This is adorkable

Блять, Дэвенпорт, я ударилась о дно.

@темы: Лицедеи, Мужики, Страдающий визг назгула, Kingsman, Видео, Музыка, Позитив

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Детк

Он умилил весь зал, такая няша.

@темы: Мужики, Кино и TV

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Вдогонку к предыдущему

Арт, например.
#розовыйХалатЛанселота

@темы: Фагготрия, Лицедеи, Мужики, Worldwide Web, Кино и TV, ГРЕШНОВАТО, Страдающий визг назгула, how and why I say shit, Kingsman, Позитив

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Фраза дня

Джек Дэвенпорт - эротический кошмар. ©

Мы снова упоролись с половинкой.
Мы подумали, что Ланселот должен носить клетчатый халат. Мы подумали - мы сделали!

@темы: Лицедеи, Мужики, Кино и TV, ГРЕШНОВАТО, Страдающий визг назгула, how and why I say shit, Kingsman, Наблюдения

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О насыщенности дня (продолжение)

Еще я сегодня заменяла пару у одной группы.
Сразу видно - не мои ребята. Потому что среди них нашлась одна особо смелая камикадзе, сказавшая, что ей не нравится фильм "Талантливый мистер Рипли" из-за гомосятины.
И я такая: "mind your mouth, cunt, or there'll be hell to pay". Наверное, я слишком жестко имела её на протяжении полутора часов, но вотэва.
Возможно, я пару раз ввернула нехорошие выражения, но группа-то Elementary, они всё равно не просекли фишку.

@темы: Фагготрия, Будничное, Мизантропия, Арбайт махт фрай, ГРЕШНОВАТО

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Каждый день новая хрень

И вот пришла та стадия, когда у тебя появляется студент, страдающий puppy-love по отношению к тебе. Было-было, но такого...
Как будто моя работа не была достаточно "интересной" без этого.

Памятка: если вы еще учитесь и у вас есть краш на препода - знайте, он всё видит.

@настроение: Harry, I feel you, bruv

@темы: Будничное, Арбайт махт фрай

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My emotions are out

@темы: Фагготрия, Лицедеи, Мужики, Кино и TV, ГРЕШНОВАТО, Страдающий визг назгула, Kingsman, Colin "my life is ruined because of him" Firth, Видео

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Бесспорно и категорично

А вот  правая половинка Ланселота считает, что слово Дэвенпорт-хуевенпорт больше подходит вот к этому фото.
Сложно спорить, с моей-то стороны.

@темы: Лицедеи, Мужики, Кино и TV, ГРЕШНОВАТО, Страдающий визг назгула, Kingsman, ПЧ

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Дэвенпорт-хуевенпорт

raaaaaarrrrghhhhh fuckityfuck you motherfucker! /голос со стороны/ У этого пациента мы наблюдаем стадию №2: Ненависть
/breathing in/
okay.
okay.
/staring intensely/
right.
okay.
I need to stop saying 'okay'

Но это блядская шея вы только гляньте на эту шею это же блять скульптура фак май лайф у меня новый фетиш хотя куда там больше блять

@темы: Этот мир прогнил, Лицедеи, Мужики, Кино и TV, ГРЕШНОВАТО, Страдающий визг назгула, how and why I say shit, Kingsman

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Тот еще фикрайтер

Вот тут запостили рассказ Колина Фёрта "Отдел пустяков", написанный ради сборника, собиравшего деньги на реализацию благотворительного проекта.
Конечно же, на английском читать его гораздо приятнее.

Помню, когда-то я говорила Правой половинке, что Колин сидит на АО3 и строчит фики по Хартвину. Под ником Galahard.

