Бар "Duck"

[Knijnik]

"Актуально"

[Trollevich]

"Актуально"

Неактульно.

[Дарт Йорикус]

Абсолютно неактуально. Поскольку вот это самое так и не потёрли.

[Доблестный Venenciy]

в оффтопе есть девушка, которая вышивает всяки знаки и прочее интересное. Сопрягшись с ней ты обретёшь. Что-то там и тому подобное. А с Галахадом мы не знакомы, если что. :)

БРЕЙКИНГ НЬЮС! ГАЛАХАД - ДЕВУШКА???!!! :o :o :o :o

[Monique]

Абсолютно неактуально. Поскольку вот это самое так и не потёрли.

Йорик, всё под контролем :rolleyes: Помни - Газгкулл сам себя не переведёт :rolleyes:

[Дарт Йорикус]

В моём представлении контроль должен был бы выглядеть несколько иначе. :rolleyes:

Ты так сказать качество материала там видела?) В некоторых местах глаза сломаешь, прежде чем что-то разберёшь.

[Knijnik]

Абсолютно неактуально. Поскольку вот это самое так и не потёрли.

Самое актуальное (мое) потерли!!!

И, кстати, политоты там не было. Немого общей философии. ;)

[DenK]

Роспотребнадзор советует не делать "селфи", дабы не плодить вшей

В памятке по борьбе с педикулезом, выпущенной Роспотребнадзором, говорится, что делая подобные снимки, участники соприкасаются головами, позволяя вшам перебираться с одного хозяина на другого.

"Причиной распространения педикулеза среди подростков, по мнению экспертов, стало увлечение "селфи"-фотографией, при которой совместные съемки группы подростков или пары способствуют передаче паразитов при соприкосновении головами, поскольку это основной путь передачи вшей", — говорится в сообщении.

РИА Новости http://ria.ru/society/20141027/1030324893.html#ixzz3HL55N9wi

Изменено 27 октября, 2014 пользователем DenK

[Пересмешник]

Прочитал ЧСДБалкон, повеселее стало даже.

Слава Руси!

Однако, здравствуйте.

[AN_XI]

Роспотребнадзор советует не делать "селфи", дабы не плодить вшей

Бред и ересь, конечно, но я как-то не думал, что в начале 21 века в нашей стране с новой силой встанет проблема вшей. Это кошмар какой-то.

[всевидящий слон]

вши и селфи?

это типа "smotri, John, shto za stranniy bomj, davayte selfie together, yes!" ? я вообще не уловил идею

хотя приложение Блохограм звучало бы неплохо =)

[HiveTyrant]

Да вот вы накинулись на рядовую новость. У нас школота образована офмг как, так что кампания по борьбе с вшами будет не лишней, ящитаю. Все правильно сделали. Это идентично возмущению "зойчем писать, что котанов не стоит греть в микроволновках".

Другой вопрос - а много ли школотронов читают роспотребнадзор, и какой процент "средств был использован на нецелевые нужды"...

[sidestep]

Другой вопрос - а много ли школотронов читают роспотребнадзор, и какой процент "средств был использован на нецелевые нужды"...

Скорее, сколько за бюджетные деньги было проведено тестов для подтверждения данной теории. :rolleyes:

[DenK]

Мне в детстве хватило одного раза сходить на новогоднюю ёлку, после чего отмывали керосином, чтобы возненавидеть это мероприятие на всю жизнь :)

[TeclisElf]

ТК...конченый..... баб миллион - хоть каждый день меняй. подкаблучничество, это пол беды ( я вот вообще за свою дурь не извиняюсь, обиделась- пшла вон, сами потом приходят и говорят что не поняли виноваты и тд и тп), но ...спрашивать такое на форуме где в оффтопиках тролли , это верх маразма и потом типа "саркастично" говорить как тебе тут "помогли" , тебе лоботомию не делали никогда?

[Дарт Йорикус]

...после чего отмывали керосином...

Ну ты понял, ага. :rolleyes: Кстати, по поводу Йолок и варпа - оставлю-ка я это здесь.

CONTRITION

“Never have I beheld such… wonders! I will do valuable work here.”

