Arhivă pentru August, 2009

Rahat cu perje

Posted in Scrisori din ţara libertăţii on August 31, 2009 by casargoz

E foarte la modă acum să faci trafic cu rețete pentru bucate alese. Am aici o rețetă învățată din moși strămoși:

  1. Pasul 1 Se mănâncă perje.
  2. Pasul doi se degustă viața politică la radio sau la televizor.
  3. Pasul trei: se ia una bucată viață economică vie și ține în viața personală o zi
  4. Pasul patru: Se face o prognoză personala pentru viitorul glorios al urmașilor
  5. Pasul cinci: se bea o bere.
  6. Pasul șase: Se fură olița copilului, sau se caută în pod olița de tablă a bunicii (chestia albă care a rată ca o strachină cu guler)
  7. Pasul 7: Se verifică compozitia, trebuie să fie lichidă, iar cozile de perje trebuie să fie vizibile.
  8. Pasul8: Se servește la bufetul suedez al politicienilor.
Anunțuri

Jumătatea plină a paharului.

Posted in Compania Fericita. on August 31, 2009 by casargoz

Am fost multă vreme frustrat de chioșcurile RATB, faptul că trebuie să te apleci de mijloc pentru a te face auzit, să stai plecat pentru a avea privilegiul de adiscuta cu cel ce îti vinde bilete, am îndurat zilnic această umilință, întrebându-mă de ce trebuie să suport asta, căutând un motiv. Astăzi am realizat că e chestiune de perspectivă, dacă ai pozitia corectă în fața chioșcului, vei vedea că vânzătorul vorbește cu șlițul de la pantaloni. E momentul când România devine interesantă, iar experiența cumpărării unui bilet devine una erotică. Plătești biletul, iar orice adresare pe care o face vânzăto-rul/area, este către „dânsa”, „doamna P.” Respectul suprem arătat cetățeanului, discuția cu sexul. Am început să mă întreb dacă nu cumva ar trebui să mă deschid la șliț când merg la chioșcul RATB. Dar după entuziasm mai urmează și îndoiala, dacă cei care au proiectat chioșcurile cu privire spre șliț, erau obsedați sexuali, dacă momentul în care intindeau mâna cu un bilet prin geamul mic, la doi centimetri de „Doamna P”, reprezintă pentru ei un moment erotic. Refuz să cred așa ceva, pentru mine însă momentul cumpărării biletului de dimineață a devenit un ritual: blowjob RATB

Deja Vu :)

Posted in Arta Stalinistă on August 26, 2009 by casargoz


In my dreams shines yellow light.
Im rasping and Im turning.
Wait wait let me be tonight!
Its better in the morning!
But the morning helps me not,
It brings me even lower:
Smoking on a empty gut
And drinking to hangover.

Hey, again and once again,
And one more time, and over, and over, and again, and once again
Drinking to hangover.
„And nor the church, nor the pub:
nothing is holy!
No guys! Everything’s not as it’s supposed to be!
Everything’s not as it’s supposed to be, guys!”

[yputube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kGuIO-BIsYY&feature=related]
I don’t like self-assured complacency.
You’re better off being hanged and letting rip.
I don’t like those who forget all decency
And give an eager ear to slanderous gossip

I don’t feel sympathy for damaged limbs
Or broken wings – lame ducks I can’t abide.
I don’t like bullies or acquiescent victims
Yet pity moves me for Christ crucified.
elyafoxy (3 months ago) Show Hide +4 Marked as spam Reply | Spam I hate it when I’ve played the coward’s part.
I hate to see the guiltless victimized.
I hate when people pry into my heart,
The more so when it’s spat on and despised.

I can’t abide the stadium or ring
Where all is vilely cheapened and defied.
Whatever alterations time may bring
To these I know I wont be reconciled.


I saw wild field along the stream
That God forgot forever
Blue bells were only in clear field
And road that led somewhere
Dark ancient forest by this road
With evil witches orgies
And at the end of that scary road
Were guillotine and axes
So, I am dreaming on empty gut
Or drinking in hangover
Yes, something wrong along the road
But at the end nightmare
Neither church nor even pub
Non of them is right way
Nor my friends, oh nor my friends
All are wrong, friends, I can say Hey one, another one,
And many, many, many, many ones
Another one and other ones
All are wrong, I can say.

