!" The angels told him: "Sir, yes, sir! Let's smoke first then do all the stuff." And each of them rolled a good joint for himself, and, of course, they made one for the psychonaut as well.

    Oh yeah. In five minutes nobody's already doing anything being unable even to say a word: the heavenly bud is good as God! Then, the fears came and tried to frighten them. But angels and God are laughing out loud of those fears and making fun of the fuck out of them until they fucked them out so much that the fears are retiring to their windows locking them up tightly. Of course, there is a lot of their shit left splattered around - but the angels found a solution. They turned over all heavenly carpeting and all this shit simply fell down. The people of Earth started to gather this crap and to enjoy it very much. They are telling: "It is manna from heaven!" Oh, really, indeed - manna from heaven is the shit of heaven inhabitants. Like our own shit fertilizes the soil, the shit of heavenly inhabitants fertilizes us. This way we are living and prospering and there is nothing to shame about it.

    Original Russian text: (c) HighDuke


    English translation: (c) juzy
  • Big baby jesusBig baby jesus Regular
    edited August 2010
    Rastaman folk tales: How Jah put a rastaman to ordeals

    It is good, when a dude is calm and positive. His life is easy, all people are friendly towards him and even Jah Himself loves him and sends phat weed to him. But this is how it works now - it used to be almost opposite.

    Quite in the past, when the world was quite young and even Jah was young Himself, He was making fun of this world like of a brand new toy. He pressed all buttons, tried all options and changed all settings ten times a day. He played with people all ways: actively interfered in their lives, spoke with every of them personally and didn't get tired to explain the same ten times a day. He slowed down nervous sheeples, ridiculed boring nerds, put down smartasses, and all evil jerks received from Him An Oecumenical Fillip. On the other hand, Jah loved and respected calm and positive people but still didn't leave them alone.

    He ORDEALED them. In other words, He intentionally put them into all kind of big troubles to test the strength of their calmness and positiveness. Why did He do so? He probably didn't even know it Himself. When one martyr asked Him: "O Lord, wherefore dost Thou?" - Jah didn't answer him anything specific but just showed him Behemoth and Leviathan. And the dude became enlightened that Jah is impossibly cool. He didn't understand anything else but decided not to ask twice.

    So, at that time an unreally calm and unshakably positive dude named i-Van the Rastaman lived in Ethiopia. He was so smooth, he was so slack -- he never hustled, never bustled -- he wasn't uneasy, was not busy -- he was too smart to try too hard -- he smoked weeds and did no deeds. He even never bought, grown or bummed weed - people brought it to him because they loved and respected him thinking him to be a really wise man - almost a saint.

    People came to i-Van every evening treating him with a precious smoke and waiting what he will say. He didn't say much and his words almost always were the same. After having a smoke, he was smiling and saying: "GOOD ONE..." Even if ganja sucked big time, he still was saying: "Good one..." because the grass of wisdom shouldn't be cursed, no matter how weak it is. If the ganja was really good, after some time i-Van was saying: "WOW!" In fact, he said: "Wow!" most of the time because thenadays almost all ganja was really good. And, if it was just excellent, i-Van was doing couple of more puffs, saying: "JAH IS GREAT! JAH IS ALIVE! THANK JAH!" At this time, all guests understood, saw and felt that Jah is great and alive and He presents in every atom of this world filling it with warmth and light. The quiet happiness covered them up and they told: "THANK JAH!"

    Jah looked at this grace and rejoiced Himself. He didn't make up His mind to put i-Van to ordeals in order to won't regret it later. When He finally decided so, He selected an easy ordeal for this guy, a piece of cake one.

    So, one morning i-Van went to a washroom. In fact, instead of washroom he had a small wooden outhouse on the backyard. When he left the outhouse he saw that instead of his house there is just a flat area covered with small pieces of coal, slowly burning down! Jah was watching from the skies how i-Van would react to this disaster.

