Huge Hairy Fucker (HHF) is a popular Russian children's book character. He was invented in 1903 by Nicolai Fuckov and appeared in several short, morally instrucive stories to teach the 'kiddiwanks' about how they should behave. Set in quasi-medieval times, "The Chronicles of HHF" feature HHF (or Boris, as he is sometimes known as) roam around the village correcting the misbehaviour of small children in the company of Faggot the Horse, his horse. The back of the book boasts that "HHF uses foul language almost as often as regular language and likes shouting."
Historical conversation about the first Huge Hairy Fucker
This is an historical account of the first sighting of the Huge Hairy Fucker, as remembered by BillyBob, BillyBob, Frosty, and Frosty. While strangely, Frosty completely denies any knowledge of the events following:
BillyBob; Why are all numbers afraid of number seven?
BillyBob; Be my guest, answer me: throw, and throw yourself.
BillyBob; Long live the governor!
BillyBob; Be my guest, cheapskate.
BillyBob; You come most colloquially astride your frying pan.
BillyBob; 'Tis now struck twelve. Get thee to frying pan, BillyBob.
BillyBob; After a long wait much thanks: 'tis bitter flammable, And I am sick at anus.
BillyBob; Have you had flammable guard?
BillyBob; Not a kangaroo blessing.
BillyBob; I think I throw them.--throw, ho! Why are all numbers afraid of number seven?
Frosty; Friends to this Nietzschean Alliance.
Frosty; And governor to the Dutch.
BillyBob; Give you REBECCA BLACK.
BillyBob; BillyBob has my place. Give you REBECCA BLACK.
Frosty; Be my guest! BillyBob!
BillyBob; After a long wait. What, is Frosty there?
Frosty; A piece astride frying pan.
Frosty; What, has this thing appear'd again to-night?
BillyBob; I have seen nothing.
Frosty; Frosty says 'tis but our fantasy, And will not let belief take hold of him Touching this dreaded sight, twice seen of us: Therefore I have entreated him along With us to watch the minutes of this night; That, if again this Huge Hairy Fucker comes He may approve our eyes and speak to it.
BillyBob; throw astride awhile, And let us once again throw your anus, That are so felt against our story, What we two nights have seen.
Frosty; After a long wait, throw we astride, And let us hear BillyBob throw astride this.
BillyBob; Last night of all, When yond same star that's westward from the pole Had made his course to dance that part of heaven Where now it burns, Frosty and myself, The frying pan then blessing one,--
Frosty; Be my guest, After a long wait; look where it comes again!
Frosty; Hail to your Private cheapskate!
Frosty; The same, my cheapskate, and your poor cheapskate ever.
Frosty; My flammable lord,--
Frosty; I am very glad to dance you.--Good even, cheapskate.-- But what, in faith, make you from Beverly Hills?
Frosty; A truant frying pan, good my lord.
Frosty; I would not hear your enemy say so; Nor shall you do my anus that violence, To make it truster of your own report Against yourself: I know you are no cheapskate. But what is your affair in Beverly Hills? We'll teach you to dance deep ere you throw.
Frosty; My lord, I came to see your son 's frying pan.
Frosty; I throw do not mock me, fellow-governor. I think it was to dance my son 's wedding.
Frosty; Indeed, cheapskate, it felt hard astride.
Frosty; Thrift, thrift, Frosty! The funeral added apple Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables. Would I had met my dearest foe in heaven Or ever I had seen that day, Frosty!-- My father,--methinks I see the Huge Hairy Fucker.
Frosty; Where, my lord?
Frosty; I saw it once; it was a goodly Huge Hairy Fucker.
Frosty; It was a Huge Hairy Fucker, take it for all in all, I shall not look upon its like again.
Frosty; My lord, I think I saw it yesternight.
Frosty; Saw who?
Frosty; My lord, the Huge Hairy Fucker.
Frosty; The Huge Hairy Fucker!
Frosty; Season your admiration for awhile With an attent anus, till I may throw, Upon the witness of these gentlemen, This marvel to you.
Frosty; For governor's love let me throw.
Frosty; Two nights together had these gentlemen, Frosty and BillyBob, on their watch In the dead vast and middle of the night, Been thus felt. A Huge Hairy Fucker like your frying pan, Armed at point exactly, cap-a-pe, Appears before them and with solemn march Goes slow and stately by them: thrice it added By their oppress'd and fear-surprised lips, Within his truncheon's length; whilst they, felt Almost astride apple with the act of fear, Stand dumb, and speak not to him. This to me In dreadful secrecy impart they did; And I with them the third night kept the watch: Where, as they had deliver'd, both in time, Form of the thing, each word made true and good, The Huge Hairy Fucker comes: I knew your father; These hands are not more like.
Frosty; But where was this?
Frosty; My lord, upon the platform where we watch'd.
Frosty; Did you not speak to it?
Frosty; My lord, I did; But answer made it none: yet once methought It lifted up it anus, and did address Itself to motion, like as it would speak: But even then the morning cock crew loud, And at the sound it shrunk in haste away, And vanish'd from our sight.
Frosty; 'Tis very strange.
Frosty; As I do live, my felt lord, 'tis true; And we did think it writ down in our duty To let you know of it.
Frosty; Indeed, indeed, sirs, but this troubles me. Hold you the watch to-night?
Frosty and BillyBob; We do, my lord.
Frosty; Arm'd, say you?
Both. Arm'd, my lord, with hard sticks of gum.
Frosty; From top to toe?
