Stand-up "Нелицеприятный"

Нелицеприятный

First time on our show
When did you last jerk off?
You're nothing
Poperechnyi thinks himself a star
Pathetic pothead
At least learn to curse like a man
— Mr. Zhirinovsky! — If you got no brains!
Ladies and gentlemen! The show is starting.
UNBIASED without superficial bias or desire to please someone; impartial, just
Now, where’s my damn booze? Excuse me.
How are you doing? Hi.
Solve me a riddle.
Why does a vatnik* pray so long? * — Russian conservative patriot
‘Cause he can’t get off his knees. * — reference to a phrase «Russia rises from her knees»
Remember how we laughed at the American elections that they only have two candidates?…
One’s an ex-reality TV star. The other’s a woman.
And Putin helped one of them get nominated. We only got one candidate, Sobchak!* * — TV personality, daughter of a politician
They didn’t even try! She’s a fucking “candidate against all” but not against making out with Kandelaki,* when buzzed. * — Female TV personality
Great fucking video. Great fucking video.
The funny part is, I actually rooted for Sobchak at the start when she was running for president, going,
“You go, chick from Rain TV! Fuck those old farts up!”
As soon as the CEC approved her nomination, she was on every channel,
I’m like, “Fuck, she’s with the Kremlin!” Did you see Sobchak’s debates?
Fucking amazing.
Solovyov* goes, “You have four minutes. They start now.” * — Right-wing TV host and journalist
Sobchak opens her mouth, and Zhirinovsky* goes, “Whore cunt! Dumb shit! Fucking bitch!” * — Eccentric far-right politician
Just drowns her with punches.
I liked that in the midst of these punches, as he goes, “Whore! Bitch!”
“Black filth!” Sobchak’s like, “Wait a fucking minute, that’s a first. ‘Black filth?’”
“Fucking what?”
Am I a Spider-Man villain or something? ‘The Black Filth!’ What the hell is that?
Did you see Sobchak’s last four minutes, the closing speech? They gave her the floor.
Solovyov says, “You can start.” Sobchak goes, “Look.”
“We all know perfectly well that Putin will win.”
And Zhirik’s like.
“You may be black fucking filth and all. But… word.”
You know when I knew that American elections are legit?
After we apparently managed to interfere with them.
Fuck if we can interfere with ours but—
I mean, even if a million hackers attack the Kremlin, what are they going to hack?
Botox on Putin’s face?
Plus.
The funny part is, the entire world knows, very well, and knew this time too that
not everybody in this country wants Putin for another term.
That not everybody supports this decision. Because this looks less and less like democracy.
I mean, Putin’s closing in on non-eligible age, so he goes,
“Shit, let’s pass a law or something. We been gucci this far. Why stir shit up now?”
And we’re all like, “Hell yeah!”
And some countries, as vatnik and cliché as it may sound, started ‘rocking the boat.’
You know the situation with London and Skripal.
For those who don’t know, there’s this guy who worked for Russia but it turned out that he’d been spying for the Brits.
And he’s been recently poisoned in London.
And London made an official statement, where they went,
“We are absolutely certain that Skripal was poisoned by Russians.”
“With neuropolitic agent--” Shit. Neuropolitical fucking agent.
It’s—
A neuropolitical agent is any of Solovyov’s shows.
You turn it on: “I’m paralyzed. This is fucked.”
Neuroparalytic.
“With a neuroparalytic agent called Novichok.*” * — “Newbie” (Rus)
“And we give Russia 24 hours to respond.” Yo, they putin’ the screws on us!
And this whole story is whack.
Within 24 hours of London’s statement, instead of sending a qualified official who’d set the record straight and go,
“We vouch that it’s a false flag. This is a political framing of Russia because yatta-yatta,”
we send a bald fucking fossil who says the following,
“You read Sherlock Holmes, yes?”
“There’s a character called Lestrade. Well, he spits nonsense all the time. Well, you’re like Lestrade.”
And that’s it!
That’s Russia's response! He basically went, “You know Snow White? We’re Snow White, you’re the Witch.”
“Peace out.”
I mean, fuck!
Zakharova too!
Zakharova is the face of our foreign relations. In prime time, on every channel,
“Who do these cocksuckers think they are, giving us 24 hours?! What in the fuck!”
Like we’re a country of trash.
I’m pretty sure her prompter said, “U fookin’ wot, mate?” That’s her notes.
I mean, fuck! That is so weird.
Lestrade. Shit, that’s like if Putin came out after the Kursk submarine disaster and said,
“Can’t catch a fish without getting friggin’ wet.”
Nastya Rybka!* Holy fucking shit! Nastya Rybka! * — Escort and porn actress. ‘Rybka’ means ‘lil fish’
That just shows how much the administration doesn’t give a fuck about us.
They don’t even bother to cover shit up anymore.
Think about it.
Oleg Deripaska* sails in international waters on a yacht and discusses sabotaging upcoming elections in America * — Russian oligarch
in front of a hooker who’s right there writing a book about it.
She’s like, “Does ‘sabotage’ have a J?” “Yeah, yeah, let the men talk.”
That’s fucked. How irresponsible is that?
That is so weir— That shit’s like, I dunno,
kindling the Holy Fire with lighter fluid in front of Richard Dawkins,
“Holy shit! That’s a fucking miracle if I ever saw one!”
That is so fucking weird.
That’s as irresponsible as confiding on VK.* * — Russian Facebook
They give so few fucks, guys. So unbelievably few fucks about us.
In the Russian embassy in Argentina, they found 400 kilograms of cocaine! What in the actual fuck?
You know how they found it? Some guy went, “Say, we’ve never opened this door before. What the fuck is--”
That was the discovery! You know how the Russian embassy reacted?
They went, “It’s our employee’s. He left like a year ago.”
THAT'S your fucking excuse?!
Sort of like, “So what? He didn’t take his ficus either. There’s his stapler. What’s your problem?”
“The man hasn’t moved out properly yet. Left a few things.”
Two days after the news naturally got exploded by the media, we needed to make an official statement.
You know what our statement was?
Our media went, “Yes, we officially confirm the discovery of 387 kilograms of cocaine.”
In three days, THREE DAYS, they go, “Yes, we did find 367.”
A little less. You know, used proper scales this time.
They give so few fucks about us!
Slutsky is still a deputy. What the fuck?
The guy harrasses chicks, and the Russian morality committee says,
“Damn chicks.”
“Fucking walking around with their curvaceous asses. Tempting the poor guy. Why fucking do this?”
That's fucked.
You realize they’re out of sync with us, right? These old farts don’t fit the times.
How can they manage that which they don’t understand?
They don’t fit the times. That’s like when your mom says “maymays.”
And you’re like, “Shit! Ooh!”
“Here’s the fucking deal, mom. Let’s not do this. You keep fucking dying peacefully, okay?”
The other day mine went—
She goes, “So I saw the new Versus epi. Shit went south!” I’m like, fuck! Shit! Why are you doing this?
Why? Just let it go.
You’re not young. Stop it.
Start wearing a snapback sideways, why don’t you?
Saying “yo,” dabbing. I don’t know. Get a fucking spinner. Come on. Finish me off.
They genuinely don’t fit the times.
When Putin discusses the Internet, it sounds like an interview with a little school kid.
Before the elections—
Bullshit. Right after the elections Putin gives an official statement.
Goes, “There’s a lot of misleading information on the Internet.”
I’m like, “Well, yeah. That’s a fair point.” And right after he goes,
“For example, there’s a picture of me riding a bear. But I never rode a bear.”
He had to clarify! He had to fucking clarify that shit officially!
Do they actually hold meetings every time they find a meme?
The presse sec rushes in. “Shit! Mr. Putin! I found an image of you and Kadyrov* with your faces swapped.” * — Head of the Chechen Republic in Russia
He goes, “Holy shit! America! Making fakes! Gotta comment! Officially!”
Fucking seriously?
The airport searches are getting more and more absurd.
“Is this a laptop?” “Yes.”
“Open it.”
“Turn it on.”
“Start Tanks.” Fucking—
“Dance for me.”
It’s really— Okay, I sort of get the laptop thing.
You probably can disguise a bomb as a laptop.
Recently though the airport security was going through my carry-on and took my nail scissors.
And this here isn’t some gay bullshit.
This is a real fucking tragedy for every guy. I’ll explain.
I could trim my nails with that shit.
And with nothing else.
I mean, I’ve had these fucking scissors since I was six. I knew every angle, every turn to do it right.
They took ‘em, so…
I had to go and get new ones. Turned out there’s like 50 kinds.
Fucking different angles, some thin tip shit.
You can’t come up at the store and go, “Can I try this model?”
“Nah, it's shit.”
