Lecture, ThePushkov said: -- Woman is the workbench of love.
And he immediately received a clout across the gob.
-- What's that for? -- asked Pushkov.
But, not getting any answer to his question, he continued: -- This is what I think: a woman should be tackled from below. Women really like this and only pretend that they don't like it.
At this point Pushkov was again struck across the gob.
-- But what on earth is this, comrades! If that's the way it is, I won't carry on speaking -- said Pushkov.
But, after waiting about a quarter of a minute, he continued: -- A woman is so built that she is all soft and damp.
At this point Pushkov was again struck across the gob. Pushkov tried to pretend that he hadn't noticed this and went on: -- If you just sniff a woman . . .
But at this point Pushkov was so slammed across the gob that he caught hold of his cheek and said: -- Comrades, under these conditions it is absolutely impossible to deliver a lecture. If this happens again, I shall discontinue.
Pushkov waited for a quarter of a minute and then continued: -- Now, where were we? Ah, yes. That was it. A woman loves to look at herself. She sits down in front of the mirror completely naked . . .
At this word, Pushkov again received a clout across the gob.
-- Naked -- repeated Pushkov.
Smack! -- he was weighed into right across the gob.
-- Naked! -- yelled Pushkov.
Smack! -- he received a clout across the gob.
-- Naked! A naked woman! A nude tart! -- Pushkov kept yelling. Smack! Smack! Smack! -- Pushkov took it across the gob.
-- A nude tart with a ladle in her hands! -- yelled Pushkov.
Smack! Smack! -- the blows rained down on Pushkov.
-- A tart's bum-hole! -- yelled Pushkov, dodging the blows. -- A nude nun!
But at this point Pushkov was struck with such force that he lost consciousness and crumpled to the floor as though pole-axed.