So loosing breath I climbed on hill
To save myself from horror
I saw red alder on the top of hill
But at the foot-black cherry
If even ivy twined hills slope
I might be happy see it
Or, if there was only something else
But nothing pleased my spirit


Humorous song about petition to TV program , written by crazy house residents.

Dear TV program, this Saturday,
While almost weeping,
Kanadchikov’s resort residents
Hurried up to watch TV.

Instead of eating, taking a shower,
Getting injected and loosing themselves,
The entire crazy house family
Gathered up around the screen!
One rhetoric trouble maker
Wrung his arms and then proclaimed
That the mystery of Bermuda triangles
Can’t be solved by modern science.

He broke our brains to pieces,
Weaved our brains waves together,
And Kanadchikov’s administration
Gave us all second injection!
Dear editor, how about the reactor,
Or about new Moon tractor?
How come, entire year you frighten us with UFO,
Like, they are, ignoble, still flying,
Or some dogs forever barking,
Or ancient ruins learned to talk?
We have learned to deal with news,
We are breaking saucers all year long!
This we figured inside out,
If our cook’s honest with us !

Also, those, who are not stupid,
Throw the pills out the window!
Such good life! But then, Bermuda!
We can’t believe! How can you do this!
We did not attempt a quarrel,
We have no decent leader!
There’s no one really violent,
That’s why no one’s there to lead!

News of delirium and gossip
We ca gather into the drag-nets!
The enemies’ mean intrigues
Won’t spoil our game.
This is them, the drastic devils, boil water in a pond!
All of that, I say, invented Churchill in a year 1918!

Concerning news about bombs and fires
We wrote a note for the press,
But medical personnel arrived
And fixed us up with sedatives!
Those, who was especially active,
Were tied up to their beds!
One paranoiac was fighting back,
Like wizard at sabbath.

Screamed, untie the towels!
You creeds, and bigots!
Our hearts are so Bermoody,
And Beermuted are our souls!
Forty souls took turns crying!
Their faces got white-hot!
See! Those triangles are disturbing
Piece and quiet among us!

They were almost going crazy,
Even those, considered nuts!
Then head doctor Dr. Morgulin
Said, TV was not for us!
See that devil out there ?
He hides electrical outlet!
He gives a hint to someone,
Kind of, hurry up, rip off the wires!

All is left to do, to get injected,
And to fall and vanish
At the bottom of the well
Forever, like in Bermudas.
Check the dentist, craftsman Rudik.
He has radio called Grundik.
At night he catches German channel,
Like contra-revolutionary.

He went to Germany as a merchant,
But lost his mind. They brought him here.
He was all worried, with stomach ache,
And had a label on his leg.
He ran in, quite agitated,
Rocked us with his message,
Said that one of our airplanes
Got bogged down at the triangle!

Disappeared, lost all the fuel,
Piece by piece collapsed and then
Two of our insane brothers
Were picked up by fisher men.
They survived the cataclysm,
But succumbed to pessimism.
They were placed inside glass prism,
And brought to our hospital.

So, one of them, mechanic, told us,
While away from nurses,
That Bermuda’s polyhedron
Is Earth’s open belly button.
What went on? How you survived?
We attacked with questions,
But the mechanic only trembled,
Then proceeded to catch Z’s.

Then he cried, and then he laughed,
The hair stood up on his head!
He was mocking us, son of a bitch!
But he’s crazy! What can I say?
One of former alcoholics, foul mouthed, dirty plotter
Yelled, lets drink that triangle up! Lets divide it between us!
He got rowdy, fell off his handle! I swear, we’ll drink it up
Even if it is parallelepiped, or a circle, ( curse)!

Even if idea’s crazy, do not judge momentousl.
Answer us without hassle through the expert doctor,
Best Regards. Date. Signature. Promptly answer us. Because
If you won’t respond we’ll write to the stuff of State Lotto!


