[Archive c 17.03.2008] Humour [Archive to 28.04.2012] - page 407
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Google is in the business of image recognition, i.e. what is drawn. Reading text is a thing of the past. This is why Yandex is hopelessly behind Google.
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In high spirits, having eaten a lot of sour cream, the cat Barsik went for a walk along the ledge of the ninth-floor balcony. Moving gradually, Barsik's head hit the whitewashed wall at the end of the walk. Here he wanted to turn around, but could not hold on to the narrow plank and began a slow but inexorable descent. To an onlooker it was clear that a free fall was not in the cat's plans, for he instinctively swung his legs a couple of times (which did not help him much), rolled his eyes and started shrieking, rapidly gaining speed.
Few floors below Uncle Fedya was smoking on the balcony, crossing the cat's flight path with his long-standing uncurly head, basking in the sun and from time to time spitting down on the painters, who were in the cradle on the third floor and swearing at Uncle Fedya expletives. Attracted by the unusual sound, Uncle Fedya looked up. Above, eclipsing the sun, something dark was approaching. After a second he realized that it was something not only dark, but also soft.
Barsik wrapped all his paws around his rescuer's head and let his claws out in joy, shrieking without stopping. Uncle Fedya did not share the cat's joy. Having seen enough films about aliens, he classified the object falling from above as unidentified flying object, and from fear he cried even louder than Barsik. With their desperate screams they attracted the attention of the old ladies hanging out on the bench in the courtyard. "What a shame!" concluded one of them, then spat and waved her stick in the direction of the new buildings.
After a couple of minutes Uncle Fedya snatched the scratching Barsik out of his face and unwrapped him and threw the stranger to where he had come from, upwards. Upstairs there lived a plumber Zabuldygin, who in the mornings was cruelly tormented by the chronic hangover syndrome. Sitting in the kitchen and looking either at his watch or out the window, the locksmith reflected on life. At 10.01, reminiscent of a downed fighter jet by its behaviour and roar, a neighbour's cat flew down. At 10.03 the neighbour's cat flew back, stopped for a moment in the highest point of the trajectory, put out his paws to the sides, turned around his axis, reminding the locksmith Ka-50 "Black Shark" helicopter, and, unable to cope either with the laws of physics or with the laws of aerodynamics, continued his fall. Zabuldygin was determined to quit drinking.
The unfortunate Barsik went down, passing floor after floor, and would have reached the ground without adventure, if the painters had not got in his way on the third floor. The painters were not doing anything wrong. They painted the house by affixing a warning sign to the bottom of their cradle, so that a passer-by, turning the corner, would first get a few drops of green, or one or two of the more expensive white paint and only then, with his head up, would read: "Look out! Painting!"
Barsik, with barely a splash of paint, went into the bucket as a fish (all judges - 9 points). Making sure that the liquid in the bucket, though white, is not sour cream, the cat gradually began to get out. The painters heard something go into their paint. "He threw a rock at us," said the more experienced painter and peered into the bucket. A stone with an unusual, cat-head-like shape floated to the surface and suddenly opened its eyes. Out of surprise, the more experienced painter dropped the name brush and with the words, "Go away! Go away!" pushed the bucket with his foot. The bucket has turned twice in the air (Barsik got out of it on the first turn) and almost fit the passing by citizen who wished not to say his surname. The white cat, having barely touched the ground, scurried away.
He frightened off sparrows and pigeons, crossed the flowerbed and started clambering smartly to the first birch tree he found and clung to it until it ran out.
And in the shade under the birch tree a persistent duel was going on, a game of chess was being played. Pensioner Timokhin, nicknamed Grandmaster, dueled with pensioner Mironov for a bottle of moonshine. Having got wind of such a considerable prize, a janitor hung around and, seeing that the duel was unduly delayed, continually advised either Timokhin or Mironov to sacrifice a queen. The game itself turned out to be remarkably boring, and Barsik's fall from the birch on the thirty-eighth move brightened it up considerably. Having wiggled a bit on the board and scattered the pieces, the cat grabbed Black's queen with his teeth and darted away from the chess players. The janitor was the first to come to his senses, he grabbed a stool and shouted: "Give me the queen, you bastard!" launched it after the fleeing Barsik.
Statistics show that cats easily dodge stools. According to Goskomstat, the probability of hitting a running cat or cat with a stool from twenty paces is almost zero. In general, the average cat easily gets away with a stool, the intellectual Skripkin is another matter.
It's hard to say what Scripkin thought at this point, but the shout: "Give me the queen, you bastard!" and a blow on his back with a stool, he clearly took it personally. Shuddering with all his body, flailing his arms in a ballet style and dropping his bag of groceries, he ran to his doorway as fast as he could, and even faster. Barsik, thinking he was having a pleasant time, stealthily yucked into the bag of groceries.
Intelligent Skripkin like a bullet rushed up the stairs (although always used the lift) and ran up to the ninth floor (although he lived on the fourth). The janitor, feeling that somehow everything went wrong, picked up the bag and decided to take it to Skripkin, making up for his guilt in front of him. Barsik, feeling how he was lifted and carried, pretended to be dead, justly believing that maybe they would forgive him a horse or a rook, but they certainly wouldn't forgive a queen.
The janitor went up to the fourth floor and rang the doorbell, at that moment the cat, which had pretended to be dead and not moving until then, began to imitate agony to make it more plausible. The bag in the hands of the janitor moved ominously, causing him to feel indescribably horrified. Throwing the moving bag at the door, the honorable broomstick worker struck a run down the stairs and against the jamb at the finish line.
