Repost from the old blog. Spot the language. Text of an unknown language, plus clues. Answer in the comments.
Etu istoriyu mne rasskazal drug, kotoryi rabotaet v predstavitel’stve sotovoi kompanii v nashem gorode. Prihoditsya emu po dolgu sluzhby obshat’sya s narodom iz chisla novyh i podobnye istorii u nego neredki. Prihodit kak-to k nim klientka – vsya na pontah (iz novyh), i prinosit svoi sotovyi v tresnutom korpuse. Prosit pochinit’.
Stali uznavat’,kak mol poluchilos’, chto korpus tresnul. V otvet poluchayut ves’ma original’nyi otvet: v unitaz upal (eto che-zh ona s nim delala v tualete?!). Nu ladno, otdali na remont – tam ego zalatali, vodu vylili, v obshem remontnikam prishlos’ podolbat’sya.
Prihodit ona zabirat’ otremontirovannyi sotovik, nu i dlya profilaktiki ei govoryat, chto ne stoit bol’she ronyat’ apparat v unitaz, chto tam aktivnaya sreda i vse takoe… I tut klientka vozmushenno proiznosit:
- Eto u VAS TAM aktivnaya sreda! A u MENYa TAM vse normal’no!
Posle etogo moemu drugu prishlos’ retirovat’sya v sosednyuyu komnatu, chtoby ne obidet’ svoim istericheskim smehom klientku. A kakovo prishlos’ tem, kto ostalsya??
Eta zabavnaya istoriya sluchilas’ so mnoi let vosem’ nazad. Togda ya byl molozhe, bezzabotnee, zhil odin, poetomu zhilploshad’yu ne ispytyval.
Nu i ishodya iz vysheizlozhennogo prosto taki sleduet ,chto s baryshnyami ya obshalsya ochen’ mnogo i po-chestnomu skazat’ esli, to eto dlya menya byl takoi nu ochen’ ocharovatel’nyi sport, v kotorom nu esli ne masterom, to pervorazryadnikom ya byl.
I vot togda zhe mne na den’ rozhden’ya podarili krutoi firmennyi remen’, i nado skazat’, chto zastezhka u etogo remnya byla ochen’ mudrenaya, osobenno dlya neopytnyh zhenskih ruk. Kazhdaya novaya baryshnya, kogda my v pylu strasti sryvali s drug druga odezhdy, kazhdyi raz putalas’ i rvala remen’ prosto vmeste s shtanami.
I vot odnazhdy rvem my, znachit, odezhdy, dohodim do remnya, i tut ona azh materit’sya nachala, a ya, ves’ vozbuzhdennyi i tozhe uzhe zanervnichavshii, nekontroliruya sebya vypalil:”Da chto zhe vy vse ego otkryt’-to ne mozhete!” otvetnaya reakciya byla ochen’ dostoinoi!!!!!!!
Oh my, oh my, oh my. I did not even know that they wrote this language in Latin characters. I thought it was always written in another script. It is almost always written in another script, but a Romanization does exist, or several of them.
A story of Mother.
For Ottoman, she had hoarded hate as long as she could recall. It had always been this way, neighbors at the throat.
Alas, but it was always so.
And now for Ottoman, a burning hate had raged in Mother’s animal eyes for a century or more, since she was just a lady moving into confident matronly middle age. In a hundred years, she had raged at Ottoman repeatedly and watered the soils with blood each time.
The world was shaken and alarmed by her rage. At Paris in ’56, at Berlin in ’78, they cried to muzzle Mother’s fangs. In ’56, twas to be once and for evermore. In that year, Mother wanted Wallach, who she insisted was always hers, as she often did, her son, her wayward son, and this time she grabbed him only to have him snatched back. She would grab him again in the span of a lifetime.
In the late ’90′s there were Tariff Wars with the great rival to the west, the cultured rival Mother had always resented, adored and mimicked; she felt so inferior to him and yet so proud. Bjorko Treaty signed, two great men on a yacht pressing flesh. But the alliances, the fateful alliances that would ruin it all in a waterfall of cascading death and madness in a mere decade hence, the alliances ruined it all.
Ottoman was tumbling and crashing in his old age. His limbs were tired, he was forgetful, and he fell all the time. The children in his house began to rebel, each seizing their own rooms in the great tumbledown mansion and defying the decrepit patriarch to take them down. Mother was hungry and feeling greedy, and her hatred of Ottoman was as old as the icy North Wind. She reached in and grabbed.
Monarch to monarch, each on borrowed time, two old men partying in the sun with assassins all around them, each knowing he would soon be killed. It was 1903, and at least Macedonia was saved and policed, while the Balkans burned mad. A year later, in ’04, the Yellow Men came from the East, but that was all the fault of Britain of course, as are so many of history’s tales.
Contra the anti-Germans, who see German perfidy for all time, or at least 200 years, this was the time of a magnificent Germany. She laid rails to Baghdad and invited everyone to ride. And Mother saw that and raged. No Hun rails would run up anywhere near her stockings.
The story does not end here.
For the saga of Mother is as timeless as her snowdrifts, her candlelit nights and her endless evergreens.