"I'm not Polish."

Meet Ricky.

He is Vietnamese. And judging on his looks, I would say he's in his late 40s-early 50s. He's a physical therapist at one of my facilities I work at. One day he's sitting by me, looking through a chart when a resident in a wheelchair rolls next to him and starts talking... fast, very frenetic. I couldn't make it out, assumed it was gibberish since many residents at these facilities have dementia. Ricky then turns to the resident, folds his hands onto his chest, and says in a thick, Asian, FOB accent, "Sorry. I'm not Polish."

When I heard that, I couldn't help but smirk. "I'm not Polish." That has to be the most obvious statement ever said in the history of the world. It's quite apparent that he is not Polish. In fact, he's the furthest thing from being Polish. He looks like an older "cool" Asian with his moussed hair and always tucked-in shirt, thereby revealing the phone on a belt clip. In a way, he reminds me of my dad.

So what's the point of this story? That I'm an a-hole for even thinking this was funny.