After fidgeting a little longer for propriety, Barsik listened: it was quiet, it was time to get down to the meal. Spitting out the queen, the cat took up the sausage with a professional understanding.
In twenty minutes the intellectual Skripkin, panting behind the rubbish chute on the ninth floor, was convinced that there was no chase and went down to his house. A few steps from the door his bag, smeared inside with white paint, was lying there. Already in the flat Skripkin made an audit of the groceries he had bought. He had bought half a kilo of sausage, a sour cream packet and two lemons, and the remainder: a sour cream packet, two lemons (one of them bitten) and a chess piece. Out of anger at the hooligans who had not only spoiled the food but also abused the bag, Skripkin went out onto the balcony and looked out into the yard. Chess was being played in the yard; black by the pensioners Timokhin and Mironov, white by the janitor, who had little game practice and was confused about the pieces. Timokhin moved an inverted rook to replace the missing queen, and Mironov said: "Check for you." "Checkmate to you!" shrieked the intellectual Skripkin and launched the black and white queen from behind cover. The ill-fated queen slammed into the centre of the board and scattered the other pieces within a three-metre radius.
The janitor's fearful cry of "I'll kill you!" caught Barsik on the roof, where he had climbed to dry off. The cat was soaking wet, his paws sticking to the warm tar, that he rubbed his right side against the antenna, one of the tenants had installed the day before. The antenna fell down safely. Looking for something to rub himself on, the hapless paratrooper, this time up the stairs, went downstairs and out into the courtyard. What he needed was hanging on the clothesline - an old plaid.
Barsik hung on the plaid and pulled it to the ground. This outrage was seen by the mistress of the plaid, an old woman living on the eighth floor, unsociable, spiteful, but still not without some of the charm given to her by her senile marasmus. "Eva, what are you up to," said the old woman, and began to scare the cat away with shouts of "Shoo!" and "Shish!", but could that frighten Barsik! On the contrary, he rolled over onto his back and began to wriggle on the plaid. The old woman began to whistle, but instead of whistling she uttered an incomprehensible hiss, the same hiss which led the neighbours to believe that the mad old woman had got a snake somewhere. The mistress of the plaid, which had been a wedding present to her, took a mop, and swinging it as far as her sciatica would allow, launched it from the eighth floor. The mop whizzed past the painters and hit the ground a few feet from Barsik, who looked up, then jumped sharply and did it just in time: the second mop thudded on the plaid. "Why, you parasite, why, you wretched one," wailed the old woman, but the wretched parasite, knowing from experience that Granny only had two mops available, collapsed even in a somewhat indecent posture.
About the number of mops Barsik was absolutely right, but he had no idea about the arsenal of valenki. Smiling slyly in anticipation of revenge, granny stretched her arms, doing rotary motions, and gave a volley of three valenki in a row. All three valenki hit the target, one of them even hit Barsik. Another ricocheted off the head of an experienced painter, caught his apprentice, while the third valenok flat on the back of a janitor, who, nadastuvannya prize samogon, tired of intellectual games and was resting nearby in the sandbox. Both painters swore with dirty words, and the janitor woke up and began to sing a song. Barsik, on the other hand, took off. Granny, on the occasion of such a successful throw, let out a victory cry, imitating Tarzan.
Ninth-grader Petya tied his bulldog, nicknamed Napoleon, to his bicycle and went to the shop to get some bread. Napoleon was told to sit still, but the instinct, awakened in him by the rapid movement of the cat in space, was too strong. And now the three of them were already running: Barsik, Napoleon and the bicycle, the latter running reluctantly, which was loudly ringing about.
Ivan Ivanovich Sidorov went out with his daughter to buy her something nice for her birthday; happy, they returned home. The daughter clutched a Japanese Tamagotchi toy in her hand, while Ivan Ivanovich was carrying a huge cake on outstretched arms. Just then a cat crossed their path. The girl shouted to her father: "Beware of the cat!" and then "Beware of the dog!", to which Ivan Ivanovich kindly replied: "Yes, I see", then caught hold of Napoleon's leash, but did not fall down yet, but balanced the cake, bouncing on one leg, and would have held on, had the bicycle not arrived. Ivan Ivanovich, like an enemy bunker, covered himself with the just-bought cake. Some passers-by found the situation comical and laughed, but they did so in vain, as Ivan Ivanovich was a large man. Having stood up, he did not go into detail, but began to slap left and right. After about ten minutes he finished the slapping and moved on to kicking. Most of all Steklyashkin, who openly protested and all wanted to know by what right he was being kicked, and ninth-grader Petya, who came running into the noise and asked Ivan Ivanovich, during a brief pause, whether he had seen his bicycle and dog.
In the evening, weary from the day's fuss, the cat Barsik scratched the door of his home flat number 35 on the ninth floor with his paw. They let him in, and the girl Lena, whom he treated with reverence because she usually begged his parents for sour cream, only spluttered: "He's all white this time!". Accepting that he would be washed as punishment, Barsik lowered his head. Two hours later, still not washed, the cat was sitting on the lap of his mistress, who stroked him and whispered: "Well, where have you been? I was worried, I thought you had crashed. How nice and cozy it was at home, Barsik purred softly from pleasure and in gratitude for being stroked, and thought: "Why are some people so good and some people so evil?
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