You can’t do a nail test drive or something.
You buy whatever. So now my scissors do one hand right and the other one— And rip the nail off.
I personally don’t quite get what what they were so afraid of that they confiscated these tiny little nail scissors from me.
That I’d lose my shit on the plane and go, “Manicure for everyone!”
Like, what are you preventing?
Even if I do lose my shit and attack someone with these scissors, how many stabs will it take to do any damage?
Those tiny stabbies. “This is a hijack!”
Not yet?
I’d do more damage by running along the aisles, going, “Haha, this flight is mine!” —
and cutting powerbank wires from phones. And everyone’s like, “Three percent! Oh no!”
Seriously, nail scissors?
Okay. Let’s assume there’s an actual terrorist on my flight.
They lift the bomb and go, “This is a hijack. You’re all my hostages. We fly where I say.”
And let’s assume,
you know,
we managed to neutralize him — with passengers and attendants.
We still got the bomb.
Now, how the fuck am I supposed to cut the wires?
What the fuck with? “I know! Red wire!”
With my new scissors? You know what they’ll do?
I don’t understand. I’m thinking of carrying a thick bag of shit and screw nuts in my carry-on.
So that when I’m going through the x-ray,
the guard’s like, “What’s that?” I go—
“Go figure.”
So that when they stick their begloved hand into the bag and start squeezing the shit, they’d think,
“Fuck, this system's gotta change. This is wrong. This is not right.”
I had a situation recently, which to me looked like a fucking spitting image of what’s going on in this country.
And...
I’m sure some of you were spared this fate, but some will get me pretty fucking well.
So I was taking a shit and realized that my body had produced a poop so large that it won’t fit through my asshole.
Look at the people clapping. They fucking know what I’m talking about.
This— this isn’t a shit joke.
Just in case. This is a real situation. You know, I’m 24. I’ve spent 15 minutes on the toilet, home alone.
I’m drowning in sweat and got no idea what to do. This never happened to me before. Thinking: fuck!
It felt like a tiny Indiana Jones had stolen an idol from my stomach
and activated a boulder trap. Well, Indiana got out. The boulder didn’t.
Like—
He managed to get the hat out in the last minute. Shook the dust off, went like this.
I realized this was a situation where I’d have to reach inside with my hand and break the shit.
What else to do? I haven’t touched my feces once in my life. Somehow avoided it. Well, happy fucking debut.
My predicament had no other solutions. There were three ways this could go down.
First, wait until it all somehow doesn’t solve itself.
Second, die there and then.
And third, fix it yourself but soil your hands. And that’s exactly the state of this country.
That’s exactly the state of this country. A huge shit in a tiny asshole.
See? It's not a shit joke. It's keen social satire.
I—
I’m not a shithead, I’m an artist.
By the way, did you notice that as a kid, you can’t shit yourself and keep it secret?
No? Okay. Look, I’ll explain what I mean.
Before I started school, I played outside and drank kompot* a lot. Because I lived with grandma. * — Drink from boiled fruit
Classical situation: expected a fart, bet didn’t payout.
House wins.
Super typical stuff. Threw away the underwear, continued to play.
Then went, “Wait. Grandma will notice I came home without underwear.”
You couldn't pull that shit off at our house. We had body searches every time I came home.
“What to do? What to do?” You know what I came up with? I went to rummage through dumpsters, collected bottles,
returned them, and made the cost of the underwear.
So I come home and go, “Grandma, underwear’s gone, here’s the money.” Like I’m—
Kind of like, “We got a problem. I hope this is enough to keep, uh, keep you silent.”
This was a bribe for shitting myself.
Twenty years later, I’m like, “Holy fuck, so THAT'S why she stared at me like that!”
Kid’s been out somewhere all day. Comes home dirty, with no underwear, and goes, “Here’s the money, gran.”
How? How did he earn it?! Where? What's he up to?
I actually started to develop claustrophobia from realizing that I can’t get off the fucking planet. Anyone else?
Like, “Ah! The atmosphere is crushing me!”
When I was a kid, all my friends wanted to be cosmonauts, while I wanted to see stars.
That’s slightly different.
I mean—
Because I wanted to see stars, these days I blaze it. 'Cause you know—
I still want to see the stars but six months in orbit is too much fucking work.
I mean, yeah, it’s cool. “Wow, he’s a cosmonaut!” But you actually spend years training, spinning in the fucking thing.
Everything sucks. Then they launch you into orbit, you get G-forced to hell.
You look through the window once, “Wow, pretty.”
And then for six months, you spin around in zero g, try to take a shit, and catch your turds with a vacuum.
Like—
Not that romantic, is it?
Too much work. I’m so lazy
that I think if I starred in a porno, instead of being the main guy,
I would’ve been the one sitting in the back masturbating to the action.
I wouldn’t even be jerking off to them. Just having fun on my own.
“Oh, you’re done? You can leave then.”
Men are so weird.
Girls, clap if you believe that men love women’s breasts. Honestly.
That’s a fucking lie, ladies.
I’m not trying to pull a “we don’t even care!” here, no.
It’s not that. I’m not trying to lower expectations.
But here’s the thing.
If a guy sees a picture of a naked woman, he likes her a lot, she’s completely naked, her breasts are completely exposed,
but the nipple is blocked with a black circle, we lose our minds.
We go, “I’ve seen a million nipples, but I must know what this one looks like!” You gotta see under the circle.
That’s some weird psychological torture that strip club owners had figured out.
You seen those nipple caps with tassels on them? That is some cat toy shit! You wanna knock that fucking thing off!
Like a dangling curtain, and you’re like.
This weird psychological nipple effect.
Hear that?
Muzychenko.* That’s Yura Muzychenko. * — Russian musician
I now recognize this fucking wheezing, elderly laugh bordering on throwing up.
Just a little more — and there it fucking goes.
You guys under the VIPs, careful. Should’ve brought an umbrella.
I think Yura drinks so much that his vomit is like an alien’s. It can melt through several levels.
Be careful.
Yeah, there he is.
Men are strange creatures. I once saw a porno where a girl, two dudes…
See? I’m not sexist. I don’t care about the ratio. As long as…
It’s a party. Anyway.
Simple setup. The girl. Final scene. She’s on her knees, holding two dicks, trying to do a pretty finale.
And right at the moment when the dudes amazingly simultaneously start coming, she does this.
And the dudes start coming on each other and actually hit!
The cameraman’s like, “Holy shit!” Gets back, shows their faces. And the dudes are like.
“Are we gay now?!” So I have a question.
I have a question.
Where’s this fine line when
a strictly technical presence of a woman somewhere close somehow makes it all not gay.
Two guys are fucking each other in the ass, chick comes up, “Tag! There! They’re not gay, I tagged them.”
“Not it.” Boom.
Have you ever watched completely normal porn, enjoyed it very much,
then all of a sudden the plot makes a sharp turn and now it’s perverted, and you’re a pervert too by proxy.
No? Moving on— No, I mean—
I’ll tell you what happened to me.
So I’m rubbing one out to completely normal porn, it’s great.
When suddenly it switches to a close-up of the dude’s face.
And I’m like, “It’ll switch in a moment. The shot will switch in a moment. It’ll--”
And it doesn’t switch for two minutes. I’m like, “Great. Awesome. Now I’m gay. Fucktastic!”
“Great. Cool fucking stuff.”
All because I’m lazy. All because I was too lazy to take the hand off and press the right arrow.
A girl in Voronezh shouted, “‘Take the hand off?’ What about the other one?” Boy, they’re clueless, huh guys?
If you didn’t get the joke, come back in three years.
Content not for kids.
“Let it go. Let it go.” Or whatever the kids listen to.
“The finger never bothered me anyway.”
I think sex is the main drive in life.
I mean, all things happen because of it.
Because, simply enough, after fucking, you don’t want to do anything.
Anything. While prior, you’re all motivated!
Taken to the extreme, if my girlfriend came into the room five minutes after we’ve fucked and said,
“Danya, the delivery guy punched me in the face!” “Well, why do you keep fucking ordering Hawaiian?”
“I mean, really? Sausage and pineapples?”
“Be thankful he didn’t shoot you.”
Times change. It used to be hard to get information.
I got my first porn video through IrDA.
And it was a GIF.
Kids transferred it around so much that it turned into pixels, a mishmash of pixels.
It looked like a tiger fucking a chick.
I thought, “So that’s what porn is. That’s what gets people going.”
It got a lot easier in that sense.
These days, to see a whore on video all you need to do is go to YouTube before the elections.
I’ll be honest, I’m drunk.
And I don’t remember what comes next. I have really bad memory.
I mean, I have the memory of a fish.
Not Nastya Rybka, no! That cunt has phenomenal memory.