COLIN FIRTH: The Department of Nothing

Through a creepy forest she ran, young Emma in her white nightie; flapping and phantasmic in the gloom of an enchanted night-storm. For it was prophesied that the only way to lift the spell was for her to find the Night Garden and take the ring from the hand of the evil Lucien Lothair who ruled all Sardorf with an iron fist and a nasty climate. In order to do this she had to run through this forest, where darkness had stolen all colour---sucked it like a vampire does.
Something was chasing her. How could she know if she was running towards even greater danger? She couldn't, basically, so she just had to get on with it and run anyway and hope she was running in the right direction. On she strove, scraping her extremities on stumps of mighty oak and frowning yew---whereupon she came upon an ivied wall.....wildly she fought for passage---and lo! By luck or grace, she fell upon a door which gave way onto...
The Night Garden:
All moonlit and full of eerie beauty and tranquillity. Here the wind fell silent--and her pursuer seemed not to be around anymore. The garden seemed to belong to a great house or castle, now mainly forgotten. All around were crumbling walls and sundials, old statues, rose trees, terrible gargoyles and stone animals. What she didn't see were little real live devilish faces poking from behind the rocks. Then suddenly, standing right in front of her, there was a group of weird children. They were staring at her. One of them said, "Who are you?" And then, before anyone could answer, this big loud honking voice from somewhere else, suddenly shouted, "Henry!!!!" which is my name.......

