GoForTheLaugh
TMF Expert
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- May 6, 2005
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“I Guess Prolonged Tickling Makes Russians Forget English”
by GoForTheLaugh
“Did I just hear this guy right?” Craig asks me, tickle-hungry fingers poised a few inches from Yuri’s ribs. “Did he just say he could take anything Americans dish out?” Yuri is sitting in a wooden chair facing me and can’t see Craig’s hands. His wavy brown hair flaps over his ears. Doesn’t he know the Beatle cut went out decades ago? He really has no clue—not in hair and definitely not now, in a gym with two guys he doesn’t suspect as tickle fiends.
“Oh, you heard him right,” I answer. “I guess Russians are so tough that... Well, we're just a bunch of American wusses.”
We have Yuri where we want him, and I can't wait for the fun to begin. A few minutes ago, he had walked into the gym and, in one of the thickest accents I have ever heard, said that he was the new captain of the men's gymnastics team. Mind you, Craig and I had never even seen him before—and we’ve been the star gymnasts for years. We’re the ones who have a shot at the Olympics, not wonderkid from Siberia.
“I am Yuri Markhadayev,” he simply announced, “And I captain now. Coach say I must tell you. I am here for win Olympics.” That’s all I had to hear. We’re a pretty close bunch—training in Atlanta away from our families and friends—and arrogance just doesn’t fly here. I mean, Craig and I wear sweats and sleeveless T's to practice, and here Yuri comes in all pompous and downy and bare-chested and barefoot—and no one else was going to be using the facility today. It was so convenient, I almost couldn’t believe it was true.
I knew right away that Craig and I would be tickling him down a few notches before the day was up.
“So, Yuri,” Craig says, his blue eyes darting from his outstretched fingers to Yuri’s ribcage, “Do you really think you Russians are tougher than Americans?”
“Is true. Winter in Siberia make endurance.”
The look in Craig’s eyes is no mischievous that I could just pounce and tickle him right now. But I can tickle him any time I want, of course—extra wide feet to dark pit hair. Yuri is fresh blood. Craig and I can enjoy him together.
“Sir Craig, oh foot friend, the man says he has endurance.”
“Sir Austin, oh partner in crime, how many times have we heard that before?”
We both laugh.
“Don’t mind our laughter, Yuri,” I say.
“Yeah,” Craig chimes in. “There’ll be a lot more laughter soon.”
Yuri looks thoroughly confused.
“O.K., Yuri, here’s the deal. Craig is going to try to force you off that chair. If you’re as tough as you claim, he won’t be able to. If you can stay there no matter what he does to you, we'll know that you Russians are number one.”
"Remember, Yuri, your national honor is at stake."
“How you Americans say…? Piece of cake.”
Craig pats Yuri on the shoulder—but his other hand does not move from the ready position. “Well, good luck, guy. I promise it’ll be a barrel of laughs.” It’s clear that Yuri doesn’t understand, and while he’s trying to translate in his head, Craig moves his hand from Yuri's shoulders and gives his ribs a sudden poke. Yuri bolts up straight in the chair, a half smile on his lips.
“Something wrong, man?” I ask
“No. I have itch. Is all.”
That has to be one of the best reactions we've ever had. Hoo boy, is this guy ticklish!
Craig returns his hand to ready position. “Wanna give me a countdown, Sir Austin?”
“With pleasure, Sir Craig. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. TICKLE!”
Craig’s hands make contact with Yuri’s ribs, and Yuri’s body spasms back up, then to the left, then back up as he inhales heavily. He isn’t laughing—not yet, anyway—but his mouth is caught in a lopsided grin.
“Remember Yuri, a tough guy won’t get out of the chair.”
“Yeah. Any American can take it.”
Yuri bolts his mouth shut, trying not to laugh as he hits the back of the chair hard and his body continues to convulse.
I don't call Craig "He of the Lightning Hands" for nothing. Those things are deadly. He races one of them up into Yuri’s left armpit while the other dances on his ribs.