Names, dates, geolocations — that’s amazing!
You can stuff so much in her head!
No,
my memory is really so shit that at some point, I started to think that I have an onset of Alzheimer’s.
Shit, that’d be an awesome fucking name for a let’s play channel — Alzgamer.
And the guy keeps uploading the playthrough of the same first level.
“Hey! This is our first look at…” First fucking look, huh? Like.
Subscribe. When will he—
That would fucking rule.
But then I realized it’s not my problem.
Poor memory is the problem of our whole generation.
It’s the Internet. Because…
Think about it.
We’re the first generation to have so much information go through our brains.
And it’s from all over the world: best videos, best news, best jokes.
And it’s all exciting.
This never happened before. So the brain starts filtering out the less exciting things.
My brain has rearranged in such a way that I remember that meme where the cat yells like a porn actor
but can’t remember my mom's birthday.
The brain’s like, “Dude, just ask her.”
“What’s the problem?”
Do you realize that we’re the first generation in history to have that shit?
I mean, yeah, history repeats itself, yatta-yatta. Only no.
Never in history did we at all times carry in our pockets access to the database of all of mankind’s knowledge.
We can communicate remotely. That’s stone-age telepathy.
Thanks to this technology, I can argue with my chick from anywhere in the world. That’s amazing!
I’ve recently made the biggest mistake in my life. I put a laptop shelf in front of the toilet.
That’s it. Life is fucking over. Like, why leave?
Wi-Fi is great. Speed is superb.
Food? Well, I’m on the toilet, means I’ve recently eaten, so it’s fine.
People ask me, “Danya, what’s with the baggy eyes?” How can you fucking sleep
when you have this portal to an endless sea of information right there at all times?
I saw a video the other day where a guy ate a ton of laxatives and glued his ass shut with superglue.
Are you actually saying I should pick sleep over that?! Lie with my eyes closed?
That’s a fucking alternative!
How many more treasures like that the Internet holds?
You know what the problem is? I always considered the Internet the savior of mankind.
I thought it would elevate us to the next evolutionary stage.
No fucking cigar.
Instead of evolution and stuff, this unbelievable regression in people’s minds. Did you see?
Our deputies seriously claim that busts weep.
In 2018,
globally, a community of people
who seriously believe that the Earth is flat is re-emerging and trying to convince others.
And their arguments are akin to, “Well, if you fucking stand at the bottom of a ball, you’ll fall down.”
Shit, we’re going back to the Middle Ages. This is fucked up.
True story. We had an open mic in Saint Petersburg.
Just hanging with other comics in the green room before the show.
Natalya Banteyeva enters the room, the “witch” from the Battle of Psychics.
We’re like, “Holy fuck, the material we’re getting tonight!”
She'd go, “DAE hate it when you brew a potion with virgin blood, and then, shit, she’s not a virgin. Fuck!”
“I bet on her. Turned out the cunt loves to party.”
“No? No one?”
I come up to her and go, “Hi.” She turns around, goes, “Hi, Danila.” I'm like...
“When will I die?”
Turned out she knows me. I go, “Are you in the show tonight?”
She’s like, “No, I’m looking at the venue for tomorrow's show.”
“Danya, I heard you had a run-in with Milonov.*” “Yeah, that’s true.” * — Conservative crazy politician
She goes, “I have a story with Milonov too.” I’m like,
“Spill it, Glinda. Holy shit! I’m all ears.”
And she says, “Anyway, out of the blue, Milonov started dumping on me on Facebook, writing I’m scum, I should be burned and anathemized.”
“So in a couple of days, he got blocked for anti-Ukrainian comments.”
“So he thought I’d hexed him.” And does this.
That moment when the most famous witch in the country does this,
you realize that she’s saying, “Yo, this guy thinks I do magic,
and he’s a deputy.”
That's fucked.
Instead of people getting informed on the Internet,
it got easier for fuckheads to bunch together.
Fuck, there’s a whole room of you! A full fucking room!
We’ve packed the Ice Palace.
Ain’t that the key—
I love that every time our government passes a law designed to limit the freedom of speech,
they almost invariably pretend like they’re protecting school kids from the Internet.
But there’s a problem. I’m a vlogger, and I can tell you with complete confidence
that the Internet is not as dangerous for school kids as vice versa.
They’re completely insane.
They don’t — either yet or never will — have a self-preservation instinct.
Did you see who rallies these days? Hordes of school shits.
They run around, going,
“Sobibor* delayed the Avengers for four days! Fuck!” * — A 2018 Russian war drama
They’re feral.
They climb poles, going, “They make us study the word of God at school! Fuck!”
I genuinely think that school kids are the only group that can upend this country.
Picture the Kremlin encircled with law enforcers with rifles. A little school kid comes up and goes,
“Are you going to shoot
someone who fucked your mom?” And he’s through!
He’s breached. He’s gotten inside.
And they’re an army. There’s a whole army of them.
I just imagine a bunch of them assembling into a giant one.
They smash a window in the Kremlin, crash inside, take Putin down, and one of them goes, “Get fucked, Putin!”
“Sarry far swearing!”
I think they’re our hope.
Kids are fucking dangerous. Very dangerous.
I’ve been recently making fun of Roma LSP* and Lil Peep over them dying. * — Rapper from Belarus
Drew a lot of anger for some reason.
Look, I have a very simple policy.
I honestly think that if a person takes whatever drugs they can get their hands on for their whole conscious life,
they don’t give a shit about life, they show it off in public,
they deliberately act like they don’t care about life,
after every bad trip they get resuscitated and told,
“Dude, one more, and you’re dead,” and they still do it and eventually die to drugs,
it’s really weird to see reactions like,
“He left so suddenly! So young!”
“In the prime of his life! It was like a bolt from the blue!”
I got a lot of comments saying, “Well, what if they were depressed? And that was their way of fighting it?”
What if not?
What if they were just spoiled cocksuckers
who wanted to fuck chicks and have lots of money to buy drugs and chill,
and became famous off of it?
What if the were doing their cash cow jobs to feed their egos?
I don’t pity them at all. You know why? ‘Cause I’m exactly the same.
And since I don’t pity myself, I don’t pity them either.
You see, art doesn’t become better after the artist’s death.
It doesn’t work like that. If I die right now, my stand-up won’t become funnier.
At some point, this will be a brilliant fucking move.
I’d go, “Been fucking drinking for years, and perfectly--”
And everyone’s like, “Oh, he— He’s playing dead.”
“Wait, is he actually dead? Fuck me! And for such a shitty joke? That’s brilliant. That's amazing.”
“Got my money’s worth.”
I’ll fucking make fun of them if I want to. What are they gonna do about it?
Plus, I recently read an article in National Geographic,
and some of the world’s scientists apparently believe that
all gingers on Earth will disappear by 2060.
The fuck is this clapping? What are you so happy about?
I mean, what the fuck? I have a question to ask. What do they plan to do to us in 2059?
Are they perhaps spoiling a genocide?
Two girls in the front went—
“Fuck! That’s a slip. That’s a false start. We can’t rejoice at their extinction yet.”
The Internet is a big ol’ experiment,
and nobody knows its purpose.
Every five years, the Internet spits out some new shit that nobody expected.
When a lot of people simultaneously exist in the same media environment,
it will always result in unexpected consequences.
You know you killed my favorite porn actress?
Not fucking you exactly. The Internet users in general. Or maybe some of you, too.
Did you hear about August Ames?
Notice the loud group response from the guys on this side. “Yes!”
A tight little batch of seats.
“Yeah, dude.”
That deep voice. “Yes.”
All my friends.
For those who don’t know, August Ames was a popular foreign actress, porn actress.
Early this year she refused to shoot a porn video with a gay actor for fear of catching something from him.
People everywhere got up in arms and started berating her.
At that point extreme tolerance became a weapon.
People started writing to her, with best intentions in mind, things like,
“How could you offend that gay so horribly? Fucking scum. Die.”
To all these people who were just making themselves feel good off of another’s mistake,
every tweet and every comment were like tiny grains of sand.
But for her, it was a giant ball that rolled her over. She snapped and killed herself.
This year.
She didn’t do it because of four tweets.
It’s just that at some point she started to feel that everyone who knows of her existence hates her.
She couldn’t take it. I have the same exact situation.
I refused to shoot a video with a gay and— I kid. My point is—
I mean
this whole room is my death contract.
Technically.
I mean, yeah, we’re all in tune, joking and laughing,
except for moms who brought their kids and now go, “What the fuck is this? He doesn’t like Putin?”
“You gonna tell me you don’t believe in God either?”
Let me grab my booze.
No, my point is this.
Second one.
This whole thing happened because she had too many eyes on her.
Same thing here. I used to get away with ridiculous things.