And there wasn't any garden or children, just me sitting next to Grandma's bed, probably late for school, smelling Haddock---wishing Grandma's stories didn't have to be always interrupted. You see how annoying it is? It's more than annoying, it's irksome. In fact, it was twenty to nine and I was about five minutes away from quite a big detention if I didn't go damn sharpish. I still wanted Grandma to go on, but that's always when she gets strict and says, "No more talking, the session is closed."
Whenever I'm listening to a story I always turn her bedside clock away so I don't see the time. She says I'm not allowed to because I have to respect punctuality--but I always manage it. Clocks are definitely on the TTPUYL list. Things That Pants Up Your Life. Grown ups think they are fantastic---they love minutes and they add them up like they're made of pound coins or something. Our teacher Shitty McVittie (I didn't make up the shitty part, that's what everyone calls him)... if you're, like, a minute late it's like you've stolen a minute off him and so he'll steal an hour off you--after school. Even grandma says "chop, chop" all the time, in spite of being magic. It's strange, because the place where clocks most can't get you is in her stories. Even after she's told one it's like you go into a kind of slo-mo for ages.
So when I came out of Grandma's room I already knew I'd bethinking about the rest of the story until five o'clock, and I'd probably get in trouble for daydreaming. You always come out wit a load of new words and things you can carry in your head until next time--and school would be much worse without these things in your head...my head.
It can still make you go a bit mental to be torn viciously from a mysterious midnight garden to your mum shouting 'cause you didn't eat your haddock. So your life is made of half-finished stories and games that never actually get added up into a whole thing--unless it's your homework or your broccoli, then you can finish it all, however long it takes.
There's a name for all this: most people call it real life, but actually it's called the Department of Nothing. It's not just one department, but loads of mini departments. The broccoli and haddock and meat with vomity white bits get made in the Kitchen of Nothing. School is the Paper Department, where they have this special doom-paper so that anything you write on it is doomed. Then there's the Waiting Room of Nothing where you get told Not now, I'm busy, or You're not old enough yet and all that, and this is where all detentions come from. And then the Department of Vacuum Cleaner comes and sucks up all the second halves of stories and games, so you can never find them again. Grownups think they are the controllers, but they're not really, because it's the Clock Department who have all the actual power; marching grownups about like sergeant majors to one two, one two. Absolutely everyone lives here---unless they get to go to Grandma's room, which is the only way out of the Department----except nobody knows that, even though it's blatant. The trick is holding on to the magic to get you through the Department of Nothing. The luckiest thing is that stories come right at the beginning of the day.
Stories are the best things in my life. OK so...it goes, best things: Grandma's stories, Grandma, Tintin books, the crossword in The Chronicle, gobstoppers, weekends, and holidays. And days when Mr. McVittie's away. But the main best thing is usually Grandma.
Grandma doesn't live in the world anymore, because she has to live in her room. She can't do the stairs and her health isn't brilliant. She wishes she could get out, and I wish that too, but her room and the stories are better than any of the places she wants to get out to, and that's where I visit. all the time, even though she's strict and checks if I've washed my hands, and you have to ask her if you can sit down. Going to Grandma's room is like going to thousands of incredible different places. And sometimes when she's doing a story, I look at her hands, which I know are really old and kind of baggy but they make me think of places too. They've got paths that lead you where you don't know, like a map of mountains and rivers of countries you wish you could get to.
And when her teeth are out and in the glass they smile at you so weirdly that sometimes you think they are going to burst out laughing about something they know and you don't.
It's not like the woods at the bottom of our garden, 'cause when you go in them you think it's like this totally wicked place to explore and you can't see further because the bamboo is so thick, but then you always really quickly get to the fence of Mrs. Lowecroft's garden, or if you go the other way, you get the fence to Crossways Road, so the whole exploration turns into a total bin. But when you go to Grandma's room, it's like exploring with no fence at the end. Except for when Mum calls you. She makes her room seem bigger than the world outside, which what she wants to escape into, and I think it's sad that there's something back-to-front about it all. I want to escape to her room, and she wants to escape into The Department of Nothing.
Grandma tries to persuade Mum to let her go out - to church or something. That's what she talks about wanting to do, and she talks about it a lot. Mum always says she'll talk to Doctor Morgan and she'll see.. Grandma said she felt like Rapunzel, but who everyone's forgot about. She said, "My prince would get a bit of a nasty shock if he climbed the walls and saw me now, wouldn't he? He shouldn't have been so blessed long about it." She always says these kinds of things in a cheerful voice, but she only does her cheerful voice when she's not really cheerful. It's a Mary Poppins putting-a-brave-face-on sort of thing. When she's happy she always goes all strict and pretends not to be cheerful.
She's quite a back-to-front lady really.
Max--my older brother, who's not on my list of best things - says it's completely pants to go visiting your grandma all the time instead of having proper friends. He calls me the Prince of Pants and the only reason he hasn't told everyone at school is because he's too
embarrassed for everyone to know his brother's a bell-end. Well, he's fourteen and I found a picture of All Saints inside his Southampton fanzine, and he's got a mail order catalogue under his bed for girls' underwear, and he's only just stopped playing with Pokèmon cards and you can't get much pantser than that, and weirdest of all, I found two Barbie dolls in with his action men and I think he might be doing pretty pervy things to them.
He says stories are for poofs, but he's the one going on all the time about the evil shed. I've always been scared of the evil shed even if I don't know whether to believe him about it. The evil shed is the shed in our garden which no one uses, and Max says that at night the old bags of cement, which are in there, turn into bollock-eating midgets. They are exactly the right height to eat your bollocks and there's no escape. The boy who used to live in out house before us, Christopher Cresswell, was sitting down on the floor of the shed once, when a midget came up through a rotten floorboard and ate his entire bollocks, his nob and part of his bum, and now he has to wear special trousers. It's probably not true but I don't want to chance it and neither does Max--which is funny for someone who thinks stories are for poofs.
But Max isn't even close to the top of the list of things that pants up your life. He isn't even on it really. I don't care actually; he doesn't spoil things. TTPUYL have to be much worse than just irksome. The evil shed would be, but it's probably not true and anyway I can avoid it. TTPUYL have to be hard to avoid. Like clocks. Timetables. Shitty McVittie detention. Sarcasm. This is what Shitty McVittie uses and it makes me wish the cane was legal--'cause I'd much rather have the cane. Well, not really.
Then there's Uncle Toby. I don't even know if he's evil but he gives me the creeps, even though he used to be a vicar or dean or something, but that just makes him creepier. I think he stopped being a vicar when he got into trouble for walking down Mitford Road with his penis out. But I'm not sure about that; it might just be a rumour. He's my dad's brother, which means he's my grandma's son, and she doesn't like him either but she won't ever say why ... so maybe it's because of his penis ... I don't know. She's always telling me to watch for him.
And the scariest of all, even though I've never met him, is O'Hare--of Brothers O'Hare. He's the undertaker and it's not just 'cause he's the undertaker, I mean, I'm not so pathetic as to say oh oey! The undertaker! It's 'cause he's actually just scary and the undertaking parlour is scary as well. There used to be four Brothers O'Hare, but one's gone away, another one's simple, and one's dead except people say he's still there, as a ghostly partner. The back window of the parlour backs onto a railway line. Max says that old Mr. Hare was found hanging in that window. It's called the Darkling Window of Death. If you go down the High Street, you have to pass in front of O'Hare's, and often you see O'Hare watching you through net curtains, thinking of you in his clutches. I saw him driving the Daimler with the box in the back containing old Mr. Hesperson, and you could see he was thinking, "That's another one for my evil collection." He first came here to Walden Bridge in 1989, which is the year I was born, and I've always wished he hadn't, because it's as if he came here specially to wait for me. It's probably nonsense, like the shed, but nonsense is a lot scarier than sense.
When I got downstairs, Mum was doing where's my glasses,
which is where you feel guilty for standing still while Mum runs through different rooms banging drawers and things, with glasses on her head, going, "Where's my glasses?" and she's annoyed 'cause you're not as worked up as she is. She told me to get a move on 'cause I was late for school, and then wouldn't let me go because she had to tell me that she had to go to the Underwoods tonight, and dad had his movement 'cause it was Thursday.
Dad hates it when she calls it a movement. He says it's a society, not a movement. But it's always hard for my dad to argue very well because he's so boring. It comes from not expressing himself as a child. He even used to be a morris dancer but he's stopped that now, because a counsellor told him to have more self-respect. He lives mostly in the toilet when he's not at work. Since he joined the movement, my mum loses her temper and her glasses more than she used to. The movement go in the woods and do wolf business. It sounds slightly like the Cubs, except someone told me it's all naked—which I'm not sure it can be because they do it even in February. Mr. Bowyer from the Abbey National goes, and so does Wing Commander Devonish. I know they play drums and Mum says they sniff each other's bottoms. That's what I heard her saying when they were arguing. She said Dad hadn't kissed her in five years and yet he's sniffed the area branch manager's bottom, and he sniffs it every Thursday at seven o'clock, after the news. No one's supposed to mention it. When it was beginning about six months ago I answered the phone and someone said, "Can I speak to Romulus, son of Grey Dawn?" and I told them they had the wrong number. When I told Dad, he got angry and told me to ruddy well tell him next time, and I said how was I to know? which is answering back but Dad didn't send me to my room because he can't be bothered, usually.

