It was 1990. My dad, who was young at the time, got drunk in the village with some buddies and, somehow failing to make it all the way home, fell asleep next to a haystack. In the morning, he woke up to the sound of people talking as they walked past. As they drew closer, he recognized them—they were deceased acquaintances of his, and they were debating whether or not to take him with them. «No, it’s too early for him yet; let's keep going!» By that evening, an elderly man in the village had passed away. Since that moment, my dad hasn't touched alcohol again. And to this day, he recalls that encounter with sheer horror.

I never knew what to get my girlfriend; I have a terrible imagination and absolutely no creative flair. Her birthday was approaching, so I really needed to come up with something. A female friend of mine came to the rescue, suggesting I get her a high-tech vibrator—the idea being that it would keep her from getting lonely whenever I wasn't around. So, that’s exactly what I did. My girlfriend stayed with me for another month after that… and then decided to dump me. Apparently, I chose a gift that was a little *too* high-tech—seeing as it ended up doing a better job than I did...

Do you want to know how I learned to swim? We owned an old car. No one had driven it in ages, even though it was still in working order. Then, one day, my dad and I decided to take it out for a spin and drive it down to the river. I was sitting in the front seat. Dad sped up and drove the car straight into a river—with the doors and windows still shut. He told me, «If you want to live, you'll swim out,» and then he fucking bailed out of the car (to this day, I have no fucking clue how he did it—what kind of magic was that?). Naturally, I was absolutely fucking stunned, but somehow, I managed to scramble my way out. After that incident, Mom filed for divorce.

I was trying on jeans at a store, and I really, really wanted to fart. Then I had a thought: *What if I buy these jeans, only to find out someone else has already farted in them?*… I never did buy those jeans.

Every time I jerk off, I involuntarily point my feet like a fucking ballerina—practically bending them backward, at an angle of over 180 degrees; my heel almost touches my shin. I don't even notice I'm doing it until I finally cum. But then comes the hard part: I can't painlessly return my feet to their normal position. So there I lie, splayed out like a compass, slowly inching my feet back into place, gritting my teeth against the pain. I’m terrified that one day I’ll just snap my ankles right off from sheer arousal—yet I keep right on pleasuring myself. Afterward, I can't even walk for half an hour.

I recently buried my best friend. He was walking home from the store when he took a bad fall. His ribs hurt terribly; the pain was so severe he couldn't even cough, and breathing was agonizing. All the signs pointed to a clear rib fracture, but he wasn't in any rush to see a doctor—he kept putting it off until later. He put it off once too often… Sometime during the night, he must have shifted into an awkward, incorrect position, and a shard of the broken bone punctured his lung. In the morning, his mother went to wake him up, only to find him lying in bed, blue in the face… If he had sought medical help right away, he would have pulled through; instead, he now lies in the cemetery, wrapped in the cold earth.

I work as a cashier. During a particularly hectic rush, I blurted out something to a male customer—instead of the standard «Have a nice day!»—that went something like, «May God grant you good health!» The look he gave me… «Amen,» the man replied, then hurried toward the exit, glancing back over his shoulder with a look of sheer apprehension.

My girlfriend and I were having sex. We were just moments away from the finish line. And right at that moment, she sneezed. The sudden jolt caused her vaginal muscles to contract. Caught completely off guard, I ended up finishing right inside her. Now we’re walking around, totally on edge, anxiously waiting for her PMS to kick in.

Our whole family recently moved to a new country. We found an apartment right in the city center—it’s surrounded entirely by high-rises, and our windows look directly out onto the windows of the building across the street. One day, quite by accident, I noticed an elderly man in the window across the street. He was intently watching the tourists strolling along the boulevard; I could see the old guy from the waist up, and his right hand was hanging down, moving vigorously. Holy shit… Just imagine—you’re out for a nice evening stroll, and someone is jerking off to you from a window. I really don't think it was Parkinson's.

My husband once witnessed a conversation like this. An American and an Englishman were arguing over who actually won World War II. The American insisted that *they* did, while the Englishman argued it was the Russians. Unable to hold back, a German man finally chimed in and said, «Why are you guys even arguing? The Russians won.» To which the American retorted, «And what gives *you* the right to butt in? How the hell would *you* know?»

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