Капец ржач - Про Стаса - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

When Misha and I were in sixth grade, Stas was brought to us. He was an inadequate person, but it seemed like it was not his fault. He suffered from some kind of abnormality, like narcolepsy, when people fall asleep unexpectedly, but he didn’t fall asleep, he was stuck, completely stuck. that is, from the beginning he got stuck into something, and then stopped and started drooling. He came to his senses only after the whole class, shouting “Get the guy, the idiot’s batteries are dead again,” began giving him slaps on the back of the head and smacks on the ass. They called him a fool behind his back, but saying something like that to his face was somehow insulting, so they called Stasik a neutral pisyun. Soon Pisyunov’s mother appeared at school, who for some reason immediately signed up Misha and me as Pisyunov’s friends and told us a lot about him. It turned out that there was a whole list of things, like cyclically moving fucking objects and images with bright colors that the pisyun did not want to observe at all, otherwise there was a danger of falling into a specific long-term stupor or who knows what else. Misha spent the rest of that school day in vain attempts to put the pisyun into a coma. He walked around him in circles, depicting a cyclically moving object, and at regular intervals he twirled colored pencils in front of his face, depicting a bright color scheme. periodically looked intently into the eyes. But fuck it, the pussy didn’t give in. After classes, the three of us were already standing in the locker room. Frustrated by such failures, Misha, sternly, like the whore Comrade Beria, pulled on his favorite miracle sweater. The apogee of fucking postmodernism, brought from some fucking churkistan. Now, from the height of my experience, so to speak, I understand that on this piece of clothing, by the efforts of Tajik weavers, part-time drug addicts and colorblind people, using artistic means, the heroin arrival was depicted, but at that time we were firmly convinced that these were the five green horsemen catching black fish in a red field under the scorching purple sun. Every time Misha put on this paranoia and turned into a solid red-violet spot, I had a compelling desire to clasp my head in my hands and run the fuck away, screaming like “No, no, not my motherfucking aliens...”. As soon as Misha went out into the street in this sweater, passers-by began to shy away, forgetting what they had just been thinking about, small children began to cry, and young ladies began to menstruate profusely. For me personally, as well as for some of our friends, the sweater caused attacks of nausea and dizziness, so I tried to look at the floor whenever possible. That is, as you understand, against the faded gray background of the locker room, Misha’s sweater really stood out so much, but damn it, I’ll say more, there is no such background in nature at all against which this fucking accessory wouldn’t stand out. Although if you dig up a flying saucer somewhere with a huge inscription “EARTHLANDS, WE COME IN PEACE!”, you can safely put on Misha’s sweater and stand next to him. These things complement each other perfectly. The red spot blurted out something like “happy boys” and floated away towards the exit. Taking my eyes off the floor, I saw a pussy. The pussy was so fucked up, as if he had been catching black fish with green riders all night and now stood in front of me, like fucked up. With wobbly legs, a begging lip and a dull look. That time it was stuck thoroughly; I pumped it out for about fifteen minutes. Misha told him to fucking burn the sweater. The pussy had a cat, its name was Dusya. Dusya was a mercilessly fucked animal. She ran into the walls, missed the bowl of milk and made strange faces. Dusya, by the way, she was purely formal, since she responded to Dusya and Vasya with Petya and to Fuck you. In general, Dusya was not a survivor in any case. Her helmet was blown off at birth, according to the laws of nature, she should have been knocked to hell in early childhood, when instead of a tit, she poked her mother’s ass in the ass, but then, damn it, in terms of natural selection, the famous Greenpeace pisyun intervened. He dug up the dysfunctional Dusya in some garbage dump and naturally locked her in the house. It was along the way finally after