Despite his best efforts, Yuri begins to chuckle. “Wh-Wh-ha ha ha ha ha What you do?-hooo-hoo-hoo-hoo! Ha hee hee hee hee hee hee hee.”
I walk over to join the fun. Yuri kicks his legs in my direction to try to knock me over, but I just jump out of the way. He kicks again, and this time I catch a leg, admiring the soft bare foot attached to it.
“Now what have we here?”
“No…ha ha ha…Please!” He thrashes the leg, trying to get it away from me, but I have a firm grip.
“Please? O.K., since you asked so nicely.” I stroke the foot only once with one finger, and that really sends him over the edge. “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAH-ha-ha-ha-ha!” His reaction is incredible. Well, then again, we are talking about feet. I know what happens when Craig goes after mine.
You’d think that since I really hate to have my own feet tickled, I’d go easy on Yuri, right? No chance. Bastard that I am, I immediately begin running all five fingers up and down Yuri’s sole--this while Craig continues working his ribs and armpits.
“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEE hee hee hee hee ha ha ha. It is.. hee hee… It is TORTURE! Whaaa ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha hee hee!”
“Torture’s a big word, Yuri, my friend,” I see. “You’re learning English very well.”
“Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa ha ha ha ha ha hoo hoo hoo!”
“And we wanna know how much torture you Ruskies can take.” Craig gives me a knowing smile. I love that guy. No one else can finish my tickle torture sentences the way he can.
“So tell me Yuri,” Craig continues, removing a hand from Yuri’s armpit and bringing it down below the Russain’s inny navel. “Is the widdle Wussian tickly-wicklish here, too?”
“AAAAAAAAAH-hah-hah-hah-hah-hah!”
“It seems he is.”
Yuri screams something in Russian that neither of us understands. I guess prolonged tickling makes Russians forget English.
I nod to Craig, our signal, and we both stop tickling Yuri. It takes him a few seconds after the tickling ends to stop laughing—and a few minutes more to stop shaking.
“Well, Yuri, I have to say that you proved us wrong. You Russian guys really can take a lot. I can’t believe you actually stayed in the chair.”
“I’m impressed,” Craig adds.
“Yes,” Yuris says, still composing himself. “Is Siberian climate, good air, good eat. Make real men.” Craig rolls his eyes. Yuri takes a deep breath. “But, seriously, guys… No more tickle, O.K.? Is not..." He grimaces, then blushes slightly. "...not guy thing.”
“Of course not,” I say. “No more tickling. You proved yourself.”
“Yeah, you sure showed us.”
“You passed the initiation. Put it there, bud.” I stretch out my hand, and Yuri stands and shakes it. “Austin Sollett from Albuquerque." I gesture to Craig. "That's Craig Chatou. He's from New York. It's good to meet you.”
“And good to meet you. I want be friends with team.”
“Sure. And now that we’re gonna be friends, we can help you train—and we’ll even help you with your English. In fact, I think Craig wants to teach you something in English right now.”
“And what is this?”
Craig puts his arms around Yuri’s bare shoulders. “It’s a word to describe someone like Austin. You know how he promised no more tickling and all? Well, he’s a pathological liar.”
Craig was a wrestler before he became a gymnast… And poor Yuri just doesn't have a chance. Craig pins him to the floor in one second. As we have always done, we switch roles in our second pounce. I go for Yuri’s upper body while Craig goes for his feet. “No! Nooooooo! Plee—hee-hee-hee-ha-ho-whaaaaaaaa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!” He is clearly the most ticklish guy we have ever met. Must be that Siberian air.
“Still think you Russians are better than us Americans, Yuri?” I ask, wiggling my fingers on his firm stomach.
“No! No!” he screames between laughs.
I work my way up to both pits. “Now you know America’s number one, right?”
“YES! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! America number onnnnnnne-na-HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!”