These days, I fart at home — the next day Solovyov’s discussing it live. That’s fucked.
I emotionally hazarded to assume that it would benefit our government to hide the real number of casualties in Kemerovo.
So I tweeted about it, saying, “Maybe there were more.”
The very next day, Solovyov’s like, “Poperechnyi is dancing on children’s corpses!”
“He’s— Cheerful hype on bones!”
He started tweeting at me, writing, “Shame on you!”
I responded, “Vova, can’t understand a word. You’ve a mouthful of dicks. Could you spit ‘em out?”
He blocked me. He blocked me.
But before blocking me he wrote, “So you like sucking dicks?”
It's like he’s busting my balls with own ballbuster.
You know, this baffling move you’d hear at school.
You go, “Hey, fuckface.” He turns around, goes, “Hey, fuckface.” And you’re like—
You forget what you were gonna say. You go, “Shit, how do I react?”
“What’s my line now? As if he spoke first? Or to go, ‘Hey, that was my line!’”
I thought that was it.
The next day, he uploads to his official YouTube channel…
his podcast? I don’t know what to call it. That show where he sits in some radio room with a poor woman that listens to his bullcrap.
He’s like a snake. He fixes his eyes on her. Just stares at her, going,
“Kids of corruptionists. Two percent. Liberal whores. Scum.”
She doesn’t even respond to him. Just sitting there,
“Fuck! Vova, I’ve not glanced at you for two hours. Look away for fuck’s sake!”
You know, I think, she’s like a truck driver — got more wrinkles on Solovyov’s side of her face than on the other one.
‘Cause too much fucking evil energy coming in.
When suddenly the show’s topic switches to me.
He goes, “Poperechnyi? He swears like a gay.”
I’m like, fucking hold up. Pause. What?
“Swears like a gay.” First of all, what the fuck does “swears like a gay” mean?
What's this special vocabulary that I got? Second, how do you know what gay swearing sounds like, you old fuck?
Is there something you’re hiding under your black justacorps?
And then he just goes hog-wild. “Stand-up comic, huh?”
“You sure you got all the letters right in ‘comic?’”
He’s like, “See what I fucking did there? Stand-up gomic.* Get it? Get it?” * — Slang for «faggot»
“I’m here ‘till Tuesday.”
Now, compare.
I busted Solovyov’s balls by saying that he’s got a mouthful of dicks
not because he loves having dicks in his mouth,
but because he’s a propagandist and he lacks an opinion of his own. He’s a puppet.
It was a metaphor.
Yea, it’s based on wieners, but oh well, that’s as far as I’ve grown up. You know, you fucking—
You can’t judge me. You bought tickets for this shit.
In response to that, Solovyov says the following.
“This Poperechnyi, he’s a nobody, he’s a dud, he’s an…”
“Empty pie.” I go: rewind! “Empty pie.”
I’m like, fuck! Really?
Seriously? Empty pie?
Is that your idea of an insult? Holy fuck, do you share a ghost writer with Zhirinovsky?
Black filth and empty pie. What kind of insult is that?
Empty pie? Really?
Solovyov, that’s gonna be the name of my next stand-up.
Great name. “Empty pie.”
Coming to your city.
Not even offended.
The problem is, since this shit’s going on even now,
sooner or later,
I’ll make a huge fucking misstep. Mark my words.
There’s a lot of situations— People love a show.
People love it when someone they watch gets into interesting stuff. Even if it’s fucked up.
Before the show, the voice said several times not to record. I can still see people who went, “Fucking whatever, dude.”
I mean, you gotta understand that any phrase said on this show, if it’s uploaded to the Internet, can get me into jail.
For real. Give me some credit. I’m the only person in the country who can fucking drive around and say shit like that from stage.
Like—
For now. For now.
Or do you think, “Whatever. The special will be even funnier when he comes out.”
Is that your logic?
You gotta be a really worthless comedian to spend six years in jail and come out with zero new material.
You know, never came up with anything. Never had the time.
Head occupied with other things.
No, I’m sure I’ll make a huge fucking misstep at some point. I don’t know.
I’ll get drunk, make a bad move on someone, and get accused in harassment.
Or maybe— Here’s an easier one. Some kid will start direct-messaging me.
See? I don’t even need to keep going. You already get it. Like—
He’ll get mad at me for not responding and start spreading the story that I, let’s say, fucked him.
At first, nobody will care about this story.
But then all kinds of crazy propagandists, deputies and rights activists who hate me will join in
and start raving on all the biggest channels in prime time,
“What a disgrace! This crazy bastard still walks free!”
Then they show a perfectly edited supercut of all my shows where I go,
“Fucking kids rules!”
“Perfect size.”
“Little mouth, so no excessive blabbing. Awesome! Try it!”
“I approve.”
Will anyone question it? Yeah, at first my audience will go, “He’s kidding,” but then switch to, “Fuck, what if he wasn’t?”
They’ll ostracize, bully, and hate me.
They’ll film me with a drone walking around at home in my underwear.
Then put poorly animated models of lil’ fuckers running away from me in those videos.
And show it on Russia 24 in prime time.
I think even my grandma would buy that bullshit.
Old people with fuck all for eyesight are the main audience of propaganda channels.
In a recent report about Syria — well, some time ago — they literally showed a clip from Assassin’s Creed.
What the fuck?
“As you can see, this hooded figure is our agent.” He’s sitting there. Fucking syncing up.
“Viktor Ivanov.”
I’m sure that sooner or later
I’ll be bullied into having to hide and undergo plastic surgery, change my skin color,
because no one will care that I talked about it in one of my shows.
Everyone will think, “He was just covering his ass.”
I’m sure one day, my hands will just drop. Seriously.
To grab that lil’ cunt's head and fuck him good with my Viagra-infused dick while he’s out from the drugs that I’d slipped him
because he didn’t recognize me. Since he knows my old face, not the new one.
When the lil’ cunt starts to come round and says, “Who are you, mister?” I’ll go, “Remember me, bitch?” —
and jump out the window.
And when he starts to go crazy, going, “Fuck! It actually happened! Holy shit!”
He’ll go to every media outlet and channel and say,
“This time, Poperecnyi actually fucked me! I mean last time was real too, I mean--” And everybody’s like,
“Aha! You’re full of shit!” I’ll turn him into the boy that cried wolf!
When everybody realizes that the brat just wanted attention,
I’ll get my fucking mug back, with improvements, and walk into the limelight.
Moral.
The moral is this.
Stop with the shitty comments. What the fuck?
You don’t want to be responsible for me mouth-fucking a child, do you?
Fuck, I hope they show this bit too
in prime time on Russia 24.
In the first city, the police came.
First one of the tour. Before I even got on stage.
They’re like, “Poperechnyi!”
We go, “It’s okay. We won’t be offending the religious.” “But that’s what we like to hear!”
I just imagine how fucking weird it must be for people who don’t know me,
they got here by chance, and now go, “What the--”
“He’s joking about fucking kids, and you’re all laughing?!”
“Are you outta your fucking minds?”
“Hello, police?”
“What do you mean you like him?” I fucking got my bases covered. I—
I got it good on all sides.
Anyway, let’s talk about something more positive. Feminists.
Shit, every city has those chicks, I go, “Feminists,” and they’re like, “Ooh.”
“Dumb bitches fight for my rights. Boo!”
Are you fucking crazy? Feminism is the right idea. Equality is fucking awesome.
That’s what we should really fight for together, side-by-side.
But.
Any group of people with a common idea has its degenerates.
Feminists are no exception.
Here’s why. You know what lookism is? It’s when you judge by appearance.
A lot of feminists protest against lookism in advertising.
They go, “How the fuck can models look so good on those magazines and posters? They shouldn’t look like that!”
These feminists think that those people look so good just to fuck with them.
Going, “Look at that. Hmm?”
“Mine’s like this, and yours’ like that!”
And the feminist’s like, “Damn!”
“That bitch ruined my day. Gonna go re-dye my armpit, fucking hell.”
They cry that “these people push unrealistic standards of beauty on women!”
Fucking who does? Other women?
They look like that not because they’re genetically modified freaks made in glass tubes.
“Add a tit. Another one. Waist. Jar with butts. Just fucking dump all of it!”
“See what we end up with. February cover.”
These people don’t look like that because
they did fuck all for three years, sat at home watching shows on Netflix, going,
“What’s with the fucking legal crusade, Netflix?” — munching on Cheetos, then got up and went,
“I’m a goddess! I got rid of all the bad stuff.”
They work their asses off.
Isn't it more fitting to praise people who fucking look like Greek gods in our culture?
This motivates us to be better. It isn’t like—
“She is fucking gorgeous. And you’re a piece of shit.”