Mum was still doing where's my glasses when Dad came down all ready for work. He didn't want to stop and talk——just like I didn't, so he said one of his quotes to get through the room and past everyone, like he who riseth late must trot all day, whatever that means. As he was going out the door, my mum tried to stop him to talk about the Underwoods and he did a fantastically huge bottom-cough, and my mum went postal. My dad said he was only expelling negative chi. Chi is another thing he's started going on about since the movement. I don't know quite what it means, but it seems definitely to be negative.

I did get detention. When I got there McVittie had started a biology lesson and he asked me if I wanted to take the class because I obviously knew so much about the subject and stuff. The thing is, at that exact same moment I was quite sure I saw a Devil Creature from Grandma's story sitting at my desk. I know you probably don't believe me, but there would be no point in my lying, seeing as I'm taking so much trouble to tell you all this anyway. He was only there for a second and then he was gone and McVittie was saying, "Look at me when I'm talking to you," and then he said, "Don't look at me like that."
He has a plastic skeleton called Frank, who he always asks what the punishments should be. He goes, "Let's ask Frank, shall we?" and then puts his ear to Frank's mouth. He says that Frank used to be a prurient and beastly schoolboy who was always late and got endless detentions and thus became a skeleton. Frank told him I had to stay for an hour after school. McVittie made me copy a chapter about femurs and humeri, while he said things like, "Does anything pass through that head of yours, eh? Does anything actually interest you?" and I said things like, "Don't know, sir." I thought about telling him that I still had to buy Grandma The Chronicle on the way home, and if I was late there might not be any left, and she was an old lady and she didn't have much to look forward to apart from The Chronicle. But how can you, when you're in the Department of Nothing, and McVittie's the Head of Department?

I got the paper, but I had to run like a bugger. I went up the drainpipe into Grandma's window. She hates me coming in that way, because it scares her, so I got quite a long and very boring telling off for it, and also for sitting down without asking, and for being late, and I told her why, so she bollocked me for that as well, and besides my hands were a state...You just have to wait for it to be over, and then you can start the crossword. This was a whole ten minutes, and then I realized I had dropped the paper coming up the drainpipe, so I got bollocked quickly for that.