“And you’re gonna catch a better attitude, right?” I hear Craig shout behind me. Poor Yuri. I know what Craig can do to a guy’s feet.
“YES! HO HO HO HEE HEE HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!”
We tickle him for another minute because it's just too much fun to stop. Then we give each other a high five over his panting body. When we stand up, Yuri curls into a fetal position muttering “oh man, oh man” and something in Russian.
Well, once again, America has won the Cold War. Yuri won't be a problem any more, and we can always have another--ahem!--man to man with him later. Right now it's getting late, and we need to shower before we go out tonight.
As we walk to the door leading to the hallway, Craig puts his arm around my shoulders and, I guess, is about to whisper some battle strategy for the Italian weight lifter we've had our eyes on... But no sooner are we in the hallway when a half dozen guys grab and restrain us. We’re supposed to be the only people here—and they’re all speaking in… Russian.
Yuri, covered in sweat, his Beatle hair tousled, walks out after us and turns to face us. "You guys think I’m just a dumb Russian, huh?” He still has an accent, but now it’s suddenly very light. “Well guess what, guys? You’ve been suckered.”
Craig’s face goes white—which is about how I feel.
Yuri beams from ear to ear. “That was one of the best ticklings I’ve ever had. I have to thank you sadists for that.” A muscular Russian guy who has Craig in a bear hug winks at Yuri. Yuri winks back, then runs his hands up and down Craig’s ribs. Craig starts to giggle.
“Very nice,” says Yuri, turning to me. “Time for that later. You’re the one I want first, pathological liar.”
“Yuri, man, i-it was just a joke,” I plead, starting to sweat against the 6’3 guy holding me. “W-We’re gonna be friends, right?”
Yuri says something in Russian, and another guy walks over and pulls my arms above my head. Yuri’s fingers dance in my pits, and I shriek with uncontrollable laughter.
“More than friends, Austin Sollett. We’re going to be like brothers. And since I’m older than you, I’ll be like your Russian older brother…”
Craig and I collapse in helpless laughter as seven Russian gymnasts gang tickle us while singing the Russian national anthem.
by GoForTheLaugh
“Did I just hear this guy right?” Craig asks me, tickle-hungry fingers poised a few inches from Yuri’s ribs. “Did he just say he could take anything Americans dish out?” Yuri is sitting in a wooden chair facing me and can’t see Craig’s hands. His wavy brown hair flaps over his ears. Doesn’t he know the Beatle cut went out decades ago? He really has no clue—not in hair and definitely not now, in a gym with two guys he doesn’t suspect as tickle fiends.
“Oh, you heard him right,” I answer. “I guess Russians are so tough that... Well, we're just a bunch of American wusses.”
We have Yuri where we want him, and I can't wait for the fun to begin. A few minutes ago, he had walked into the gym and, in one of the thickest accents I have ever heard, said that he was the new captain of the men's gymnastics team. Mind you, Craig and I had never even seen him before—and we’ve been the star gymnasts for years. We’re the ones who have a shot at the Olympics, not wonderkid from Siberia.
“I am Yuri Markhadayev,” he simply announced, “And I captain now. Coach say I must tell you. I am here for win Olympics.” That’s all I had to hear. We’re a pretty close bunch—training in Atlanta away from our families and friends—and arrogance just doesn’t fly here. I mean, Craig and I wear sweats and sleeveless T's to practice, and here Yuri comes in all pompous and downy and bare-chested and barefoot—and no one else was going to be using the facility today. It was so convenient, I almost couldn’t believe it was true.
I knew right away that Craig and I would be tickling him down a few notches before the day was up.
“So, Yuri,” Craig says, his blue eyes darting from his outstretched fingers to Yuri’s ribcage, “Do you really think you Russians are tougher than Americans?”
“Is true. Winter in Siberia make endurance.”
The look in Craig’s eyes is no mischievous that I could just pounce and tickle him right now. But I can tickle him any time I want, of course—extra wide feet to dark pit hair. Yuri is fresh blood. Craig and I can enjoy him together.
