So yesterday at a late-night barbeque I had the pleasure of meeting a fifty year old drunk ass Polish man, who has nearly half of his teeth and a thick, heavily slurred accent. He was the only one of his kind, struggling through a slop of skinny drunken hipsters.
After we watched the landlady throw a giant wicker basket on the firepit (which I'm pretty sure was an old wheelbarrow full of flaming two-by-fours) and nearly set the tree on fire, Gyna and I started making friends with people we didn't know. Being me, I got to talk to a close-talking drunk twice my age. He loves me. Duh.
"I beeld house. For you. Yes?"
"You want to build me a house?" I turn to Gyna, who is next to me, talking to a guy that's our age, with a full set of teeth. "He wants to build me a house."
"Oh god," she shakes her head.
The Polish Man interjects. "Yes, and we have sree chilren. All boys."
"Oh, really? Okay then."
"You are spayshel. Veree. You are streeling, yes? Streeling?"
"Yes! No, no. You are um, carree? You carree beeg theengs?"
"YES! YES! I know. Eez no bullshit. Some say bullshit I say no bullshit. But my Eeenglish, is...meeeeeeh, you so-so, you okay, you Polish, you bullshit. No bullshit. I am Polish. I am talking to spayshel girl, who my son like."
"I am definitely special. Exactly."
"Yes. And you have dance?" He tries to dance with me.
"No, dude, I'm not gonna dance with you."
"You have dance, and we dance. And we do this? You have pen?"
"No, sorry, I don't have a pen."
"You have pen, and you write...name...and you write tellofone."
"Dude, I'm not giving you my phone number."
"You frend? We frend. Son frend."
"How old is your son? Do I know him?"
"I have son and he is, um, he like...shport. He um," the guy starts thrusting his his hips and pumping his fists, and my eyes bulge, "he do zis, on snow...in mountain...in um...snow. He has hat, he has...shport, he has...no fear. NO fear!"
"He do that, yes. Skeeze? Skeeze. Yes. His is very big skeeze." He reaches over and squeezes my arm. "You make mossle."
"Um, okay." I flex.
"You are skeeze?" He starts the thrusting thing again.
"No, I don't ski. I would like to ski, but I have this problem, you see, it's called, severe uncoordination and subsequent falling all the time. Aaaaaand I like saying things that you won't understand."
Uncomfortable silence. I sip my beer. Gyna is chatting away. I look around for a way out, but then the Polish Man starts yammering again.
"You are baseball?"
"I am baseball? Yes. Yes, I am baseball. Are you baseball?"
"Me? I um...no. I am beerd, and I clean, and I no have beerd. I have...knife. I creem on face."
Oh, jesus. "You cream on face?"
"You see--" he grabs my hand and makes me feel his cheek "--is clean. Veree. I do that."
"Oh, you shave. Are you a barber?"
"Ohhh, no, yes. I like dark beer. You? You like?"
"Do I like dark beer? Sure. It's fine."
"My Eenglish is not good. Is focking bullshit."
"Ackzaktillee? What is zis ackzaktillee? You say?"
"It means, um, you are right. You are correct."
"Oh, I am veree ackzaktillee. All ze time! Veree ackzaktillee!"
What fun the foreigners are.