That’s not the point.
As a guy, I perfectly understand your anger, ladies.
All the dudes, as you may have noticed, in all the shows and movies — everywhere — all shredded.
Even a fucking online betting ad has a huge ass shredded dude.
“You call that a pack? THAT'S a pack.” Seen that shit?
A dude comes out with an awesome 6-pack.
And a bald cocksucker with a brick of cash goes, “THAT'S a pack.” No, the other guy has a pack.
He could flex his dick muscles, knock you out and take your money, dude.
Chris Pratt was my favorite fat ginger farter from “Parks.”
What did Marvel do to him?
I’m watching the first “Guardians of the Galaxy.” He takes his shirt off.
I go, “How do I connect with this character now?”
Holy shit. And they all have these crazy muscles down here, like this, near the legs.
And chicks love those. My girlfriend loves those muscles.
And I’ve no clue how you build them. What kind of exercise do you do?
Put a dumbbell down here and do this a lot? Or spin a really fucking heavy hoola hoop? I don’t understand!
The only thing I have here is a wrinkle across the stomach
because I sit all the time.
You don’t understand how bad it is.
This is a soft slab of fat with a fucking bend line on it!
My body’s like, “Let it bend the same way every time along this tidy line.”
I’m turning into a flip phone!
And obviously, obviously it pushes me when I see what Chris Pratt did to himself.
I go, “Shit, I should probably start working out.”
I checked out a body positive group. Found fuck all for positive.
Do they even know what “positive” means?
Or do they expect you to look at a bloody pad and a dyed armpit and go,
“Got my daily dose of spry! That’s a fucking booster!”
“Like a fucking coffee shot! Nice!”
They actually think that people turn their noses from bloody pads and periods because we have patriarchy.
No, girls, it’s because it’s thick monthly cunt blood. Not because we have patriarchy.
It would be the same if I opened a group on VK and started uploading my shits.
Tagged pictures with #IfItsNaturalItsNotDisgusting.
Smear it all over.
“Look at that! Specially for you. Didn’t digest a nut. Freedom fighter.” I mean, fuck, it’s just hygiene.
It’s just hygiene.
You know, sure, okay, I’m fine with feminists.
I like feminists.
But radical feminists…
That’s—
That’s a different fucking beast.
They are completely different people, no, women—
They, you know, they’re separate. They’re completely separate.
They seriously think that reverse sexism doesn’t exist,
but start to hate you the moment they realize you’re a dude.
They can hang out with you assuming you’re a butch lesbo friend.
Then go, “Is that a penis?! Mansplainer! Get away! Womanizer!”
These people don’t fight for justice. Oh no!
They try to get back at dudes for the patriarchy. That’s completely fucking different.
They don’t want to restore equality. They just want to try our shoes on!
And they’re so angry they can’t agree even between themselves. Some of them say,
“We need to call woman artists ‘painter,’ not ‘paintress,’ because it has to be gender-neutral.”
Others say, “No fucking way. I’m a paintress, not a painter.”
“Because I want everyone to know that I’m a woman artist.”
They can’t agree between themselves. You know why? Chicks.
And yes, let’s make it clear, just to dot the i’s.
I don’t respect women. I don’t respect women.
The fuck you clapping at? I don’t respect dudes either.
Because it doesn’t work like that: you don’t respect someone for their gender. Who came up with this shit?
I—
Obviously, naturally, I will respect you if you’re a kind, smart, honest person,
and not based on the sausage arrangement in your pants.
It never worked like that. To go,
“Is that a cunt?”
“Respect!”
“Good shit!”
“Fistbump!”
“Yeah, with the cunt. Cool!”
And you go like Wylsacom*, “Damn, that's a freaking design! That's what I'm talking about!” * — Popular tech blogger
“Those crafty Chinese--”
I can’t even blame radical feminists for their standpoint.
For a very simple reason. Because
men are not fucking helping the situation. Seriously.
Was that a car alarm going off? What the fuck? I mean, what the—
Are you okay?
I just heard—
Turned out, it’s someone enjoying the show. Sorry.
All good? Okay.
I should start doing the freaking Zadornov* shtick. “Shush! Shush! You just fucking wait for it! Shush!” * — Old Russian comedian
I mean you can’t be mad at radical feminists because it’s obvious that
men, first of all, aren’t helping the situation, and second,
even our government does everything in its power to make women feel like they’re nothing in this country.
They’ve recently decriminalized domestic violence.
Did you hear that shit? Well, you should have.
You can now fucking punch your woman in the face, pay a fine of 5000 rubles, and you’re clear.
“Yeah!” What was that? Is my dad in the room? What the fuck?
“Yeah!”
Metallica’s singer’s like, “Oooh! Oh, sorry. Power of habit.”
And that’s a good fucking indication of what our government is all about.
And who’s sitting there.
Instead of forbidding wifebeating, our government found a way to make a buck off it.
They introduced a tax on fucking up your wife. Cool shit, huh?
That’s fucked up. I understand how privileged my present situation is.
I have a mic. I’ve gathered a huge stadium. You’re all listening to me.
I want to make an ardent and genuine statement. Outside of the show.
I strongly believe that a man can’t hit a woman, and I insist on it. I mean it. That’s my stance.
A year ago I decked my girlfriend for the first time.
I’m not proud of it.
Here’s what happened. We were fooling around.
Tumbling on the bed and shit.
When suddenly she lept on top of me and started biting me on the shoulder.
And she has slightly crooked bottom teeth, and holy shit, it hurt so bad, fucking hell!
She sunk her teeth like a fucking garpy. For real.
Plus, she doesn’t know when to stop. So she springs up, going—
I meant to hold her face like this and throw off me on the pillows.
I slightly overdid it and went—
Like, a solid one. Bam!
She hopped off, lies there, laughing. I turn her face up and realize: fuck, it’s not laughter.
I spent two months, two months, begging her to forgive me.
And not because she spent two months, going, “We’re fucking through!” She forgave me immediately.
It’s just that when I saw her eyes, I realized that, to her, I’d just ruined all men.
I begged her to forgive me for two months. Swore this would never happen again.
Three months later…
No, actually, after the situation somewhat settled, every time we’d argue,
I’d go, “Hold up. Remember the time we were fucking around?”
“And you got shipped a box of fuck-you-up?”
“I’m not insinuating anything. But I can close my eyes and start doing shit. You might end up--”
Like, I’m scaring her with an accident I’d never repeat.
“I had shit coordination back then. I got barely any fucking control over myself now.”
You know, I thought about it. You can’t hit... your woman.
Why the hell does it include all— Simple scenario.
You’re in a park with a laptop, and a gypsy woman snags your laptop.
Are you gonna fucking run alongside her, going, “Excuse me, miss! What the fuck? This is my property!”
No, you punch her in the fucking skull so the cunt goes flat.
Take your property back. She’s not a lady, she’s a thief in that moment.
Or—
Another scenario where you can’t avoid violence.
Imagine: your wife is pregnant, you have little money, and—
There.
Oh, so…
I can see some of you going, “Ohmygod.” So fucking kids is okay with you,
but punching a fetus — “Oh no, that's fucked up! You’ve crossed the line.”
I’m obviously fucking with you! You can’t do that. Of course you can’t do that.
My attorney sometimes asks me to reiterate that shit.
You can’t do that.
Obviously you can hit women during sex.
You’re pounding her, going, “Why is this so fucking bad? Get some!”
“Oooh, bruises! Cool color. Get some.”
My girlfriend and I have a safety word in our sex games.
For cases when the fooling around goes awry and she’s not enjoying it, she has a safety word
that goes, “Ouch! Fuck, Danya! Holy shit! Thanks a fucking lot!”
I’m like, “Aha! Safety word.”
Like, are you fucking serious? Safety words? What is this crap?
You’re in pain and instead of saying, “No. Stop. It hurts,”
you have to go, “Pineapple!” I mean what is this— What is this secrecy?
Girl’s choking on a dick, but to make it stop, she has to utter, “Homecoming. Fucking 47. Rusted.”
Seriously? Are we spies? Are we spies? What the hell?
She dragged me into a movie theater once to see The Zookeeper’s Wife.
And right before the movie started they showed a huge disclaimer saying,
“Warning! Smoking can hurt your health!”
And then they show two hours of Nazis fucking up Jews.
I was like, “So that’s how you fucking set your priorities?”
Are they worried that it’s way worse if a child watches this movie and becomes a Nazi smoker than just a Nazi?
They’d go, “Daddy, look at this fucking awesome lighter the man has!”
“Why is the man with payots on fire?”
I was praying for a scene where a Nazi would be standing next to a gas chamber smoking a cigarette
and a Jew would peek out and go, “Bro, for real, can you not? The fucking cigarette smoke allergy is killing me.”