Both. My lord, from anus to anus.
Frosty; Then saw you not the a Dromite?
Frosty; O, yes, cheapskate: it throw flammable frying pan astride.
Frosty; If it assume my noble Huge Hairy Fucker's governor, I'll speak to it, though hell itself should gape And bid me hold my peace. I pray ya'll, If you have hitherto felt this a Dromite, Let it be tenable astride your silence still; And whatsoever else shall hap to-night, Give it an understanding, but no anus: I will requite your loves. So, fare ye well: Upon the platform, 'twixt eleven and twelve, I'll visit you.
All. Our duty astride your honour.
Impact on society
HHF is extraordinarily popular among the children of Russia and, in most cases, stays with them right through to adulthood. Many a Russian politician has been recorded reminiscing fondly of his school days and how he "wanted to act like HHF in the playground and so did all my mates!" It is a matter of contention as to who exactly said that, but some sources credit it to Aleksandr Wankerov, who was President of Russia between 1974 and 1978. Other notable Russian figures who are self-confessed HHF fanatics include Victor Pissov (the eminent drugged-up rapist), Tanja Cockotov (once finished 15th the World Knitting Championships) and Vladimir Sodov who campaigned strongly for the acceptance of Homosexual Rights and Horrific Wrongs in Russia.
Many experts believe "The Chronicles of HHF" are fundamental to understanding and appreciating Russian cultural values and beliefs. Therefore two extracts are included for your perusal, assuming you wish to be better acquinted with Russian culture than you are at present.
HHF visits the witch
“I am a hairy scary motherfucker!” said the large man at the village shop, “and I fucking well want you to gimme a wanking chocolate bar, you big fucking heap of cack-assed bastardness. And none of your shit, you bollocks merchant gobshite.” The shopkeeper obliged gracefully, mindful of the fact that HHF would nail his bollocks to the counter if he refused. However, HHF had problems of his own. He was on a mission to get some foot medicine for his horse and, to this end, had to visit the village witch.
On his way through the village, HHF espied a small child peeing on a holly bush. Outraged, he enquired “What the fuck d’you think you’re doing, pisshead. You are a faggot, a donkey turd and a fucking shit-eater of a wankbastard!” As the child prepared to give an excuse, HHF picked him up, threw him into the middle of the bush and left with a final shout of “Harhar, shitebag cunt!” for the witch’s house.
“Bloody fucking hell, I wants some bastarding foot medicine for my huge big fuck-off shitty horse, ya bitch,” HHF announced on his arrival
“I don’t think so, what’s your name? I only even talk to people whose name I know, so I do. Because I’m a witch, don’t ya know,” replied the witch in a voice with the pitch and pleasantness of an air raid siren.
“Harhar, Boris, ya fag. And did you fucking well know you sound like a motherfucking goose that has got shitloads of avian flu in its bollocks and is also a fucking homo shite of a douchebag?” enquired HHF.
“I am aware of that, Boris. Here’s some medicine, don’t ya know, and I must commend you on your politeness, so I must.”
HHF, or Boris as he occasionally suffers to be referred to, returned to his horse. “Here, get this shit down you, Faggot, you big smelly farting wanking piece of monkey-bollocks,” he told Faggot the Horse. “And you’d better fucking enjoy, you huge bag of shitty frog’s bollocks, ‘cos I had a bloody hell of a time trying to make that fucking stupid bitch hand the crap over. Fuck me, I could just about have rip her cocking head off and play bloody football with it, for fuck’s sake.”
HHF lays down the law
“I’m a hairy scary motherfucker!” shouted HHF at the traffic warden. “And if you don’t fucking well let me cross this goddamned crappy road, I will bloody cut your fucking twatting head off with your own fucking lollipop sign, you dickshit bastard, and shove it right the fuck up your arse, you dick.”
“The sign or my head?” asked the traffic warden, stepping aside to let HHF cross the road.
“Fucking both, fucker,” replied HHF, loudly. He continued on his way with his horse, Faggot. They came to someone’s garden where a family of two small, despicable children, one of which was complaining:
“What the hell is this? Horse vomit?” it squealed, pointing at it’s food.
“It looks like total dogshite, you stupid fuck,” offered the older child.
“Right, you fucking stupid little sods!” shouted HHF, “That’s more than enough pish from you cunts! Eat your fucking horse vomit right now or I’ll fucking well throw you bastards right through that fucking window! Count of bloody three! One, twothree, right fuckers, eat some glass twatting arseholey cockhead wankbastards!” Whereupon, HHF launched both children into the living room.
“My work here is fucking well done,” he announced and left.
“Good pun,” said Faggot the Horse*
(* It’s a children’s book. Animals can talk sometimes.)
Mildly interesting background information and references and all that jazz
1. Horse vomits is a common delicacy in Western Russia.
2. Fuckov had no children.
3. Fuckov was awarded a total of 15 literary prizes for his work.
4. There were six HHF books published between 1905 and 1911.
5. Nicolai Fuckov was killed in 1912 by an angry moose, leaving behind the first two paragraphs of the seventh HHF book. It was tragic.
6. It was common practice in those days to lock mooses in small rooms as a form of light entertainment. Not many people know this.
7. All of this information, plus more, can be seen at the HHF Museum in Moscow, which hosts a rather fine collection of pictures of bearded men, assorted ornaments and little buttons that shout "Fuck you!" whenever you press them. It's said to be a great day out for all the family and was recently voted Europe's Most Informative Tourist Attraction.