–Scythius the Vile, formerly Inquisitor Dircotis, Ordo [Redacted]

Deep in the Lower Vortex, beyond the violence and bloodshed of Crucible, lies the labyrinthine city world of Contrition. Home to the unceasing urges of its daemonic inhabitants, few mortals ever set foot upon this world, and of the few that do, none do so willingly. Contrition is in many ways a world trapped in a war, but unlike most wars, this conflict is not fought with swords or guns. Instead, the battles that rage through the streets and ring in the plazas and courts are fought with honeyed promises, cunning deceptions, and callous seductions. It is a war perfectly suited to Slaanesh and his Daemons.

The Great City

Contrition is a world unlike any other in the Vortex, as its surface is covered with one gigantic city not unlike an Imperial hive but on a planetary scale. But where hive-cities are functional and industrious, Contrition serves no purpose that mortal minds can fathom.

The architecture of the city follows no recognisable pattern, with streets and buildings varying wildly from one to the next. Mighty stone fortresses, replete with towers and battlements, stand next to crumbling ruins that, in turn, surround rotting, miasmal gardens. Great towers of living crystal float majestically above beauteous palaces of pure, white marble, each festooned with delicate razor-sharp blades. Even the streets themselves exist solely to baffle and mislead, as wide boulevards give way to narrow cobbled lanes or abruptly end in solid walls. Grand plazas stand in the midst of forbidding, crenellated towers with no apparent entrances or exits, and endless stairs reach up toward crowded balconies only to end suddenly at doors that were not there before.

No reason lies behind this mind-wrenching metropolis save the ramblings of the insane or the hushed whispers of myth. However, one constant the inhabitants of the Vortex are sure of is the unending conflict that consumes the world. The Ruinous Powers wage a ceaseless war for control of the world, each seeking to tear down the city it has conquered and rebuild it in a form more pleasing to the victor. Huge swathes are trapped in tendrils of flux, with no one power truly holding ascendancy. Here, little more than evershifting rubble and ruin exists as each god’s forces attempts to assert control and drive the others out.

Although all four Powers have a presence on Contrition, it is Slaanesh that currently holds the most influence. His soaring, serpentine palaces and halls dominate much of the city, and swiftly moving Chariots and Hellflayers maintain his borders. Within this grand domain, a visitor finds epic and terrifying vistas of sinuous, beguiling charm. Scattered across Contrition are the infamous Flensing Chambers, crimsonsoaked buildings that are part theatre, part butchers shop. Slaanesh’s favoured continually drag mortal captives to these chambers to entertain and feed his Daemonic host. Within the dripping walls, a victim finds all manner of terrible pleasures at the claws of his captors, as his skin is peeled inch by excruciatingly wonderful inch from his body.

In one particular endeavour that the Dark Prince’s host currently favour, groups of Daemonettes carry the freshest captives to the roof of a Flensing Chamber. The Daemons then impale their chosen subjects on barbed hooks attached to great silver chains, and cast the wailing, bleeding forms off the roof to plummet toward the ground below. The unfortunate victims then sway back and forth as twitching pendulums, the blades worked into the walls of the Chamber slicing and piercing their flesh with each swing. Once the subjects have ceased swinging, the Daemonette whose work is considered the most artistic can expect to receive great social renown, particularly if the victim still lives at the end.

The Sensoriums are another construct the hosts of Slaanesh favour. These strange buildings resemble great concert halls, with elaborately raised stages and orchestra pits. Before any great ritual or revel takes place within the areas they control, the daemonic inhabitants come here to praise Slaanesh and beg his favour. Scores of slaves and captives are led out onto the stage and forced to perform elaborate and often impossible ballets while their senses are bombarded by all manner of outlandish stimuli. Rapidly flashing lights of indescribable colour, curious piping music and bombastic, discordant explosions of sound, even barrages of exquisitely flavoured liquids, all pummel the dancers. Daemons scatter broken crystals and caltrops of teeth under foot, and fragrant powders and incenses are burned. All the while the Daemonettes cavort with their dance partners, leading the mortals in ever greater acts of debauchery, or striking them down with graceful swipes of their crab-like claws. Recently it has become fashionable amongst the attendants to subject their “guests” to insidious narcotics that induce synaesthesia, confusing the user’s senses so that one can hear a colour or smell a sound. When the pavane finally reaches its conclusion, those mortal participants that still live are turned out onto the streets, their bodies broken and their minds forever shattered.