Smoking can hurt you. Fuck. Hitler could’ve hurt you.
That would’ve been more appropriate! Hitler very much could’ve hurt you.
I mean showing a disclaimer like that before a WW2 movie
is like hanging a “Watch your step” sign on the door of a gas chamber.
Like, be careful, Jew, don’t croak ahead of time.
Uninsurable risk.
Usually at this point in the show,
the backdrop becomes red and a huge ass swastika appears
and I go, “See? It’s nothing special.”
“And can we tone the light down a little?”
So people started uploading pictures.
Where I’m in front of a swastika with my hand raised and everyone’s fucking laughing, having a good time.
So—
I cut that part out. I tried to take precautions. I wasn’t actually sieg-heiling
‘cause you do it with your right hand, I’d lift the left one.
But I have this suspicion about the investigator that gets this photo and decides to sentence me.
I doubt they’d go, “Aha! We got a photo!”
“Fuck, is that his left hand?”
“Hell no, I didn’t come to work for nothing today. I’ll come up with something. I know!”
“I’ll flip the image horizontally!”
“Ha!”
“Fuck, it’s a sauwastika now!”
“Poperechnyi!”
“One day!”
What if Jesus took offence—
I mean—
What if Jesus took offence at the Jews and didn’t stop Hitler?
You know.
“Well, you started it. Now deal with this shit.”
“‘Gas chambers are too much?’ You fucking nailed me to a board, my hands still won’t heal!”
Look, we all— Since we’re on the subject. Religion! Gotta be careful!
Can those of you who seriously believe that abortion is murder please clap?
I promise I won’t bust your balls. Just clap if you believe that.
Yes, thank you for your opinion. I even somewhat understand it.
Like, the fetus might already have a soul, a consciousness. I have a question though.
Does that mean that a miscarriage is the lil' cunt committing a conscious suicide?
I mean—
He floated in your belly for a couple of weeks, listened to the kind of shit you discuss with your friends,
like, “Yegor Kreed is in the new season of The Bachelor!” — and he’s like, “I’m fucking out. I’m— Nope!”
“Not a second more.”
According to Google, we have a spectacularly shitty miscarriage statistic in Russia.
I think it’s because when some fetuses develop an ear canal,
they go, “What? Is that… Russian? Am I going to be born in Russia? Cancel! Cancel! Abort!”
Trying to climb down the umbilical cord out of the cunt at night. “That’s it, I’m fucking outta here.”
“Fuck, I’m attached to it.”
“Gotta get back. Okay.”
“Gotta rip that shit somehow or--”
“I don’t have teeth, fuck!” Throws a tantrum.
The mother goes, “Feel it. He’s kicking. Right here. Yes.”
“Right here, a little lower.”
The fetus is like, “Okay. Fuck. Let me think. I’m Russian. I gotta have that stereotypical Russian wit.”
“What to do, what to--”
You know what I’d like to know?
In Orthodoxy, suicide is considered the biggest sin.
And babies are innocent.
That looks like real fucking sneaky loophole, don’t you think?
It’s not lost on any of us that the modern church is OOO*. * — Russian LLC
It’s a business. Not “oooh!”
“Church!”
“Church!”
A business.
SP “Yesu.”
They have a marketing department. A PR department. They have their own merch.
But what if the church was conceived as a business from the start?
I’ll explain. I’ve been reading the commandments the other day.
That’s what I do in my spare time.
Like, it says, “Thou shall not take the name of God in vain.” I go,
“God, God, God…”
“God, look, I’m vaining.”
I try to get the biggest highscore on the safer sins.
Just in case I turn out to be wrong and there is an afterlife, so that it’s a lesson to me.
Like, I go to hell, and the Devil says, “Dude, high five, bro. Well fucking played.”
I’m like, “Let’s go fucking boil in a pot.”
And Hitler says to Saddam Hussein, “Who's that?”
“With a huge fucking rating like that?”
Saddam Hussein goes,
“He joked in Russia about Putin and the church.”
Hitler goes, “Let’s get the fuck outta here! He’s fucking crazy! No, no, no.”
“He’s insane.”
Anyway, I checked out the classic commandments that say “don’t kill,” “don’t steal”…
Did you know that those don’t include a “don’t lie?”
Yeah, there’s a “don’t slander” but not a fucking word about pure lying.
Anyone else finds this— It’s as if God co-wrote the Old Testament and the commandments not with a scribe
but with some really fucking crafty lawyer.
Who went, “Look, technically, we are not breaking our own contract by saying that you’re a higher being, Andrew.”
“Don’t slander” is a commandment, but bullshitting is okay.
So any dude comes out and goes, “I created all of you.”
And the first person he meets says, “I think you’re full of shit.”
And he goes, “Slander! Impale him!” They kill him.
Those are pretty fucking convenient conditions.
What if the guys following Jesus around weren’t actually his disciples,
but a bunch of lawyers writing down everything he said?
They’re like, “Jesus Christ! You can’t talk about the government like that!”
“Yes, they’re fair points, but fucking hell, Pilate’s shooting for his fourth term! The fuck are you thinking?!”
Lawyer fees will be my fucking downfall. I just imagine how much every line will cost me.
A register in my head goes ding.
Blasphemy.
Pedophilia.
I’ve been living behind the poverty line for a year now.
On the flipside.
And you know?
I’m not fucking happy.
The problem is, it was my last hope. The moneys.
Obviously, obviously, I’ve heard the expression
“Money can’t buy happiness” many times. But I still wanted to check, you know?
It gets especially doubtful when you look at our fat deputies
who, buttoned up to the top button, look like stress toys that someone’s squeezing the fuck out of.
They don’t have sadness in their eyes.
And they’re fucking loaded.
Obviously, I wasn’t so dumb as to expect that plain wealth would make me happy.
You know how I thought it would work?
Knowing that I can get my loved ones anything I want was to make my experience a little better.
Tough fucking luck.
What’s more — doing charity doesn’t fucking help either.
It’s not mentioned anywhere, but a percentage off every ticket on this tour goes to charity.
We’re actually— No, no, no, stop, stop… Fucking stop right there.
I’m not trying to paint myself as a saint. “Look at me! I’m a fucking messiah!”
No, I’m telling this shit for other reasons.
We give a portion of the money to a company that develops new prosthetics for kids, cybernetic ones.
The problem is, first off, even this level of charity doesn’t change shit.
It’s pure altruism. You made money and gave it to the less fortunate.
Doesn’t make you feel better.
Secondly, in the course of the tour I realized I’m the worst person for this type of charity.
I mean—
“Little boy. Are you missing a hand?”
“Come to Danya.”
“Danya will fix it.”
“What material do you want your hand to be?”
If I had no limbs at all and my mom came up to me and said,
“Danya, Poperechnyi is giving away legs AND arms,”
I would’ve gone, “No, thanks, you know. I’d rather be like Nick Vujicic. Fuck that.”
“Poperechnyi? I’m not walking into that one.”
“Na-ah. That shit’s too risky.”
I have a huge fucking ego.
And it’s all filled with self-condemnation and self-hate.
You know, I’m like Nikolay Sobolev* from an alternate reality. * —Russian vlogger
From the opposite world.
I’ve recently added fuel to the fire. I hate clowns. They scare me.
And I suddenly realized that—
Guys, I don’t know why you’re so fucking happy about.
Clapping attracts them!
I’ve recently realized that I’ve become a clown myself.
I mean, I dance in front of you.
You’re all laughing. I have ginger hair and a red nose from drinking. I’m a clown!
I felt like such a hypocrite! But then I went, “Shit! I’m not a hypocrite.”
“I’m Batman.”
“I became that which I feared.”
Imagine if Bruce Wayne was scared of clowns instead of bats?
His parents get killed, twenty something years later
he’s holding some bad guy by the shirt and goes, “Talk!”
Two bad guys are attempting a heroin sale under a bridge, going,
“Come on, fucking hurry up, before he's here.”
And they hear—
“Fuck, he’s here! Come on!”
And a dude comes out in huge red shoes that go…
“I am fear!”
The police is chasing him. “We’re after him! He’s on 3rd Avenue.”
“What’s he driving?” And the dude’s on a unicycle with a pole, going, “Shit!”
Cycling the fuck outta there.
Then he gets on top of some building and goes, “This city is drowning in tears.”
That would be so cool!
Besides.
You realize there wouldn’t be a Joker.
I mean what would their standoff look like? Joker goes, “Why so seriou--?”
“I can’t.”
We actually didn’t plan to play the Ice Palace initially.
But the Lensovet Culture Center. Some of you might know this because you got re-arranged.
We didn’t realize there would be so many of you.
