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A drunken man returns home in the winter, a pillar on the way, everything in his eyes.
it splits, then breaks down, calculates, swings; the man looked -
Stolbov! no matter where we go, we run into the pillar again.(//tractor-service.com)
"Nothing - he thinks - we will push one column aside to where they will cut and there.
let's see, maybe it won't be far from home." He pushed them, he pushed them, he took them off.
a sheepskin coat, a hat, and push again. After half an hour or a little more, he sobered up
he slightly, dressed up, got dressed: the columns seem to have thinned out. "Vo - says - in what kind
dal ottokal: even hats with sheepskin coats are not visible from here"
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