Amongst the twisting and maze-like streets of the city one structure stands above all others: the Great Feasting Hall. The white marble of the massive building has carmine veins of an unknown mineral that seem to writhe and pulse with an unholy life. Within the Hall is a single cavernous chamber, its cyclopean dimensions often too much for a mortal’s mind to comprehend. Multitudes of slaves often stand awestruck or scream wildly on exposure to the impossible proportions, clawing at their eyes for blessed blindness. Crowded within this massive room are hundreds of tables upon which lie every conceivable foodstuff. Great piles of meat lie steaming on huge serving platters, and whole carcasses of unrecognisable beasts slowly turn on spit roasts. Scores of slaves, their mouths sewn shut by elegant stitches of burning silver thread, carry gigantic trays of fruits and vegetables across the length of the Hall. Enormous mounds of sweetmeats and delicate pastries sit on ostentatious trolleys ready for insatiably ravenous Daemons to pluck and consume. Everywhere wine flows, blood is spilled, and the air sings with the sounds of revelry. Throughout the hall, the Daemons of Slaanesh stalk, feasting and gossiping. The Daemonettes boast and preen, ever eager to inflate their reputations. Here and there Fiends torment the slaves, mesmerising with their soporific musk before swiftly impaling the mortals on vicious stingers or dragging them off to dark corners for far more terrible purposes. Gargantuan columns support the Gallery of Creations, which towers high over the excesses below. Here, the Daemons of Slaanesh display their latest and greatest works. Some are masterpieces of the literal sort, wrought in paints and inks or less definable fluids. Others are more visceral, subjects taken from the Flensing Chambers or twitching, pulpy sacks of flesh that once were men. Some simply cannot be defined, existing outside of any sense of mortal perception or morality.

As Slaanesh has risen into ascendancy on Contrition, much has passed into an uneasy peace. The Daemon Princes and Keepers of Secrets that rule in the Lord of Sensation’s name have established an elaborate and complex social system to rule. The crux of this government is prestige; in order to gain this power a Daemon must be seen to be more extreme or artistic than its peers, all in ways incomprehensible and utterly beyond a mortal mind. It is not simply enough to have slaves, for any Daemon can enslave a mortal. The Daemons of Contrition must entrap souls with elaborate promises of untold pleasures or addiction to sensations that cannot be found elsewhere in the galaxy. A mortal who willingly swears an oath to a Daemon is worth far more prestige than one that is merely forced into servitude, but the myriad levels and manners of each oath flavours the degree of prestige. Similarly, these Daemons refrain from simple killing, when the thrill of a carefully worded snub or the rush of a vicious scene of social disaster shows so much more refinement. Many Daemonettes have become consummate masters of verbal barbs and scathing retorts, sharp enough to draw blood and tear flesh with each utterance, and delight in intricate waltzes of insult and counter-insult.

This behaviour has led to dozens of cliques forming, as like minded creatures band together for mutual support and admiration. These bands are transitory at best; often members will fall out, turning on each other because of some slight, whether real or imagined. Nothing causes allies to desert quicker, though, than failing to impress at an important ritual or task. This web of social backstabbing and betrayal has begun to spread across the world, and the minions of Slaanesh have caught many Daemons of the three other Powers in salacious games, entrapping them with unspeakable thrills and promises of further entertainment. The Daemons of Slaanesh see this as all part of the Endless Dance and little thought, if any, is given to actual plans. All that matters to these creatures of excess is the next experience, be it the callous joy of a rival brought low or the stinging pain of loss.

The Mistress of Spite

Squatting at the epicentre of the madness like a monstrous toad is a single Daemon Prince of Slaanesh—the Mistress of Spite, a singular Daemon even on a world of Daemons. Her body is swollen with great rolls of fat, far greater than any humanoid form should contain. Huge clumps of blubber hang loosely from her limbs and even her thick, bloated legs cannot support her impossible weight. She languidly reclines on a great chariot pulled by six packs of six Steeds of Slaanesh. Her face is a curious mix of androgynous features and still inspires lustful thoughts in all who behold her, much to their disgust. Three sets of curved horns sprout from her head and a third arm grows from her shoulders, ending in a vast, pincer-like claw. Across each of her forearms is a long slit, slick with moisture and hiding a long, extendable spur of polished bone. Particularly beloved foes are impaled on these spurs, gazing longingly into the Mistress’ eyes as they die shuddering and moaning in ecstatic pain.