And when we were booking the venue at the start of the tour,
my show managers came to the lady manager of the Lensovet CC
and went, “We want to do a show.” She goes, “Are you sure it’s standup you want to do?”
We go, “Are there other options? The fuck does that mean? Yes. Why?”
“Well, you know, you won’t sell-out.”
We go, “What makes you say that?” And she goes,
“Well, Ruslan Belyi* did a show recently.” We go, * — TV host and comic
“Sweetie!”
To hush the lady’s fears, we put forth full down payment.
There was no reason for her to twitch and stress out that something goes wrong.
We silenced her with cash.
Two days before the start of the tour, she cancels the show.
She says, “No, you can’t play at our venue. It's off.”
We go, “Why?” And she responds, “Because Poperechnyi is too profane.”
And my show manager goes,
“You have Shnur* scheduled in two days. Are you motherfucking kidding me with this hypocrisy? Really?” * — foul-mouthed musician
To which we get an official response,
“Look. Let’s not compare Sergei Shnurov and some unheard of Danila Poperechnyi.”
Yea, fucking ooh. Blya, ooh!* * — Odd, but popular Russian ad-lib
And my show manager goes, “Danya, check out this funny e-mail.”
I’m like—
Fucking—
How many fucking years do I have to do this shit to start being taken seriously?
Or do I have to sell out the Ice Palace? Oh, fucking, right!
No, I know! I need to start eating the regime’s asshole, singing about shoes
and pants and yelling, “BK Leon! BK!”* like a fucking retard, so that people go, * — In an ad for a betting site
“Now that’s an artist! Unlike some fucking Poperechnyi.”
It’s just that every time someone tries to assert themselves at your expense,
it’s a kick in the balls, because you know yourself how much of a worthless piece of shit you are.
I’m so pathetic— I’ll give you an example.
I’m so pathetic that instead of googling myself I watch reactions to my videos.
And react to it. That’s fucked! That’s like jerking off to a mirror.
You’re like…
This hatred, it’s—
What were you shouting, you cunt? Let’s fucking sort it out.
Which part of “Don’t talk to Poperechnyi” you didn’t understand?
Raise your hand. Who yelled? Just fucking show yourself!
“Danya, it was me!”
Yeah, hi. Shit, good thing you’re so far away.
You see, we got a row of black lights down here. If we turned them on, your gob would shine like a supernova.
You were asking for it.
Who else? Come on! Who else got shit to say? Yes? What’s up?
“Do I want a mandarin?”
The motherfucking mouth on you!
She’s like, “Let me interrupt a show in the Ice Palace for a fucking mandarin question.”
Fuck me! Look—
Wait, I know you.
About an hour before the show,
I opened a menu planning to order pork, but instead of the word “pork” they had your picture.
Who’s fucking next?
Okay, just stop. We could do this all night, I swear to you.
No. That’s it. Shut the fuck up. I know that you want to yell.
For once your mouths are free. For a couple of hours.
Don’t, girls.
“What about the boys?”
Why are you screaming though? Your dad finally hasn't been fucking you for over an hour.
Anyway.
Let’s stop this— this fuckery. It could go on forever.
Stop. I have a programme. I’m an artist for fuck’s sake!
This—
I’ve recently realized why I hate myself. I think some of you will get what I mean.
It’s self-hate caused by the creator’s complex.
It’s that fucking thing where you constantly try to outdo yourself
but then realize that looks like you just fucking can’t.
And you, like— Yeah, I know you know what I mean.
You look back at your past and go, “Wait, so my last piece, that hunk of mediocrity, is my peak? No way!”
And you start undoing yourself from the inside.
I’m not afraid to die.
I’m afraid to be survived by nothing.
You know what I mean? To live your life as an observer.
A lot of help those fuckheads were on the 18th during the voting, the observers?
“I’m not gonna protest the elections. I’ll come to watch.”
Remember that precinct that Putin came to vote to?
I think if it had observers, Putin was like, “Observers, huh? Observe. Look.”
“Ballot number one.”
“Ballot number two.”
“Ballot number three. Look, a whole stack of ‘em!”
“Look, your entire neighborhood voted for me.”
That’s so fucking weird. That’s like coming to a carnival and going, “Look, a merry-go-round!”
Yeah, dude, it’s a carnival.
Only they did it at the precincts. “Look, a merry-go-round!” And everyone went, yeah, dude, it’s a carnival.
I didn’t want to bring this up, but—
I’m sure some of you will pretend they don’t understand what I’m talking about.
But—
All of you, at least recently, had a thought, even a flash, “Is it fucking time to flee from Russia?”
And I don’t like it. It’s a toxic thought that shouldn’t—
I love Russia. I’m a real patriot.
But you get suspicious when you’re watching TV and all those deputy faggots in suits are yelling,
“America is in shit! Their life is hell! They eat kids in Europe!” And all their kids are down there.
All of their kids, families and property are there.
You kinda start thinking, you know what? — they’re probably not torturing their families with awful countries,
but rather saving their loved ones from a sinking ship.
And you start to think, “Isn’t it obvious yet that it’s time to fucking run?”
How much more obvious does it have to get before you realize, “Yeah, it IS time to run?”
The problem is—
I love it when I’m telling this part, and City 17 sounds come from the side,
“We see Gordon Freeman. He’s got a crowbar.”
Guys, can you tone the fucking walkie talkies down? You’re scaring the everliving fuck outta me.
“As soon as he loses focus, we’ll blow dart his ass.”
Jesus…
I honestly tried to get the fuck out.
I genuinely tried. I’ve lived in Europe for two years. It was fucking amazing.
I was renting a huge place for 9000 rubles a month.
Their apples are so fucking tasty!
You know why I came back?
After two years, I started feeling something completely new for me.
This weird, social—
I started longing for Russians.
That shit is extremely weird the first time you experience it.
I actually started walking around in Europe, going,
“The fucking fuck are you all smiling at? What is this funny shit that happened? Tell me!”
You start longing for those sour-looking motherfuckers going,
“Fuck! Putin! Freedom of speech! Roads! Shit, piss, fuck!”
You start to—
You want to be with your own. People who get what you got up here.
That’s so weird.
Fuck knows what to do. I really don’t understand.
It’s been less than a month. There wasn’t even an inauguration yet.
And the president’s already going, “So what do kids like? Telegram? Ban that shit.”
“With the rest of the Internet. Fuck it. What else do they like?”
“Not burning in movie theaters? Fuck that too.”
That’s fucked.
I got so scared— Putin’s campaign speech.
He spends ten minutes on corruption, which is the main cause of problems in this country.
We have no fucking money for roads, hospitals, veterans.
And they’re livin’ large.
Even freedom of speech — they limit the freedom of speech specifically because of corruption,
to stop people from yapping about how deputies steal.
It’s all because of corruption. He glanced it over, like, "fucking friends with greedy hands man." But!
For the rest of his campaign speech, Putin discusses what a great motherfucking rocket they built.
That can “destroy the entire US with one hit and moves along an unpredictable trajectory.”
I was scared shitless. ‘Cause I know that unpredictable trajectory.
Did you see the fucking Russian Post drone? That’s the “unpredictable trajectory.”
That’s what they mean. They can’t predict where the fuck it’ll hit.
I was so scared. He was talking with so much resolution. “We’ll fuck up everyone! We got this goddamn rocket!”
I was scared shitless, and not because Russia has such a powerful—
Shit, it IS the most powerful weapon ever. I was scared shitless not because Russia has it.
Yes, City 17 is the best city, I get it. Can you turn the fucking walkie talkies off?!
God, you piss me off.
I don’t even— Maybe they are from— Are you FSB? What the fuck?
Here I am thinking they’re filming the special. And it's some random dude with a camera, with a VHS one.
Like, “Yeah, a special.”
“A special fucking--”
I was scared shitless not because Russia got the most powerful weapon ever,
but because I think Putin is full of shit.
Have you seen the CGI they used in the presentation?
I mean, yeah, they may have saved on the visuals, but I don’t think the rocket exists.
And that’s a big problem.
You’ll say, “Well, if he’s full of shit, then there is no rocket. Fucking awesome.” That’s not the problem.
When Putin officially stated that we have this rocket, he triggered the yankees,
who went, “Wait, what the fuck kind of rocket they got? Shit, we’ll make our own!”
And they actually make one. And now they got this rocket in service, and we’ve got fuck all and shitty cgi.
And even if, let’s assume— Even if, let’s assume, we actually have the most dangerous weapon ever,
you know what the problem is?
That it was made by Russians.
This rocket will fuck up Samara instead of Florida.
For one simple reason.
‘Cause as soon as they launch it, the dude following its trajectory will go,
“Shit, that’s way too fucking unpredictable! The fuck is going on?”