    Well, i-Van shook and scratched his head and climbed the tree. He took his stash from the tree's hollow, filled his pipe, lighted it up from one of the burning pieces of coal, sat under the tree smiled and told: "Good one..." Then, after some time he told: "Wow!" After that, he lay on the lawn and lost himself in contemplation of the skies, saying: "Jah is great! Jah is alive! Thank Jah!" In the evening, people came to him, bringing a mattress and a blanket, lots of grub and almost four ounces of ganja. Everybody invited him to stay in their home but i-Van didn't come. Because people so much stoned him up he couldn't even walk.

    Jah looked at all these celebrations and thought: "You have a good weed, i-Van. Very good one. That's why you are so calm and positive: smoke up - and you won't care that your house is burned down. But what would you say if you'll sober up just for a half of hour?"

    So Jah turned all i-Van's weed into hay. Next morning, i-Van waked up, washed himself, munched some grub, rolled a joint, smoked it up - and said: "Good one..." But it didn't sound confident, almost like a question and even without a smile. But i-Van sniffed his dreadlock, smiled and told: "Wow!" And, in the evening people came to him and brought some good weed. He puffed up with them and told, as usually: "Jah is great! Jah is alive! Thank Jah!" - and fell asleep under the tree.

    And Jah realized that this rastaman will never get sober. His body will be clean of all those cannabinoids only few years after the death. Especially considering the fact that with such good friends he will never be out of good weed and will always be calm and positive.

    When Jah realized all these things He became glad for i-Van's sake - but only from one point of view. From another point of view, Jah thought: "Okay then, dude... I'll find you a really trying ordeal - so you will tremble even being stoned!"

    Then, Jah told to His angels: "Now then! Fly to Pharaoh and tell him that i-Van the Rastaman has a good weed!" But angels became outraged: "O Lord, why are asking us to become snitches?" They refused to fly to Pharaoh and started to ask the Lord to smoke, relax and leave i-Van alone.

    Well, Jah smoked with them, relaxed and so on. But He didn't leave i-Van alone and didn't give up his intentions. Of course, he didn't openly snitch on the rastaman but gave Pharaoh a prophetic dream with a delicate hint.

    And Pharaoh dreamed about kine: fatfleshed and and leanfleshed. Leanfleshed kine came up out of the river wanting to munch fatfleshed ones. And, behold, there came a strange man: with hairs of wicker, yellow teeth, red eyes and very wide smile. He started to play on his pipe so all kine started to smile and dance - leanfleshed and fatfleshed altogether. The strange man smiled and told: "Jah is great! Jah is alive! Thank Jah!"

    Pharaoh immediately realized that this is not just a dream but a prophecy. He gathered all his wise men to explain it. Wise men said: "It's simple! The man you saw is i-Van the Rastaman from Ethiopia and the magic pipe in his hands means he got some good weed.

    Pharaoh was incredibly avid for other people's weed. No matter him already got three full gunnysacks of his own one, he still set forward to Ethiopia. He came to rastaman's place with a gang of his soldiers.

    i-Van didn't become scared or bothered - he just smiled and took his stash from the tree's hollow. Pharaoh grabbed it, rolled a huge papyrus joint, sucked it up in three puffs and - felt nothing. Because it was the very weed Jah turned into hay.

    Pharaoh pulled a face and spitted in disgust then said: "What a crap! It doesn't hit even a bit - just sores the throat!" i-Van answered: "Good one..." And smiled, as usually...

    After that, Pharaon exploded in anger: "What are you grinning at, sunuvabitch?!!! You think it's funny, you shaggy muthafucka?!!! Take him, boys!!!"

    So soldiers took i-Van. At this time, Jah was - well, I won't say that He was careless - He was to busy at work. Either a supernova exploded or the spacetime continuum distorted all in wrong space at wrong time - but the important thing is: He was too busy with another serious problem. So, when Jah solved this problem and remembered about i-Van, the poor guy was already impaled on a stake, after being flayed and broken on the wheel. He still smiled, though - but didn't say anything because he was already at death's door.

    Jah realized that He faulted ungodly - destroyed a good spot, spoiled a good weed, did a good man to death for no reason at all. What an Almighty! What a Merciful!

