Repost: Spot the Language 19

Another old post, but it was so good, I had to repost. Lot of obscure historical references in there. You get a gold star if you can get any of them. If you can’t, you have to go to the back of the class and wear a dunce cap until the bell rings. Go at it, slackers.

You’re supposed to figure out what language this is. It’s in Cyrillic, so it’s either Slavic or from a Slavic land. That’s all the hints you get. This one is so easy it should be a dummy test. Fail it and you’re a dummy. A crash test dummy. One that just hit a wall at 60 mph.

Максим (Кроха) практически не скрывал своих противоестественных страстей. Никого не стесняясь, он заходил к очередному любовнику и принимался за черное дело. Свидетель такого цирка, оттого ушедший из МП, тогда неосторожно заглянул в помещение и, увидев, чем занимается правящий архиерей, сказал:

– Паскуда, хотя бы панагию снял…
В свое время еще существовавший Совет по делам религий был обезкуражен многочисленными неблаговидными выходками одного Члена Синода. Поводом послужило несколько письменных заявлений уборщицы. Суть заключалась в следующем.

– У меня – строгий рабочий день,- сообщала глупая тетка.- В 19.00 я оканчиваю работу и ухожу домой. По трудовому договору я обязана до этого сделать мокрую уборку в помещении. А я захожу в митрополичий кабинет – а они там безобразят.

– Как это? – испуганно интересовались чиновники.
– А так,- не сдавалась представительница пролетариата.- Они друг дружку употребляют прямо на письменном столе и мешают уборке. Я им говорю: «Кончайте быстрее. Мне надо убираться и уходить». А они – ни в какую, только сопят. Ну, я их мокрой тряпкой попыталась разогнать. Так они мне стали угрожать увольнением. Я так это дело не оставлю!..

Но особенно хорошо:

Вспомнилась мне, когда-то прочитанная стенограмма одного заседания в обкоме КПСС, кажется, Волынской области. Там что-то сильно требовались зоотехники, скотники, доярки и т.д. Речь шла, если помню правильно, о селе Торчине. Но каков официальный ответ местного партийного руководителя:

– Зоотехникiв немаэ. Абу пип, абу милиционэр. Скотникiв тэж немаэ…

И вот так везде – абу пип, абу милиционэр, а скотникiв немаэ.

To Mother! Mother! Holy Mother! Glory to Mother!

It was 1910-1914. It was before King-Crane already, yet the cruel imperialists were already carving up and feasting on Arab lands, and Mother sat down to eat. Dining on Ottoman’s choice cuts, as she had always lustily dreamed. The hate, the hate for Ottoman, the burning hate. Well, no man will stand for being eaten alive, and in Ottoman’s mansion, a great mutiny arose with the finest of his sons, the Young Men. There was a rising on the Bosporus, and they had murder in their eyes.

Little did history realize the significance of those days, the rise of the Young Men, that it would lead to a war that shattered all things, the Great Imperialist Slaughter as the Left snorted amid heaves, half a decade hence. Who today yet connects the two tremors? Ah, but it is true. The War, the war, the maddest of all the horrible wars, a war for no reason!

It was 1914 and it was 1915 and it was war, the worst war the world pretended it had ever seen.

Mother was beaten and nearly died at Tannenburg and Masurim Lakes as a Hun went mad. Mother crawled back scrambling to the Hinterland, where no man could ever beat her for good. With her, a 100,000 man Czech Legion, traitors to a one, rallying to the cry of their own flesh and blood. There was war in Galice, in the Pallid Lands. There, in a Sallow Land, the fight stalemated for years, and a million of Mother’s sons did never breathe again.

Brusilov, in 1916, opened the door, and Mother grabbed the tallest Carpathian peaks. In reaching for the sky, a million more sons were trampled dead. At home there were riots and frustration with the dying, the long dying, the sadness of the dying. The monarch toppled and the people dreamed that they ruled. It was March 1917, and the world was shaking.

Mother was dragged to Brest-Livotsk, raging and snarling all the way and clawing with her nails. At gunpoint, she signed, and they cruelly hacked away her flesh. “Mother! Holy Mother!” the people cried, as they always did in this cruel enraptured land. “For land, for bread, for peace,” the wild peasant crowds longed and roared, and Revolution shook the land. In Red and White, the blood ran across the wheezing land for years. Wrangel and Denikin grabbed the South, and Kolchak grabbed the East. 40,000 Czechs, turncoats in the Great War, changed colors again, and the rails were seized.

It was 1921. We were at a seaport, just us, you and me, no one  else in the whole world but us, and it was perfect, like it always is, like it always was, like it always will be. We watched in terror, just you and I, us against the world, as the sailors raged and burned, and 400 brave ones fell. We ran from the flames and the soldiers’ bullets mowing down men.

Everyone from other lands pitched in to the fight, everyone against Mother, as usual, but in the end the people prevailed as the peasants cheered. Agile and adaptive as a snake, from privation, the state went to NEP and won the bloody war. To this day, the ruling class of the world trembles with rage at this horrible blow. The people had no food, they shrunk, huddled, and died, and no one knew how many starved, but starving was a normal way here, like the endless forests and the cruel soil from which nothing would sprout but icicles.

The saga of Mother, the strange, sad, terrible, and beautiful saga of Mother, so proud but so backwards and full of rage, like a wild woman living in the woods with her head held high, does not end here, but here we shall end our tale. Even today, she rises again, as usual and as ever, no one can figure her out.

Those wily Eastern ways, the eternal resentment of the West. The icy wind blows, she throws back another Vodka, and listens to her great composers. The bookshelves heave with her authors, the greatest lettermen that walked on land. Her pride and her pain and her rage. She tosses back another drink as the wind howls in the icy swaying trees.

It is late, she is beautiful, blond, and blue, yet alone again, and she rages at the snowy drifts fighting her sills. Mother is horny and she wants sex again and again, wants the world, wants to fuck the world, not just a bit of the world, oh no, she wants the whole world and everyone in it, and the men are all drinking again, drinking and singing, drinking and fighting, drinking and sleeping. There is death everywhere, but there always is and always was, as death is part of Mother as dear to her as her very heart.

She will rise again.

Like her or not, always respect Mother. The way you respect a Grizzly Bear. Imperious yet crippled, she demands you look her in the eye and give her her due. Those who do not will find death in the snow.

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