Save!
Our souls
We’re hallucinating, from the lack of air.
save. our souls.
Hurry up to us!
Do hear us!
On the mainland
Our call is lower,
lower
And horror
Cuts our souls
In to two parts
. – . . – . .
We’ll surface at dawn.
An order is an order.
To die in the bloom of years
is far better at day light
Our way on the water is not marked .. we have nothing with, nothing..
But do remember!
Us

Here, we are up.
But there is no way out.
Now – „full speed at the dockyards”
End to all sorrows
Ends and beginnings
We tear towards the piers
Instead of
Torpedoes.
And aortas are breaking
But up there – don’t dare!
There, along the port side
There, along the starboard
Is blocking the passage
Horned
Death

. – .

But here under – we’re free.
For this is – our world!
Are we nuts, or what? to surface in the mine field
„Hey, cut the hysterics,
We’ll smash into the shore” – said the
Commander.
We’re going under.
In neutral waterland.
We can, for a year, for the weather not care
And if they will spot us
Locators will howl
Of our
Bad luck.

Save! our souls
We’re hallucinating from the lack of air
save. our. souls.
Hurry up to us!
Do hear us, on the mainland!
Our call is lower, lower
And horror cuts our souls into two parts.


The hunt is on! The hunt on wolves,
On gray beasts, full-grown and puppies!
The beaters shout and the hounds bark until theyre retching,
There is blood on snow and red spots of flags.
came out of the obedience trance –
Beyond the flags – my thirst for life is stronger,
Behind me I heard triumphantly
Their bewildered cries.

I strain myself out of all my might and sinew,
But today, not like yesterday,
I was close rounded. Theyve cornered me, for Gods sake!
But the hunters were left with nothing!
A wolf can not, must not do otherwise.
Now my time has ended:
The one I am intended for,
Smiled and raised his rifle.

The hunt is on! The hunt on wolves,
On gray beasts, full-grown and puppies!
The beaters shout and the hounds bark until theyre retching,
There is blood on snow and red spots of flags.
The hunt is on! The hunt on wolves,
On gray beasts, full-grown and puppies!
The beaters shout and the hounds bark until theyre retching,
There is blood on snow and red spots of flags.

Our feet and jaws are swift,
Tell us, our leader, – why do we then
Rush onward, into the shots,
And not through the restraint?!
Its not a fair game they are playing,
But no hand trembles, –
Our freedom blocked by flags,
They strike safely, for sure!

A wolf cant fail his customs, –
Long time ago-blind puppies,
We, little ones, sucked our mother,
And sucked in: dont go outside of flags!
The rifles behind the fir-trees are keeping themselves busy –
There, the hunters hide in the shadows –
The wolves are frolicking on the snow,
Turned into a live target.

The hunt is on! The hunt on wolves,
On gray beasts, full-grown and puppies!
The beaters shout and the hounds bark until theyre retching,
There is blood on snow and red spots of flags.
A hunt on wolves

I strain myself out of all my might and sinew,
But today, just like yesterday,
I am close rounded. Theyve cornered me, for Gods sake!
They are keeping after, joyfully driving me at all speeds!

Stalin – You are a great scientist,
Linguistics connoisseur ,
I’m just soviet prisoner
With my friend – Bryansk gray wolf.

During that sitting, with all conscience, I do not know
But prosecutors apparently wrong.
And so I sit in the Turukhansk province,
Where in the king had been in exile you.

And here I sit in the Turukhansk province,
Where guards are strict and rude,
I have understand all of this, of course,
As the class struggle.

That rain, then snow, then flies over us,
And we in the taiga from morning to morning,
You are here because of the sparks fanned the flames,
Thank you, I greyus campfire.

I see you, as you are in a party cap
And in the jacket going to the parade,
We chop wood, and Stalin chips,
As before, flying in all directions.

Yesterday we buried two Marxists
We were not wrapped in red cloth.
One of them was the right draft dodgers,
Second, as it turned out not to blame.

Live Well thousand years, Comrade Stalin,
And as difficult as it would not be me
I know there will be many iron and Stalin
Per capita in the country.