The inhabitants of the Great City whisper that the Mistress was once the mortal consort of N’Kari, first and greatest of Slaanesh’s Keepers within the Vortex, and that she grew into her new form as she laboured to Daemonhood, performing acts of gastronomical heights that emptied entire worlds. No sooner had the daemonic birth scream of her Ascension faded into Warp-ripples then N’Kari tired of her and discarded her for another plaything. Heartbroken, her pain crystallised to fill the void within her and she swore to share this pain with every other living creature, first in the Vortex and then the rest of the galaxy. Now she dwells on Contrition, her whole existence bent toward inflicting her loss on others. Spreading suffering has become her own desire and these grow with each expiring scream she hears, driving her to replicate that one perfect moment of agony when N’Kari cast her aside.

She is particularly drawn to the emotional pain of heartbreak and betrayal, and has become a master of the social warfare that rules Contrition. Every Daemon on the world both hates and adores her, willing to do anything to please her so that they do not become the next victim of her attention. She, in turn, is all too willing to use this devotion to further her own ends, propelling these sycophants into acts of greater and greater depravity and feeding off the sensations they supply. Her desires now consume her, guiding her to snuff out millions of lives, both Daemon and mortal, in her pursuits. She stages elaborate carnivals, feasts, and rituals involving countless participants. As the sensations of these events build to colossal levels, she drinks them in, consuming all. Gorging herself on the pain and pleasure, the joy and despair, the consumed emotions transfigure into new excesses of flesh rolling on her recumbent form.

At first the Mistress of Spite did all this so that N’Kari would notice her again and take her, once more, as his consort. When she realised that would never happen she began to plot his downfall hoping that if she could amass enough power she could cast him down and replace him, but even that has become a secondary concern now. At present, the Mistress is so enraptured with her power that everything she does, every life she snuffs out, every dream she shatters and every tear shed in her name serves only her private desires. She no longer cares about revenge or the thoughts of others; instead she only cares for her fulfilment, destroying lives and turning legions of Daemons against one another for no reason other than her gratification.

Fiends of Slaanesh

Nightmarish creatures dredged from the worst kind of drugaddled dream, Fiends of Slaanesh serve as the Dark Prince’s hunting hounds. They seek out his enemies and run down those that escape him, and are eminently suited to their task.

A hideous and bizarre amalgamation of reptile, insect, and man, a Fiend’s body is long and slender, segmented and yet disturbingly serpentine. The lithe and sinuous body is sheathed in fine, scintillating scales that glisten and shift as it moves. Four slim legs, each ending in a distressingly human-looking foot, support the Fiend, allowing it to move incredibly quickly, scuttling and prancing with uncanny grace. The head is long and narrow, with two large, saucer-like multi-faceted eyes. The creature’s long, slim tongue emerges constantly from its small mouth to taste the air. Coated in deadly anaesthetic poison, a single caress from the tongue can paralyse, leaving the victim helpless against the Fiend’s predations.

A Fiend possesses lethal pincer-like claws at the end of both of its shapely arms. Those fighting one of these Daemons should be more wary of the dripping stinger at the tip of the beast’s flickering tail though, as the poison it injects can reduce a foe to bubbling flesh in seconds.

When Fiends go on the hunt, they call to one another in a haunting, discordant song. This call is partly psychic, causing terrible distraction for mortals unlucky enough to hear it. Terrible headaches, blurred vision, and, in more extreme cases, bleeding ears and burst eyeballs can follow. For those unable to resist this deadly siren call, a slow, lingering death at the Fiend’s claws is soon to follow.

Steeds of Slaanesh

Far beyond the realms of realspace, deep within the evershifting tides and eddies of the Warp, lie the Realms of Chaos, personal domains of the Ruinous Powers. Amongst the many territories that make up Slaanesh’s personal fief are vast golden fields, great meadows of alien beauty that rise into smooth hills or plunge into perfect valleys. Amongst these verdant fields live the Steeds of Slaanesh.

These steeds, like many Daemons of the Prince of

Pleasure, are unnerving in their beauty. Perversely lissom and sinuous, their bodies are slim and long, resembling a great serpent with two athletic legs and a long, balancing tail. A Steed of Slaanesh is capable of great speed and agility, able to leap extraordinary distances and change direction in an instant. Their heads are narrow and tubular, with a round almost jaw-less mouth. Similar to Fiends, Steeds posses long, flickering tongues capable of detecting scents and complex tastes. The favoured of Slaanesh claim a steed can even taste a mortal’s desires and are capable of tracking their longings for thousands of miles. These tongues can stretch extraordinary lengths and, when angered, a Steed can ensnare a foe in his coils, leaving him helpless to avoid the Steed’s raking, clawed feet. Although their expressive eyes glimmer with an untold cleverness, Steeds are unintelligent beasts, impelled only by the base urges of the Lord of All Pleasures.

