The Polish Tickle

8 Jan

I have dated two Polish people during my time here on Earth.  The second of the two was my boyfriend of three years.  His favorite phrase, “Same shit, different day,” which he used every single day I was with him, pretty much summed up our entire relationship.  So let’s skip him, shall we, and recollect the brief couple months (prior to my three years with my ex) when I was dating his friend, “Stan.”

I met both of these Polish men at the store I worked at in Boston– Stan was the security guy.  He had a shaved head and wore gigantic shorts and man jewelry.  The first month I worked there, the other girls weren’t very friendly, so I mostly talked to Stan… and we began getting drinks after work.  He was one of the most absurd people I’ve ever met, albeit intermittently charming.  First of all, he had a thick Polish accent which made everything he said cute and/or hilarious.  He couldn’t pronounce the “th” sound so when he would say “third,” for example, it came out “turd.”  Whenever he referred to his manhood, he would call it his “turd leg” which I found endlessly funny.  He also followed every sentence with the word “yo” and would put words in the wrong order.  Once, he was mad he had to run to the bank in the rain and came back complaining “Great, now my hair chest is wet, yo.”

The second thing you need to know about Stan is how klutzy he was.  He loved skateboarding and had crutches or some sort of cast for the majority of the time we worked together.  This may have been less about being klutzy and more about being a major drinker.  I was going a little crazy myself around this time, running through the fountains in the Boston Common at 5am, you know– that kind of stuff.  Stan was into “tagging” and belonged to some sort of Polish street mafia where they would sneak out of his mom’s house late at night and paint a bunch of cryptic messages around town.  He also liked to draw stoned teddy bears and large-breasted women in bikinis, but let’s not go any further with that.

One thing I’ve learned about Polish men is that they love to talk about whether they are a “tits man” or an “ass man.”  A co-worker once asked Stan which he was, and he replied with a scoff “Ass don’t have neeples, yo!”  Stan was known at work for being rude to customers and inappropriate with the staff.  In addition to his “turd leg,” he loved talking to the girls about our various body parts and how he wanted to give us the “Polish Tickle.”  The manager eventually had a meeting with him about how they were cracking down on sexual harassment and that he needed to watch what he said.  Afterwards, he skulked back onto the floor, approached my friend and told her sullenly, “Well, I guess I’m not allowed to talk about your sweet badonkadonk anymore, yo.”

Our brief affair ended when all of the staff traveled to New York for a big company party at the Rainbow Room.  The night before our early flight, Stan had wanted to stay at my place so we could go to the airport together.  It was late, he was drunk, and I told him I just wanted to go to bed so we didn’t miss the flight in the morning.  He had other ideas, however, and when I turned him down (I was over him at this point) he made a rape joke.  I told him he either had to sleep on the floor or get out.  The next morning we got held up at security and almost missed our flight because he had fifteen lighters in his bag– which I had warned him about the night before.  I got on the plane and sat as far away from him as I could.  The party was the most insane thing I have ever attended in my life– never-ending open bar, celebrities, flame swallowers, nudity, snakes, etc.  Stan followed me around towards the end of the night, but I ignored him and met up with an ex-boyfriend instead (after losing my shoes and going to an after-party with a shirtless Tracy Morgan– my ex had to bring me slippers from Duane Reade so they wouldn’t kick me out for being barefoot).  I found out later that Stan had locked himself in the bathroom with another co-worker and was crying because I wanted nothing to do with him.

After that, he was almost unbearable to work with.  He was mean, spread rumors about me sleeping with other people at the store, and was eventually fired for being late too many times.  Since I clearly hadn’t learned my lesson about dating coworkers, I began seeing his friend the following year.  Today (nearly six years later), I will be the first to tell you that dating someone you see at work fifty hours a week is a BAD IDEA.

But thanks to Stan, I know how to say “cheers,” “teddy bear,” “I love you,” and “ass” in Polish.  Pretty much all you need to know.  In fact, I think you could make it through a week or more in Poland with solely that vocabulary under your belt.  I’ll be sure to add that onto my resumé under Special Skills.


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