Legenda Lui Midas

Posted in This is Romania on August 20, 2009 by casargoz

A fost oodata un rege celebru pentru lăcomia lui, se numea Midas, zeii au aflat si l-au pus la incercare, a venit Dionysos si i-a spus regelui ca-i va indepli o dorinta, atunci regele si-a dorit ca tot ceea ce atinge sa se transforme in aur. Dorinta lui Midas a fost indeplinita si tot ce atingea se transforma in aur, totul inclusiv mancarea., si nu dupa mult timp Midas a renuntat la darul zeilor. Dar legendele nu se opresc aici, fii lui Midas au primit un alt dar ceresc tot ceea ce atingeau se transforma in cacat, inclusiv mancarea, si de rusine au plecat din vechea grecie undeva unde sa nu-i afle nimeni, ca mancatori de rahat, ajunsi pe plaiuri mioritice, urmasii lui Midas au fost numiti de bastinasi dupa un cuvant grecesc pe care il auzisera: politicieni.Aceasta este legenda clasei politice din Romania, acesti vrednici urmasi ai lui Midas care reusesc sa transforme in cacat orice ating, fie ca se numeste lupta anticoruptie, fie ca se numeste integrare europeana, fie ca se numeste proiect de infrastructura, e de ajuns o antingere si totul devine cacat, maroniu, viscos, omogen si puturos, incat ii simti mirosul de la kilometri. Tot ceeace tine de stiinta de politica poate fi explicat lesne de un proctolog. Tot ceea ce se intampla in jur tine de politica, iar noi romanii am ajuns atat de experimentati incat dupa culoare sau miros, recunoastem cacatul lui Basescu de la o posta, si il deosebim lesne ca cacatul lui Geona sau al Elenei. Turistii prin Romania se bucura cand vad culoarea usor portocalie ca cacatului PDL-ist, se entuziasmeaza de cacatul cu tenta rosie data firicelele rosii de la hemoroizi, sau cand vede rarul cacat albastriu al PNL cu tenta violeta datorata mustelor ca cacat.

Ceea ce mi se pare insa straniu este ca dupa o vreme cetateanul incepe sa se obisnuiasca cu cacatul, si incepe sa aiba opinii despre gustul acestui, la cate un colt de strada putem vedea indivizi care spun ca un cacat rozaliu e mai gustos decat unul portocaliu, altii care sustin ca cacatul rozaliu cu cel portocaliu este un cocktail grozav.

Dar eu sunt un mofturos contaminat de Angela Merkel, care avea o vorbaȘ

„Fiecare cu căcatul lui!”

Deci nu mai vreu cacat de la politicienii romani, daca vor cacat le fac eu unul…

Quo Vadis PNL:)

Posted in Frustrari Neterminate on August 16, 2009 by casargoz

pnl

Legea unica de salarizare.

Posted in Frustrari Neterminate on August 14, 2009 by casargoz

Legea unica de salarizare suna cam asa:

In anexa ț demnitarii si cei din jur.

In anexa ș profesorii.

In anexa j doctorii.

In anexa n functionari publici.

Concluzia: Legea e unică, anexele nu.

O lege numai bună să îți bagi coeficienții în …

Ce înseamnă TIR?

Posted in Uncategorized on August 1, 2009 by casargoz

Ar mai putea să însemne Turist în România. Am plecat în concediu ca turist român şi m-am întors ca turist în România. Instinctul meu de migrator s-a trezit, sunt un turist etern, chiar şi acasă tot turist sunt. Sunt în vizită, şi să dea draq ce draq caut în România, adică din punct de vedere turistic e o tara foarte interesantă, dar nu locurile si peisajele o fac  interesanta ci oamenii, oamenii care sfintesc locurile, de exemplu pe celebrul pod al prieteniei numai piciorul bulgaresc al podului este iluminat, piciorul romanesc este in beznă, aşa e mai eco, la bulgari o masina primeşte Bulgarovineta, următoarea primeşte chitanţa e 50%, 50% intre stat şi vameş, la noi taxa de pod o plăteşti şi chitanţa o primeşti în viaţa de apoi, pe acest pământ binecuvântat relaţia vameşului cu banii este între el şi dumnezeu. Există o singură problemă cu mine ca turist în România, odată ce ai văzut cam tot, ce rost are să mai stai când poţi face turism în altă parte?