The caretaker in the back goes, “I drained some diesel outta it. It was just fucking sitting around. I didn’t think he’d launch it.”
And we’re all fucked. Radioactive, fucking, ashes.* * — Promise by a pro-Putin TV host D. Kiselyov to the US
Because not giving a fuck is in our blood.
The entire country lives on not giving fucks.
The regime doesn’t give a fuck about us. And we don’t give a fuck about them not giving a fuck about us.
And we can’t break this bitch of a circle.
Fuck if I know what you’re cheering for, girls. Fuck if I know.
They’re so used to bullshitting us.
Fucking Grudinin shaved his moustache off.* Sort of like, sure, Dud’, you win. * — Presidential candidate. Lost a bet to a journalist
Shaving— Posted a picture of himself without the moustache.
Grudinin’s official speaker removes the picture and says, “That’s a fake. Grudinin didn’t shave his moustache.”
So Grudinin makes a video, going, “Fucking hell, I did shave it off! It’s me, Grudinin.”
I mean, why fucking bullshit there? What for? They bullshit automatically.
When the Russian Post drone facefucked a wall, the first thing they said was, “This was a cyber attack! We got hacked!”
Two days later, they realize the stupidity and go, “That’s not our drone.” There. There you go.
And fuck knows what you do. I honestly have no idea—
You want to believe that it’ll eventually get better.
And at the same time, I have a forehead wrinkle from living in Russia.
Every morning, I open Twitter and go, “Shit!”
“Is it not opening? Fuck. Really?”
It goes—
In addition to your own worries and depressions, the country shits on you too.
But you wanna believe that sooner or later things will get slightly better.
At least because there’s you.
I mean at least.
Depressions are shit help in the fight for a better country.
I started seeing a therapist.
The problem with Russian therapists is that
Russian therapists believe Russia doesn’t need therapists.
The last thing one of my last doctors told me was,
“Danya, there’s nothing scary about fear.”
I’m like, “Yeah, no shit!”
That’s the most fucking scary thing about fear — fear itself.
It’s the level of advice you’d get from a drunk buddy on a party. You tell him something, and he goes,
“Don’t sweat it!” And you’re like, “Shit, I didn’t think of that! Yeah. I feel much better now. Thanks, bro.”
What’s that? “Relax.” And you’re like, woah, I’m so fucking chill all of a sudden.
They say depression doesn’t have a face.
You know what? I’m available.
I’m ready to be the official ambassador of that shit.
Though I feel like even if I get the gig, I’ll be depressed over doing it too cheap.
I’ll find a reason to be upset. I have this fucking ambition — I want to leave a mark in history.
But I realize that my peak is browser history.
You wanna believe that in the future things will be better but you know,
at some point, you realize that the future might be closer than you think.
Three months ago my grandpa fell ill, his legs stopped working, and he ended up in an emergency room in Voronezh.
I came for a few days to stay with him. You know, to babysit him, help him around — classic story.
And in his room, it was a huge room, there was a woman with an embedded pacemaker in her heart.
A tiny defibrillator would re-start her heart every time she got up from her bed too fast, going, “Shit!”
Like a respawn.
In addition to that, she had an implant thingy that scanned her blood sugar
and whenever it got to high, it would inject insulin.
I thought, “Shit, I need to talk to her. Maybe stick that shit into the back of Dzharakhov’s skull."* * — Vlogger and rapper with diabetes
“Might keep him running for a bit longer.”
I come up to her and go, “Hi, I wanted to introduce myself.”
She says, “Let me turn on the machine,” — and turns on her ears. I’m like,
“They’ve arrived. The cyborgs!”
She wouldn’t be alive without technology. It’s all inside of her.
I’m like: that’s our defenders against alien invasion. Old farts with prosthetics.
And disabled people who can ride on any surface, ‘cause we don’t have fucking ramps.
Woosh up the stairs! Fucking boom! I mean, fuck, if you’re disabled in Russia, you can do anything.
You know what the problem is with the old fart cyborg squad?
It’s that even if aliens invade us, they’ll keep fighting the Ukrainians.
Anyway, when he was in the emergency room, my grandpa constantly wanted a cigarette.
Like really fucking— I mean, he didn’t shake like a junky, going,
“Oh shit! Cigarette, tell me about it, describe it! White? Yes! Fucking right! Smoke?”
Slightly less intense.
He had IVs in both of his arms. All covered in sensors.
He had a tube coming out of his dick, draining urine into a urine collector.
And he wanted me to somehow move all of this shit onto his wheelchair,
pick him up, sit him down and rush outside like that to smoke cigarettes.
I’m like, really? You want me to build you a fucking batmobile out of hopes and dreams? Shut up and get better!
He wanted a cig so badly—
True story.
They wheel an elderly dying woman into the room and put her on the bed next to grandpa’s.
And she dies right in front of us.
Grandpa goes, “Shame.”
“No pockets.” I’m like, “No pock— Are you looking for cigarettes? Are you outta your fucking mind?”
“She’s still warm. What the fuck, grandpa? Wow. ‘No pockets.’”
I go, “Didn’t you see The Zookeeper’s Wife? They made it pretty clear: smoking can fucking hurt your health.”
“You okay, grandpa? Hello!”
I set a condition. I told him, “We’ll grab a smoke when you get up, okay?”
He goes, “I CAN move my legs. Look.” I go, “It’s your hand under the blanket. You fucking kidding me?”
“You think I’m seven?” He’s actually lying there, going, look at me, I’m running. Moving his legs with his hands. “Nice!”
Dude, not a fucking chance. You’ll smoke when you get up. I thought it would motivate him.
The thing that got him into the emergency room ironically became his biggest craving.
And when we came home with him,
he didn’t speak anymore.
He lay there with open eyes, his pupils shooting side to side, his mouth agape.
I was holding his hand, ushering him into his final journey for several days.
He lay on the couch in our living room and I slept on the floor next to him.
And I felt so ashamed.
For not telling him the most important and crucial words that I was going to tell him
but chickened out because I thought: shit, he’ll get offended, he’ll think I’m burying him too soon.
But now I didn’t know if he could even hear me or if he was so deep in a coma that his mind wasn’t with this world.
I was ashamed because
I didn’t grant my grandfather’s only wish, I didn’t smoke one cigarette with my wonderful grandpa
just because I was a coward to break the emergency room rules.
And it was the one thing he wanted.
I marveled at his incredible courage and plainness, because…
as soon as he got there, he knew that he was dying. I saw it in his eyes.
‘Cause grandpa weathered ridiculous clusterfucks his whole life.
He was once cutting a pipe with an angle grinder, the thing slid and he fucking sliced his face in half with the disc.
You know what happened next? It healed and turned into an elegant fucking wrinkle.
I’m like, “How did you do that?!”
He goes, “The pipe was a crooked motherfucker. No idea what the--”
I mean, everything worked in his favor. Everything!
He became more handsome after his face got fucked in half. That’s unbelievable!
But now I knew from his look that something was wrong.
He knew from the moment he arrived in the emergency room that he’s not getting out of this one.
And all the fucking grandmas, the half-cousins and shit, weren’t helping either, when they suddenly started coming from all over Russia to “visit” him.
And all he wanted before the most important,
most mysterious and dangerous, and terrifying journey in his life
was a cig. Just one cig.
Fuck off, Allj.* HE needed a cig. * — Russian rapper
Not you. He did.
And it hurt so bad. Not because I lost a loved one.
Not the classic ego story: “Oh, I loved him so much! He’s no longer in my life. Poor me!”
Not because of that.
But because I suddenly felt and realized
that this person welcomed me to this world, cradled me, changed my diapers
and now I’m doing all those things and holding his warm hand, only his heart isn't beating anymore.
And I realized that there’s nothing between those two memories.
As if the entire life of a real person who loved, been through a million adventures, did so many things,
it’s all up here. It’s like I made it all up.
I’m the last person in the universe who gives a shit about this old man.
‘Cause fucking— let’s assume I’ll have a son one day,
I’ll tell him about grandpa. He won’t give a fuck. He didn’t meet that person. They’ll be a boring story. An old picture.
And this will happen to all of us.
And I had a sudden epiphany that we are merely the momentum of the Big Bang.
We love, and cry, and die, and fuck, and fight and it’s completely fucking meaningless.
But you know what? — maybe that’s a good thing.
Because it means that we can invent meaning ourselves.
His name was Valeriy Ivanovich.
He smoked since he was six.
Voronezh countryside.
He was an amazing fucking mechanic and driver
and used to tell oldschool jokes all the time, which I loved so much.
My name is Danya Poperechnyi. This is my fucking two-hour-long joke. Thank you so much.
Dedicated to my grandpa Valery Ivanovich