"Who are you, O weird children?" said our intrepid heroine. Their answers were always mysterious. One little girl held in her arms a Devil Creature who was grinning at Emma. "Who looks after you?”
"Blind Jack."
"Who's Jack?" said Emma, by way of inquiry. But instead of answering, one of the children took her hand and said, "Come."
They lead her under vaulted arches, through herbaceous avenues of rosemary and borders until they came upon a little wooden door.
Through it they entered and found themselves in a magnificent hall, full of enchanted people dressed in garb...which is period costume...except it was from loads of different periods—a ball in mid-flow; a festival of reverberant colour. But that's not the point, the point is, that they were all completely still—like statues. All was uncannily quiet and dreamy and Emma was frightfully moved by this strange inert celebration.
"Who are they?" she enquired.
"We don't know them," said a weird boy.
"Where is Jack?" asked Emma.
"He'll come," they said.
Then Emma laid eyes on this really good-looking bloke—one of the still people—and fell instantly in love, right there. And before she had time to think: "Oh no, I’m in love with a still person," she started to feel sleepy—like something had taken hold of her. And the next thing she knew she was asleep on a giant throne-type thing in the Great Hall.

When I woke up, the first thing I saw was some teeth grinning at me like someone taking the micky. Then I saw that they were Grandma's teeth in their glass and I was still in her room, and then I realized that there was a great sound and fury coming from the landing and it was morning and I had slept all night in Grandma's chair.
The door was being banged in a where’s my glasses sort of way and Mum was going "Grandma, why is this door locked?" and, "What's going on? This is going too far!"
I came out and Mum was purple. Grandma told her to settle down, and I just made a run for it. Mum said, "Where do you think you're going?" And I said, "Be on time for school." I didn't brush my teeth or have breakfast, or anything.
Devil Creatures have skinny grey bodies, where you can see the bones—except for their tummies and their bums, which are fat, and they have no nobs and they always have a cheeky grin on their faces, with teeth like Grandma's dentures. I did quite a good one on the back of my spelling book—probably because I kept thinking I could see them. There was one under McVittie's chair. Lynne Lassin saw it and asked me what it was, so I told her...and it meant telling a bit of the story...and you know what? She thought it was very cool indeed. And when it came lunchtime she wanted to hear the rest. I didn't mind, because I sort of, in a way, don't mind Lynne Lassin.
I carried on the story on the school field by Mr. Hodkin's room. And Deborah Willis and Zena Whitechurch came and listened as well, which I quite liked, even though I don't like Zena Whitechurch. Roy Hattersley, the school's worst bully (who'll nut you if you say his whole name) loves Deborah Willis but she doesn’t love him, and he hates me 'cause I'm pants at football. And now she was listening to my story and looking at me like I'm Ricky Martin, which I didn't mind either.

I wasn't sure about telling Grandma about it all, because I thought maybe I should have asked her permission or something. But when I told her, she acted like she was about seven. She clapped her hands and kept asking me what they'd said, and if I'd remembered to put in the bit about the young prince, and how she wished she could have seen their faces.
I said, "Why don't I bring you to school so you can see them?" And she said, "You don't bring old ladies to school, Henry." She said I would take her stories out of here and that was wonderful, because that way I'd be taking her out of her room every day. She did this big smile and said, "I'm your muse!"

When Emma awoke, everyone in the room had moved. They were all still but in different positions, and some were facing her like they had been looking at her. She would have liked to see that young man again, but she was feeling not quite the thing and thought she'd better get the hell out. She had seen livelier parties, let's face it.
She found a door but it was locked and the children had gone.
Above the door was this inscription which said:

The fragrance pure doth pass this way but once a thousand year.
The sound of heart may soon depart and ne'er be found by fear.
Vagabonds who lose their way, shall lose it yet again.
And something, something die to dance, and so shall dance in vain
So touch the key and take the ring, but all must understand,
That if the heart but hesitate, the dog shall bite thy hand.

