Collective Farm Day

This holiday took place back in the last century. On the eve of Village Day, the chairman came to our base. "Guys, for Village Day we're planning a cultural event, I repeat, cultural! So every organization, including yours, must prepare some performance or skit—no refusals accepted. For the best performance, there's a prize and a week off! And what does a week off mean for a guy in a village in the summer? UUU, you can't measure it with a bucket." The performance later deserved an Oscar, but we never got the prize—the official one, that is. But the guys from the whole village and surrounding settlements kept coming for a long time afterward with bottles to drink with the main characters. From the preface to the work.

We sat

down after lunch and started thinking about how to get the prize. Suggestions ranged from us guys dancing Swan Lake, but none of the ideas seemed prize-worthy. Then Mikhanych, a guy almost two meters tall, says, "Let's put on a skit: a harvest festival and our chairman on his trotter, Abgrade. There'll be a skit and we'll butter up the chairman! That's right, if you don't grease it, it won't go. While the women are singing ditties and leading round dances—that's already old hat—we'll bring innovation."

We didn't think long: five bottles for the crew and the script was ready.

In short: the chairman's horse comes out, the chairman gives a speech, then gets on the horse, and we'll act out the festival with those who gave speeches of gratitude.

We got the hide of a real stallion from the slaughterhouse in the meat shop for two bottles; the hunters tanned it like for themselves—it turned out soft like my wife's fur coat. We slapped together a head from papier-mâché—in short, a real horse, as we thought. But no, it later turned out to be a mare.

The rehearsal day came. I, as the young and nimble student, was appointed the head, but there was a dispute about the rear. Mikhanych, the strongest, refused: "I can't do it bent over; I have sciatica." "Since when do you have it?" "Never had it before, but now I do." In short, we persuaded him, but we had to improve the design so Mikhanych, as the rider, wouldn't have too much weight on his back. The turners made a contraption: a belt for Mikhanych's lower back, with four pipes extending forward to my lower back and shoulders, so when I rear up, it's easier for Mikhanych to support me, and when Semyonych sits on Mikhanych while walking, the weight is distributed between us. Oh, almost forgot: to make it realistic, the horse should swish its tail. We took a cable, attached it to the pipe and the tail, and since my hands were free, I twisted it, making it seem like the horse was wagging its tail.

Village Day arrived quickly in our preparations. Mikhanych and I got dressed up and went to the field in front of the whole village. We walk as we should: I step with my right, Mikhanych with his left; I step with my left, Mikhanych with his right—like a model on a catwalk. Mikhanych even started swaying his butt—he got into character. Nearby, the collective farm herd was grazing, including Izium, a yearling trotter—yearling but early, as it turned out. What attracted Izium to our trotter, I don't know—maybe I was wagging the tail wrong, or maybe Mikhanych was twisting his butt too seductively. etales.ru In short, Izium left the herd and came to us. And we're walking according to the script when...

Mikhanych to me: "Student, stop."

Me: "What?"

M.: "Semyonych is climbing on."

Me: "It's too early; he hasn't given the speech yet."

M.: "I don't know; he's leaning on my butt."

And the collective farmers are already laughing like horses. Izium came up from behind, sniffed our tail, put his muzzle on Mikhanych's butt, and when we stopped, he jumped up and leaned on Mikhanych.

M.: "Semyonych, why are you so heavy? Didn't you take a crap this morning or what?"

Izium, without thinking long, started thrusting his member into Mikhanych. Luckily, when he jumped, he shifted the hide upward, or he would have definitely hit Mikhanych's "chocolate eye." Instead, he thrust it between Mikhanych's back and the hide. Mikhanych yells, "Semyonych, that's not in the script!" And Izium is going at it. Mikhanych yells, "Semyonych, why are you sticking it? Sit on the back; my legs are giving way. Student, I can't hold this boar now; he's pressing on my butt and rubbing my back with some log. I don't remember this in the script."

Me: "Hold on, Mikhanych; my cable is stuck too; the tail won't swish."

M.: "That's it; I can't take it anymore."

Mikhanych fell to his knees, but not just fell—he ended up hanging on Izium's "dignity."

Before finishing, Izium let out a triumphant neigh and spilled onto Mikhanych's back. What happened among the spectators of this spectacle is impossible to describe in words. The village was rolling on the field laughing; even the drunks sobered up. No, the chairman and our guys tried to save us, whipping the trotter with a whip. But what good did it do? It was Izium's first time getting to a mare; at that moment, you could have branded stars on his thighs and he wouldn't have noticed.

The chairman later yelled, "I'll have you prosecuted!"

"What did we do? We had a different script."

Afterward, whenever Mikhanych complains about sciatica, the guys send him to Izium for a "massage."

SRTigr74