    So Jah became angry and descended from heaven and issued to all Pharaoh's army An Oecumenical Fillip. And drove all this gang by fifty feet into the earth, and cast Pharaoh alive into the lake of fire. This was his second death, total and definitive. And Jah restored i-Van's house with all its furnishings and stuff, and Jah turned the hay into weed, and Jah repaired i-Van and put him into sound sleep, and put i-Van into his house - then Jah returned back to heaven. This job took Him just fifteen minutes - y'know, he's Almighty, after all...

    i-Van the Rastaman woke up and didn't feel a thing - like nothing happened at all. He munched, smoked, loitered around the house, sat, laid, and played on guitar... In the evening, people came to him, bringing lots of weed and lots of grub, wondering that he's okay and his house is intact, like the fire never ever happened. Only i-Van wasn't surprised and didn't comment on all those miracles. He just puffed alot and said: "Jah is great! Jah is alive! Thank Jah!"

    Then, Jah visited them Himself. Nobody saw Him but everybody felt such a powerful all-embracing vibration when the light become brighter, sounds become 3-D - it's feels kinda scary but at the same time easy and happy, like flying in a dream. People hushed and frozen but i-Van smiled and said: "Hello, Jah!"

    And Jah told him: "Thank i-Van! You passed all My ordeals - such trying ones that even I may not pass Myself! But you retained your calmness, didn't lose your positiveness and your smile didn't wane even for a second! And I, the Creator of Heaven and Earth, promise you that from now on you will forever live in My paradise and never get a trouble again!"

    i-Van said: "Cool, Jah! It is funny to forever live in a paradise, oh boy. I live there already for a long time and enjoy it every day. But the fact I am so calm and positive - it is only thanks to You. You take care of me, pampering me with king's bounties and do not let evil bastards to get me. I didn't have any trying ordeals in my whole life - this is the paradise, after all, so it can't have any of them."

    Jah said: "Stop bullshitting me, i-Van! What do you mean by "ordeals didn't happen"? I just did to you by Myself! I burned down your house, turned your weed into a hay, then sent Pharaoh and his soldiers to get you - ain't those are not ordeals to you?"

    i-Van said: "Sorry, Jah, but I hardly believe in that. You are good and fair, and I really doubt you would do that shit to me. Look at my house - it's not burned down, it's good as it always was. Look at my backyard - where Pharaoh and his soldiers? Playing hide and seek, eh? But the backyard is tiny - where they can hide? Now about the hay - well, it may look like a truth. Sometimes when smoking a great weed, it feels like it turned into hay - no kick at all, only coughing. So what? Its okay - after a couple of days of teetotaling it works as it supposed to do. In my opinion, it's not an ordeal at all - just a small misunderstanding."

    Jah asked him: "Well, how about a stake in the asshole? Is it also a small misunderstanding, in your opinion?"

    i-Van said: "No-no-no. A stake in the asshole is probably a big trouble. Is something like that ever happened to me - I would probably die. But why You started to talk about that?"

    Jah said: "Oh i-Van, how you disappointed me! I thought that you are unconquerably just - but you just a stoned moron! You smoked yourself to anabiosis and live like under narcosis, not feeling any sufferings, not remembering any ordeals, parroting all the time: jahisgreat-jahisalive-thankjah... How I can put you to the paradise? Why you need eternal life if you are hiding from the life under a hemp tree?"

    i-Van answered: "Jah, but what I can do, if You are great indeed and alive indeed, and the hemp kicks indeed? The only thing I can ever do is to live in the paradise and praise You. This IS the only real life and I am not hiding from it at all. Unlike sitting on a stake - this is not a life at all: it's painful, harmful for health, looks indecent and there is no point to do that. Even I, a stoned moron, understand that - but You, the Omnisapient and the Omniscient, should understand it even more so."

    Jah just about to tell the rastaman: "You are wrong, i-Van - there is a great purport in sufferings!" But, after a second thought, He understood that He won't be able to explain this purport to i-Van and even to Himself. So, since this time, He stopped to put calm and positive people into ordeals. Since then, they live easy and trouble-free. Jah is sending them His bounties and helps them in a trouble. He just doesn't give them an eternal life - but they obviously do not really need it.

    Original Russian text: (c) HighDuke


    English translation: (c) juzy

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