When she looked round for another door she saw that all the people had moved again, like musical statues.
Then she turned again, and right in front of her was the man she had fallen in love with. He was still, but in the courtly position of asking her to dance. He had a golden key glinting upon a chain round his neck and she thought, "if the heart but hesitate," and she took his hand...and as soon as she did it the whole room started to move, and a waltz struck up and they were all suddenly dancing. Whirling and whirling ever faster.
And then she realized that she was no longer dancing with the same bloke, but a very old man with white eyes, who you could see was blind.

Next parts: see the comments

@темы: Лицедеи, Мужики, Графомания, Страдающий визг назгула, Colin "my life is ruined because of him" Firth, Литература

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Я снова

Ланселот такой:


А Гарри такой: stop it, you're embarrassing me.

@темы: Лицедеи, Мужики, Кино и TV, how and why I say shit, Kingsman, Colin "my life is ruined because of him" Firth, Позитив

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В Багдаде не всё спокойно

Говорят, у нас на фронте какая-то жопа то ли происходит, то ли намечается, так что моя командировка сокращается во времени на 3 дня и в "ДНР" (блять, сколько абсурда в этом названии) мы не едем.
Радует :3
Но я флажок не куплю

@темы: Будничное, Арбайт махт фрай, Ця країна, Навыходил из комнаты, насовершал дел

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Орднунг юбер аллес

Моя большая проблема - когда кто-то делает что-то не так, а через задницу, у меня прям всё вскипает внутри. Обычно, если человек находится в радиусе моего действия, это не проблема. Но когда он далеко, у меня прям аж зудит всё от переизбытка яда.

@темы: Будничное, Мизантропия

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Как много в этом слове

Персик.


Я не могу успокоиться уже второй день.

@темы: Фагготрия, Мужики, ГРЕШНОВАТО, Страдающий визг назгула, Kingsman

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Ну ахуеть теперь

Оh fuck me, я снова еду в Мариуполь. И в зону АТО (как они узнали, что у меня есть военная подготовка, лол). Парам-пам-пам-пам!
На следующей неделе. На херовы 5 дней. Чувствую, моим намерениям купить флажок ДНР суждено сбыться.
Надо менять ник. Он навлекает на меня кучу неведомой поебени.
Энивей, айм нот импрест. Нот импрест эт ол.



Гиф не для обзоров, вестимо дело.

@темы: Этот мир прогнил, Будничное, Арбайт махт фрай, Ця країна, Навыходил из комнаты, насовершал дел, Путешествия

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И так каждый день

Окей, гугл, как заставить себя подняться со стула и пойти на работу?

@темы: Будничное, Арбайт махт фрай

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Методы мистера Вона

27.05.2015 в 01:45

Пишет  сам себе тайлер:

никода не устану с этого прогорать

06.03.2015 в 18:59

Пишет  1234-fires-in-your-eyes:

- снято!
- отлично, перфекто прост ваще, тре, мать вашу, бьен. так. теперь захуярь все это вместе.
- олреди дан босс!
- збс. теперь музончик музончик надо подобрать. джессика, тащи сюда свой список хитяр!
- держите, мистер вон.
- ну-ка посмотрим. о, какой огонь. обожаю эту песню! прям в начало ее впили.
- но сэр. как-то странно, это же типа ближний восток. может быть лучше зарядить какой-нибудь трек с голосом муэдзина?
- хуедзина. суй вот эту. типа из бумбокса у них играет. и пусть кароч вот тут еще кирпичи отпадывают и превращаются в буковки. и взрывов взрывов побольше!
- окей. готово.
- ладно, что там дальше джессика? бонкерс. охуеть, раскачаем кинозалы прост. давай ее короче на футаж с тачкой.
- отличный выбор, сэр.
- пффф ну дак. я ж тебе не какой-то жопорукий хрен. нука включи, сколько по времени вышло?
- три часа.
- эээээ.... ну ладно пох. давай джессика, что у тебя дальше.
- бибер, сэр.
- .... джессика, почему бибер в списке хитяр?
- вы просили хитяры. получите хитяры.
- и куда мы налепим бибера?
- ну вот например сюда.
- бля. из-за бибера такое чувство, что они друг с другом спят. саймон, выпиливай эту сцену с халатом.
- но там же пёсик.
- хуё...
- ладно я понял.
- так ладно, давай сцену с молодым артуром, грабящим русский банк. джессика. что у нас там?
- абба. мани мани мани.
- маст би фани.
- тогда джордж майкл.
- бля, а других вариантов нет?
- виладж пипл мачо мэн.
- какого хрена? ты там гей гимны собрала или что?
- хитяры.
- пффффффффффф. саймон, артура тоже выпиливай. все это слишком голубое, нас не пустят в россию.
- мы потратили кучу бабла, чтобы загримировать кейна. мы не можем выпилить его.
- я не хочу, чтобы мистер кейн грабил русский банк под какую-нибудь глорию гейнор или джорджа майкла. выпиливай, кому сказал!
- выпилил.
- а вон та сцена, где эггси вскрывает дверь?
- абба дансин квин.
- ты издеваешься?
- мадонна. вог.
- джессика.
- свит трансвестит.
- я тебя щас выгоню.
- тогда выпиливаем.
- саймон, выпиливай.
- выпилил.
- джессика, я надеюсь у тебя в списке хитяр нет ю тач май тра ла ла.
- ....
- джессика?
- думаю, лучше удалить вон ту сцену с бритьем, мистер вон.
- блять.
- и вон ту с завтраком тоже.
- чтоб тебя.
- и вон ту. и вот эту тоже удалите. вон ту с пульками я бы тоже убрала. слишком гей. особенно под ай вил сурвайв.
- ладно, саймон. тут уже нечего выпиливать, давай, че у нас в конце.
- гарри уползает. больничная койка. трогательное воссоединение.
- джессика, подо что у нас койка идет?
- под шер. ду ю билив ин лайф афтер лав.
- саймон....
- да, я понял...
- ладно, слушай, чувак. хули делать с вырезанным добром? там почти час.
- можно залить на блю рэй.
- не, так не интересно.
- давайте вбросим кому-нибудь.
- точняра! а кому?
- ну не знаю. сами выбирайте.
- ладно, давай типа мы щедрые. че это такое? тон бан хон чон гиль дон. ЛАЛ
- это корейский сайт.
- ок, давай туда вбрось парочку.
- вбросил.
- фикалка, караганда... это че такое?
- это казахстан.
- заебись, давай туда тож вбросим.
- готово. может быть, хотите вбросить индусам?
- дащас. давай вон в исландию зашлем. джессика! что там у тебя из хитяр осталось?
- слэйв ту лав.
- ладно, пох. давай ее в финалочку.

так и было все. брайан ферри подтвердит

@темы: Фагготрия, Фразы и цитаты, Мужики, Worldwide Web, Кино и TV, ГРЕШНОВАТО, Страдающий визг назгула, Kingsman, Позитив

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Чувство чистоты и порядка

Desert Eagle села за ноут.
Проходит 30 минут, возле него появляется один стакан.
Проходит 1,5 часа - там стоят уже 2 стакана.
Через 3 часа - плюс одна чашка и одна пластиковая бутылка.
К половине дня - 2 бутылки, 2 стакана и 2 чашки. Красиво.
К вечеру я еле вожу мышку, позвякивая стеклом и фарфором, лениво катая по полу пустые бутылки.
* на выходные в арсенал добавляется бокал.

@темы: Будничное, Наблюдения

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Просто удивляюсь

Аймин, как это могло случиться с моей жизнью? Как я могу шипперить и любить всем левым предсердием чуваков, один из которых появился на 5 минут экранного времени и произнес 2 реплики, а другой вообще молчал, находясь на бэкграунде в течении 5 секунд?
КАК?

@темы: Фагготрия, Лицедеи, Мужики, Кино и TV, ГРЕШНОВАТО, Страдающий визг назгула, Kingsman, Наблюдения

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Buggerty fuck

Фак, этот день пошел по пизде!
Если я проведу на тумбле еще пару часов, то сломаюсь окончательно и бесповоротно.

@темы: Будничное, Worldwide Web, ГРЕШНОВАТО, Наблюдения