Often a Daemonette, or rarer a mortal, may attempt to secure one as her mount. After creeping into the sacred grasslands a Daemonette seeks to distract a Steed with a song or other performance, allowing her to draw close enough to throw a delicate chain of rune-encrusted precious metals around its neck. Once ensnared, a Daemonette must work quickly to mount and assuage the steed for, once riled, the anger of these beasts is a danger as great as their disturbing allure. After successfully calming her chosen steed, the jubilant Daemonette leaves the Golden Fields, forever bound to her Steed. The two are now one, together referred to as a Seeker of Slaanesh. Over time, the Daemonette will decorate her Steed with votive offerings of worship and affection, personal trophies of skilled hunts, and pleasures long remembered.

Keeper of Secrets

The mightiest of Slaanesh’s daemonic cohort, the Keeper of Secrets is a titanic foe. Wreathed in beguiling sorcery and possessed of a delightfully hideous countenance, it is the desires of Slaanesh given form. Legend has it that each can hear anything said anywhere, and no whispered words or furtive conversations are safe from their ears, though what they do with such secrets is itself a secret.

No two of these beings is truly alike, born as they are from the ever-shifting mood of the Dark Prince, although all share similar characteristics. Each is gigantic in stature, equalling the size of most tanks, and all feature six limbs. Four heavily muscled arms, two of which terminate in monstrous pincerlike claws and two shapely legs ending in animal hoofs. Often the faces of each Keeper vary the most, some resemble great bulls or other animals, complete with sharply curved horns. Others are twisted, leering mixtures of male and female that repulse and arouse in equal measure. They stride into battle bedecked in all manner of curious finery, diaphanous silks and multi-coloured robes of aching beauty, or tight-fitting suits of shiny leather, fixed in place with perfect silver hooks and rings pierced in the Daemon’s very flesh.

To a Keeper of Secrets, every emotion is beloved. Every sensation savoured, revelled in, and then exquisitely passed on to their victims. Nothing is sacred or sacrosanct; these Daemons enjoy nothing more than the corruption of purity, the debasement of innocence or the inversion of nobility. Fear and terror are sustenance to them, as are hope and despair, joy and dread. A Keeper of Secrets indulges in all of these, swelling with energy as each new sensation is encountered, fed upon, and then cast aside.

In battle, these Daemons are swirling artists of destruction, their terrible claws able to rip open a tank or reduce a power-armoured Space Marine to a beatific spray of blood and entrails. They dance amongst their foes, favouring whomever they please with a deadly caress and ever feeding on the rage and lust they inspire.

Seeker Chariots of Slaanesh

Chariots of Slaanesh exult in the spreading of both pain and pleasure. Crafted from gleaming metals and overly-adorned with intricately disturbing decorations, Seeker Chariots rejoice in Slaanesh’s nature of excess.

Each chariot is covered in hooked blades, razor sharp spikes, and slicing edges. These blades are honed to an edge so sharp that legend says they cut not just flesh and bone, but the victim’s soul as well. The rear axle and wheels of the Chariot also hold yet more scythe-like blades and anyone caught in their path is quickly reduced to a gory spray. The wounds it inflicts cause unimaginable suffering as flesh is severed and nerves are stimulated beyond pain. Many victims that survive claim to have been paralysed by the sensations of their wounds, and say that despite the raw agony of their injuries, they felt the disturbing tickle of seeping pleasure that goaded them to continue fighting so they could experience that terrible joy again.

On Contrition, the Seeker Chariots patrol the borders of Slaanesh’s domains, racing along the wide boulevards and narrow, twisting lanes at terrible speeds. Chariot crews feed on the sensations such swiftness generates in their hyperaware senses. Addicted to the glory of speed, the thrill that knowing a single mistake can smash the Chariot to pieces is as delicious as the terror of their fleeing victims.

Many Exalted Daemons and Daemon Princes use these chariots for personal transport, where the speed and agility is as prized as the capacity for inflicting beautiful pain. Raised up on the chariot frame, the rider is also far more recognisable and these Daemons bask in the adoration, hate, and jealousy such status inspires in their lesser brethren.

