Last summer, my next door neighbor, an ethnically Russian immigrant from Uzbekistan, invited me to a pool party at their house. “You guys built a pool?”, I asked? “Yes! Come check it out!” he excitedly responded. I walked next door, went in the back yard, and was greeted by the sight of several fully clothed men, a few holding bottles of vodka, sitting in an inflatable kiddie pool. I shook my head, and then joined them. Was fun very much, yes.
Ever have an encounter with a real-life Borat?
Yes. He tried to have sexytime with my anus.
I felt that was in poor taste
Perhaps had you washed there first, it would have tasted better?
I don’t know. I didn’t kiss it after he finished.
Your neighbor is an Uzbek?
He is an asshole!
He also wants your clock radio.
A few years ago, Hubby and I stopped at an Indian take-out place in London. I’ll never forget the guy who waited on us.
We ordered our food and his face brightened. “Americans!”
We admitted we were.
“I like Americans!” he enthused. “New York City?”
“No, we’re not from New York. We’re from another part of the country.”
He nodded and grinned. “Yes! Yes! New York City!”
“No, we’re not from New York. We’re from [state]”
“New York City! My cousin lives there! Do you know Ashid?”
We said that we did not, and he went on for a few minutes about Ashid. Drove a cab, I think. Hubby was looking over the menu and noticed something that he’d never seen before. “Stuffed vine leaves. Those sound interesting. I’d like an order of those, please.”
He just grinned and nodded. When we got back to our hotel, we noticed there wasn’t anything in the bag which could be stuffed vine leaves, so the next evening we went back. Hubby’s curiosity was piqued about this mysterious culinary delight and he had to have some.
“New York City!” the guy greeted us when we came through the door.
We just smiled and nodded. No use trying again. Hubby placed his order, asking again for a side-serving of the stuffed vine leaves. “What are they stuffed with?” he asked.
The guy considered for a moment. “They are . . . stuffed with pink.”
I lost it. I had to cover my laughter with coughs and excuse myself. Hubby met up with me outside and we laughed all the way back to the hotel. Stuffed with pink! You had to be there, I guess, but we laughed until we wept.
There were no vine leaves in the bag again. Hubby never did get to try them until we got back home.
I tried to order a cheeseburger in an Argentinian steak house in Amsterdam. I asked what kind of cheese it came with, and the (also Argentinian) waiter looked at me blankly for a minute, and then said, “White?”