Yes I do by U. N. Omatopoeia

Андрей-Кузнецов
                - Куда вам?
                - Я к удавам не поеду.
                - Куда вам надо?
                - Ну, если надо..
                by U.N.Omatopoeia

Where to?
I wear just one.
Which address?
Ain't a witch, no dress.


Mr. X, a professor of Russian Literature, talking to his peer: "You know, my dear fellow colleague, everyone down to the last lumpen in Russia seems to speak English."

Mr. Z, a professor of Russian Linguistics: "It's ... how's that?"

Mr. X: "I was recently sent to the XVII Conference on Medieval Sound Writing Out There. My Rent-a-Benz gave up the ghost, so I had the pleasure of taking the No.31 along the Ballbearing Esplanade - right between the ore dump and the oil drain stop (where used carts are sold, you know). And, as I was trolleying, just before my station, there is this person in a hard hat who is blocking me from exiting the Horned One! (the trolley, you know). See, and he was all in his brutal steel-toed boots and a rude, tarpaulin-like apron over a salty quilted jacket like a coke-cleaner would use, I think. To me, it looked like the steel 38 rolls argon annealing process had just started, what d'you say?"

Mr. Z was still struggling to straighten a slipped sock with his cherry dress shoe with his other leg.

Mr. X: "With an obviously unfinished lunchtime beer in his one hand and a seemingly unstarted alleged sandwich in another, he was trying to grab this cold and unfriendly handrail while the fish tank was coming closer to the stop."

Mr. Z swallowed at the word "sandwich", and his cold and unfriendly Adam's apple went up and down.

Mr. X stopped petting his Tolstoy-esque beard, and adjusted his Dostoevsky-like glasses at once.

Mr. Z shifted the lifetime edition of Tolstoyevsky from his left armpit to his right one, and yielded to a momentary snap of a shiver as if the frozen drizzle was hung in the red-brick hallway.

Mr. X: "So I asked him : Excuse me, um, do you get off at this station?"

Mr. Z, with his back pinned against the wall, squeaked a weak: "what?"

Mr. X: "And he turned his argon-annealed hiccuping face to me: "Ja ' soidu".
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