“Sir Craig, oh foot friend, the man says he has endurance.”
“Sir Austin, oh partner in crime, how many times have we heard that before?”
We both laugh.
“Don’t mind our laughter, Yuri,” I say.
“Yeah,” Craig chimes in. “There’ll be a lot more laughter soon.”
Yuri looks thoroughly confused.
“O.K., Yuri, here’s the deal. Craig is going to try to force you off that chair. If you’re as tough as you claim, he won’t be able to. If you can stay there no matter what he does to you, we'll know that you Russians are number one.”
"Remember, Yuri, your national honor is at stake."
“How you Americans say…? Piece of cake.”
Craig pats Yuri on the shoulder—but his other hand does not move from the ready position. “Well, good luck, guy. I promise it’ll be a barrel of laughs.” It’s clear that Yuri doesn’t understand, and while he’s trying to translate in his head, Craig moves his hand from Yuri's shoulders and gives his ribs a sudden poke. Yuri bolts up straight in the chair, a half smile on his lips.
“Something wrong, man?” I ask
“No. I have itch. Is all.”
That has to be one of the best reactions we've ever had. Hoo boy, is this guy ticklish!
Craig returns his hand to ready position. “Wanna give me a countdown, Sir Austin?”
“With pleasure, Sir Craig. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. TICKLE!”
Craig’s hands make contact with Yuri’s ribs, and Yuri’s body spasms back up, then to the left, then back up as he inhales heavily. He isn’t laughing—not yet, anyway—but his mouth is caught in a lopsided grin.
“Remember Yuri, a tough guy won’t get out of the chair.”
“Yeah. Any American can take it.”
Yuri bolts his mouth shut, trying not to laugh as he hits the back of the chair hard and his body continues to convulse.
I don't call Craig "He of the Lightning Hands" for nothing. Those things are deadly. He races one of them up into Yuri’s left armpit while the other dances on his ribs.
Despite his best efforts, Yuri begins to chuckle. “Wh-Wh-ha ha ha ha ha What you do?-hooo-hoo-hoo-hoo! Ha hee hee hee hee hee hee hee.”
I walk over to join the fun. Yuri kicks his legs in my direction to try to knock me over, but I just jump out of the way. He kicks again, and this time I catch a leg, admiring the soft bare foot attached to it.
“Now what have we here?”
“No…ha ha ha…Please!” He thrashes the leg, trying to get it away from me, but I have a firm grip.
“Please? O.K., since you asked so nicely.” I stroke the foot only once with one finger, and that really sends him over the edge. “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAH-ha-ha-ha-ha!” His reaction is incredible. Well, then again, we are talking about feet. I know what happens when Craig goes after mine.
You’d think that since I really hate to have my own feet tickled, I’d go easy on Yuri, right? No chance. Bastard that I am, I immediately begin running all five fingers up and down Yuri’s sole--this while Craig continues working his ribs and armpits.
“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEE hee hee hee hee ha ha ha. It is.. hee hee… It is TORTURE! Whaaa ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha hee hee!”
“Torture’s a big word, Yuri, my friend,” I see. “You’re learning English very well.”
“Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa ha ha ha ha ha hoo hoo hoo!”
“And we wanna know how much torture you Ruskies can take.” Craig gives me a knowing smile. I love that guy. No one else can finish my tickle torture sentences the way he can.
“So tell me Yuri,” Craig continues, removing a hand from Yuri’s armpit and bringing it down below the Russain’s inny navel. “Is the widdle Wussian tickly-wicklish here, too?”
“AAAAAAAAAH-hah-hah-hah-hah-hah!”
“It seems he is.”
Yuri screams something in Russian that neither of us understands. I guess prolonged tickling makes Russians forget English.
I nod to Craig, our signal, and we both stop tickling Yuri. It takes him a few seconds after the tickling ends to stop laughing—and a few minutes more to stop shaking.
