Jimmy the Incredible

Chilling after work we inevitably found ourselves floating in depths of absurd. Somebody mentioned a recent encounter with some Lithuanian chicks. Jimmy the Japanese Rastafarian said that Lithuanian girls were very nice. Then he grinned at Andrius, a Lithuanian chap and added: "...but the boys not at all! They don't even want to shake your hand!" Encouraged by some smiles from the gathered, he carried on with his anthropological lecture. "I've noticed that Poles are very fat and Lithuanians are very skinny.  It's because Poles eat potatoes, whereas Lithuanians eat only potato skin and sand and drink buckets of vodka!" Everybody roared in laughter. Andrius took the banter and rose to the occasion: "Jimmy why are you so small? You must be from North Korea!" Everyone laughed again. "The capital of Lithuania is Riga, right?" Jimmy asked quickly. "With this attitude, no wonder, no Lithuanian want's to shake your hand, mate!" Was the Andrius' answer. Nothing could stop Jimmy though. "Are you sure you are from Lithuania? Perhaps you are a Latvian? There are only two cities in Lithuania, the rest is a countryside where only sheep and cows live, and him!" Jimmy indicated Andrius and added: "No electricity!" "Yeah, right! And Japan's capital is Beijing!" Said Andrius. He seemed to be thinking for a while and finally added: "Actually I heard about an old Lithuanian woman who eats sand and claims it really keeps her healthy and energetic. She got herself in the Guinness book of records for that reason." Jimmy was delighted. "Is she Lithuanian? I knew that! Only Potato skin and sand, mate! Just like I told you!"

By hook or by crook

I met C. on Old Compton Street. We both stopped in front of that little liquor store, across the road from that Spanish restaurant. As we where looking at the variety of spirits on display he said: "You know there's that place around the corner. They've got a bottle of whiskey over there worth thirty five grand! Someone should take a picture of that bottle, forge a label, put it on a regular bottle of whiskey, go there, ask them to let him take a look at that madness and swap the bottles." He laughed. "You could sell the original one for twenty grand on eBay..." At that point Sting the Crackhead appeared, riding a Barclay's bike, big blue bag in his hand. "Do you want a printer? A FIVER!" "No thanks" "THREE QUID!" We definitely didn't need a printer. Stingy didn't really mind. "OMG!" He exclaimed with delight. "I found all sorts of different shit today!" He handed to us some nail clippers/bottle openers. "A present!" Next he produced some toys from McDonald's and started to play with them, before finally passing them to us too. C. told him about the very expensive whiskey and what one should do about it. "Naaaaah mate! The best thing to do would be actually going to a shop like Boots and nick something for about 250 pounds. Then you come back there and buy exactly the same thing. Just make sure you cause a lot of mess while buying. You ask for assistance and you involve as much staff as you can, you want to talk to the manager too. Everyone must know that you actually buy the product. In half an hour you go there again and you tell them 'Sorry guys, my wife has actually got one already...' They want to give you a refund and then you 'realise' you 'lost' the receipt. You start to make a scene in case they try to refuse you. All of them know you bought it, on top of that you tell them to check the cameras if they want to. They must give you the money back. Next thing you go to another branch, you still have got the receipt and the actual thing, so you simply double your money." It was exactly when The Undertaker showed up. We call that rider The Undertaker cause he's always black-clad and unlike any others he wears a suit. He's kind of peculiar too, so that nickname fits perfectly. C. immediately started to advertise Sting's printer to him, pointing out that he can get a decent equipment for only a tenner. The Undertaker soon made up his mind and gave the dosh to Sting. The crackhead quickly picked up "his" Barclay's bike, put some change into C's hand and pedalled off. "What was that? What did he give you?" The buyer grew suddenly uneasy. "A commission, mate! Initially he was selling it only for a fiver."  Sting was already gone. "What?!" Yelled The Undertaker. "Why did you ever tell him?" I asked smirking C. The Undertaker looked really pissed off... "Don't worry! It's worth it!" C. tried to calm him down. "Yeah, right!" I thought. "We don't even know if that junk actually works..." Considering the circumstances I decided that it was definitely about time to follow quickly and not purely metaphorically, the path of my destiny.