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You married a stuntman, and five years ago you liked it terribly, you showed off to all your girlfriends your fiance.
And now you suddenly wanted to turn it into an office plankton.
It will not work, dear.

Vlad with all the strength of his sleepy will suppressed the nascent irritation.
– To the Pacific Ocean.
Our assholes decided to outdo Hollywood and take off their Jaws – For a long time? – it wasn’t even Inga who asked, her tense back expressed.
Vlad realized that it was starting to smell like kerosene, if not to say that it was completely rotten, but he answered honestly: “I don’t know yet, the director said that for at least two months.
Inga’s ignition was enviable, and Dzarovsky realized that a scandal would break out now.
Like after the shooting of the last action movie, when he lain for two weeks in the hospital with broken ribs.
Financiers, psya krev them, saved by car and slipped such firewood to him.
Where the brakes, to the stump of their hair, refused at the most inopportune moment.
True, the director sobbed with happiness – the frame was really worthy of an Oscar, if Sandra Bullock had not bypassed them earlier in Speed.

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to quench the tension, Vlad suddenly said: – And come with me.
I will agree with the team.
Just imagine: the port city, the sea from all sides, Japanese cars.
Exotic.
He saw his wife’s shoulders relaxed, she turned, her face expressed the work of thought, she even lifted her eyebrows, despite the fact that wrinkles were formed from this.
– No, it will not work.
I have reporting soon, and if I get stuck there with your sharks, I will be fined.
Drive yourself.
Well, myself, so myself.
But darling.
– Dzarovsky, are you sick? – Inga whispered, when his fingers burst into her black shiny hair.
“A reasonable question,” Vlad answered in the same whisper, “given that his wife asks his husband, and that this same husband leaves for two months.”
Yes, you leave this dish.
Before my arrival you have time to wash it to shine.
“Dzarovsky,” Inga moaned softly, “do you know that I hate you?” For what you do to me? – I know, dear.
You would know how I like to do it.
In the plane the group was loaded fun.
With taste.
The screenwriter, looking like a dog into everyone’s eyes, begged only one thing: without amateur performances on the set.
Vasi Komogortsev’s immortal creation from the city of Kryzhopl should have left an indelible mark on the history of Russian cinematography.
In response, the actors mildly sent a screenwriter for the mother and fun uncorked brandy.
“Dzarovsky,” Gorbunov’s rolling voice (the first male role, the face value of Vlad) was overlapping two hundred and twenty take-off decibels, “turn over here when Che froze.
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