“Well, Yuri, I have to say that you proved us wrong. You Russian guys really can take a lot. I can’t believe you actually stayed in the chair.”
“I’m impressed,” Craig adds.
“Yes,” Yuris says, still composing himself. “Is Siberian climate, good air, good eat. Make real men.” Craig rolls his eyes. Yuri takes a deep breath. “But, seriously, guys… No more tickle, O.K.? Is not..." He grimaces, then blushes slightly. "...not guy thing.”
“Of course not,” I say. “No more tickling. You proved yourself.”
“Yeah, you sure showed us.”
“You passed the initiation. Put it there, bud.” I stretch out my hand, and Yuri stands and shakes it. “Austin Sollett from Albuquerque." I gesture to Craig. "That's Craig Chatou. He's from New York. It's good to meet you.”
“And good to meet you. I want be friends with team.”
“Sure. And now that we’re gonna be friends, we can help you train—and we’ll even help you with your English. In fact, I think Craig wants to teach you something in English right now.”
“And what is this?”
Craig puts his arms around Yuri’s bare shoulders. “It’s a word to describe someone like Austin. You know how he promised no more tickling and all? Well, he’s a pathological liar.”
Craig was a wrestler before he became a gymnast… And poor Yuri just doesn't have a chance. Craig pins him to the floor in one second. As we have always done, we switch roles in our second pounce. I go for Yuri’s upper body while Craig goes for his feet. “No! Nooooooo! Plee—hee-hee-hee-ha-ho-whaaaaaaaa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!” He is clearly the most ticklish guy we have ever met. Must be that Siberian air.
“Still think you Russians are better than us Americans, Yuri?” I ask, wiggling my fingers on his firm stomach.
“No! No!” he screames between laughs.
I work my way up to both pits. “Now you know America’s number one, right?”
“YES! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! America number onnnnnnne-na-HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!”
“And you’re gonna catch a better attitude, right?” I hear Craig shout behind me. Poor Yuri. I know what Craig can do to a guy’s feet.
“YES! HO HO HO HEE HEE HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!”
We tickle him for another minute because it's just too much fun to stop. Then we give each other a high five over his panting body. When we stand up, Yuri curls into a fetal position muttering “oh man, oh man” and something in Russian.
Well, once again, America has won the Cold War. Yuri won't be a problem any more, and we can always have another--ahem!--man to man with him later. Right now it's getting late, and we need to shower before we go out tonight.
As we walk to the door leading to the hallway, Craig puts his arm around my shoulders and, I guess, is about to whisper some battle strategy for the Italian weight lifter we've had our eyes on... But no sooner are we in the hallway when a half dozen guys grab and restrain us. We’re supposed to be the only people here—and they’re all speaking in… Russian.
Yuri, covered in sweat, his Beatle hair tousled, walks out after us and turns to face us. "You guys think I’m just a dumb Russian, huh?” He still has an accent, but now it’s suddenly very light. “Well guess what, guys? You’ve been suckered.”
Craig’s face goes white—which is about how I feel.
Yuri beams from ear to ear. “That was one of the best ticklings I’ve ever had. I have to thank you sadists for that.” A muscular Russian guy who has Craig in a bear hug winks at Yuri. Yuri winks back, then runs his hands up and down Craig’s ribs. Craig starts to giggle.
“Very nice,” says Yuri, turning to me. “Time for that later. You’re the one I want first, pathological liar.”
“Yuri, man, i-it was just a joke,” I plead, starting to sweat against the 6’3 guy holding me. “W-We’re gonna be friends, right?”
Yuri says something in Russian, and another guy walks over and pulls my arms above my head. Yuri’s fingers dance in my pits, and I shriek with uncontrollable laughter.
“More than friends, Austin Sollett. We’re going to be like brothers. And since I’m older than you, I’ll be like your Russian older brother…”
Craig and I collapse in helpless laughter as seven Russian gymnasts gang tickle us while singing the Russian national anthem.
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