From Dovlatov

Russian-Jewish Soviet dark humor (translated by yours truly a while ago, so if the content sucks, blame me):

Igor Yefimov had a party. There were about fifteen guests. Yefimovs’ daughter, Lena, walked into the room. Poet Rein suddenly said: “Whom I feel sorry about is Lenochka. One day she will have to take care of fifteen graves.”

One day I met poet Shklyarinsky with imported winter coat on fur.
— Wonderful, — I said, — coat.
— Yes, — answered Shklyarinsky. — It’s a present from Victor Sosnora. He gave me this coat for my birthday as a present. And I gave him as a present 60 rubles.

Chirskov brought a manuscript to an editor.
— Here, — he said, — is my manuscript. Please take a look at it. I would like to know your opinion. Maybe I can correct something, or change something?
— Yes, yes, — thoughtfully said the editor. — Of course. Please change it, young man, please change it.
And handed the manuscript back to Chirskov.

Many people think I smoke all the time, and they are completely mistaken. I only smoke when I drink. And since I drink constantly, people get the erroneous impression about me smoking.

Harms [a British writer] once told me: 'I have an easy phone number: 32-08. Easy to remember. Thirty-two teeth, eight fingers.'

In his young years, Bitov [Russian writer] was very agressive. Especially in a drunk state. One time he hit Voznesensky [famous, overly patriotic poet]. This was not the first time, and he was brought to court. His things were bad, but then he decided to make a speech. He said:
'Listen to me and make an objective decision. Only at first listen to me, how it happened, and then you'll understand me and forgive. Because it is not my fault. And it will become crystall clear right now, only listen to me, how it happened.'
'So, how did it happen?" asked the judge.
'It was like this. I went into a hotel for a literary conference. And there was Andrei Voznesensky standing. Now tell me,' cried Bitov, 'how could I not hit his ugly mug?'

A KGB officer asked the poet Nachman: 'Are you familiar with Yuri Katselenboghen?'
'Yuri Katselenboghen? I've heard that name before. At least a part of it. I definitely heard the name "Yuri" before. Yes. And Katselenboghen is the name I hear for the first time.'

'Tolya,' I said to Nachman, 'Let's go to Lyova Drushkin.'
'I don't want to. He is too Soviet.'
'Too Soviet? Drushkin is too Soviet? You are mistaken, surely!'
'Well, maybe he is too anti-Soviet. What's the difference? Go alone!'

We were placed in the region of new building constructions. Glass, betone, grey similar-looking buildings. I am telling Nachman:
'I am sure that Pushkin would refuse to live on such an ugly street.'
Nachman answers:
'Pushkin would not agree to live in this... ugly year!'

I called the office. Turonok came to the phone.
"Yes? Turonok speaking."
"Henry Franzovich, a little boy has just been born."
"What? Who is this?"
"It's Dovlatov. From the maternity hospital. You gave me an assignment."
"Oh, yes. I remember."
"Well, a little boy has been born. Big, healthy. Fifty-eight centimetres. Four kilos two hundred grams. The father is Ethiopian..."
An uneasy silence.
"I don't understand," Turonok said.
"An Ethiopian. He comes from Ethiopia. He's a student here," I said. "A Marxist," I added for some reason.
"Are you drunk?" Turonok asked sharply.
"How can you say that? I'm on assignment."
"On assignment. When did that ever stop you? Who vomited all over the Regional Party Headquarters last December?"
"Henry Franzovich, I can't tie up the line for long. A little boy has just been born. His father belongs to a friendly nation."
"You mean to say he's black?"
"More like chocolate."
"That is, a Negro?"
"Naturally."
"What is there natural about this?"
"Isn't an Ethiopian a human being?"
"Dovlatov," Turonok said, in a voice choked with torment, "Dovlatov, I'll fire you ..."