Hellflayer

These devastating and rightly feared machines of war are a common sight in the streets of Contrition and other worlds where Slaanesh seeks to extend his presence. Similar in appearance to the Seeker Chariots, a Hellflayer is a terrifying wall of rotating blades, drawn along by two Steeds of Slaanesh and guided into battle by a crew of three Daemonettes. Used as a weapon of terror and mass destruction by Slaanesh’s minions, the Hellflayer is now a mainstay in the armies of the Dark Prince, but this was not always the case.

In ages past, the Hellflayers were used to grind and chop up the fields of corpses that remained after a battle within Slaanesh’s realm. The chaotic and flawed appearance of these fields offended Slaanesh’s quest for absolute perfection, and so the Hellflayers were employed to remove these blemishes. Of course, this act was devoid of any real sensation or stimulation and so being assigned to ride a Hellflayer was seen as something of a punishment by the Daemonettes of Slaanesh’s court. Soon, those Handmaidens responsible for the Hellflayers began to tire of their duty and sought a more stirring use for their talents.

One Hellflayer crew decided to flout Slaanesh’s will and brought their machine to battle. The headstrong Daemonettes charged the Hellflayer into the packed ranks of the enemy, creating unspeakable carnage as the spinning blades tore through the foe. As the ensorcelled blades pierced flesh and severed limbs, the crew gorged on the pain and suffering they caused for each of the Daemonettes had bound their essence to silvered steel. Waves of ecstasy washed over the Daemons as they felt each slice and every cut. This rapture drove them to ever greater acts of violence, lost in the ocean of screams and carved flesh. Their battle lust became so great they easily broke the enemy and carried the day for their god.

When the battle ended, Slaanesh’s wrath was great indeed for none of the Ruinous Powers suffers insubordination. However, he was also greatly pleased by the ruin the Hellflayer had brought and declared that from then on to ride a Hellflayer would be a position of pride and great status, the first to engage the foe and the last to leave the battle. As for the first Hellflayer crew, little is known but legends speak of Slaanesh transforming them into living statues, stripped of the ability to feel but forever forced to watch what had been taken from them.

[AN_XI]

вши и селфи?

я вообще не уловил идею

Нет, это когда из-за наших чудесных законов об образовании, в школу берут детей из семей дружественного кавказа или не менее дружественной Средней Азии, которые, порою, отличаются очень специфическими понятиями о личной гигиене. (Пардоньте все, кто увидит в этом нацизм, национализм, расизм и прочее, но что есть, то есть). А поскольку малолетние идиоты обожают делать селфи со своими друзьями, и иногда чуть ли не в обнимку, то после таких "себяшек" вши разносятся по школе в геометрической прогрессии.

[DenK]

Какая милота:

Натовские военнослужащие получили право носить форму, предназначенную для того пола, к которому они сами себя причисляют

В Североатлантическом альянсе приняли эпохальное решение. Теперь военнослужащие могут носить форму, предназначенную для того пола, к которому они сами себя причисляют. Такое решение было принято после длительного давления со стороны так называемых трансгендеров, число которых в НАТО идёт уже на тысячи.

http://topwar.ru/61264-natovskie-voennoslu...chislyayut.html

"Бой-бабы"

Изменено 27 октября, 2014 пользователем DenK

[Галахад]

А ты думала. Жыруха-негритоска.

Изменено 27 октября, 2014 пользователем Галахад

[Дарт Йорикус]

Слаанешэвропейсы, чё.

[Knijnik]

Слаанешэвропейсы, чё.

Где-то видел картинку. Европа под Слаанешем, Россия под Кхорном, Китай - Тзинч, Африка - Нургл, США - Малал.

[HiveTyrant]

оффтопиках тролли

this

[Knijnik]

ТК...конченый..... баб миллион - хоть каждый день меняй. подкаблучничество, это пол беды ( я вот вообще за свою дурь не извиняюсь, обиделась- пшла вон, сами потом приходят и говорят что не поняли виноваты и тд и тп), но ...спрашивать такое на форуме где в оффтопиках тролли , это верх маразма и потом типа "саркастично" говорить как тебе тут "помогли" , тебе лоботомию не делали никогда?

*тыкая палочкой*

- Братья-тролли, оно съедобно? Впервые вижу в нашем подмостовье.

[HiveTyrant]

*тыкая палочкой*

- Братья-тролли, оно съедобно? Впервые вижу в нашем подмостовье.

Какая разница?

[Галахад]

Миллион-миллион-миллион голых баб из окна из окна из окна видишь ты!