You know, I try to be nice to people. I really do. I'm often courteous, considerate, sometimes going so far as to be downright respectful. Of course, I seldom get any of it back. Oh, no. All I get is cold stares, harsh words, and some schizophrenic punk named Jimbo and his 90 year old grandmother trying to take my pants off in front of a large group of gawking, giggling kindergarten students.
I should have known better. I first saw the guy making reproductions of famous sculptures out of his own excrement. He was waist-deep in Michelangelo's David when I stumbled onto his front lawn. It wouldn't have happened at all had I not been busy reading "Bedtime Stories of the Occult," and in retrospect I find myself wishing so. I kicked over a small snowman, though it wasn't quite made of snow, and that started it all. Before I realized what had happened, the strange man had tackled me, thus smearing his foul art medium over my entire body. Rubbing my face in my mistake I had made, he raved like a lunatic. I screamed in horror and tried to apologize, but he merely said that he would make me eat those words. I screamed again for mercy before darkness befell me.
I awoke some time later, greeted by the foul stench which pervaded what I knew must have been the madman's art studio. There was a bad taste in my mouth. Just then, the strange man burst into the room, followed by an obscenely obese elderly woman who wore a muumuu. The man wore nothing but stained, tight underwear, which had the name "Jimbo" written on the waistband. He danced before me for hours, wiggling, shaking, and prancing. The fat woman played the bongos. I was too terrified to move.
Suddenly, thirty-seven young children ran into the room, accompanied by an older woman, who said, "Today we're going to learn about bathroom hygiene. Isn't that fun?" The children cheered wildly. "And to help you learn, Lance the Latrine Man will demonstrate proper use of the bathroom." Unseen hands pushed me in front of the crowd, and fumbled with my pants zipper. I ran out of the room to escape them, but to no avail. Jimbo and the children chased me for blocks, chanting, chanting. "Drop your pants. Drop your pants. Drop your pants." I desperately searched for mouthwash.
Then I tripped and fell on my face. The sound of bongos grew deafeningly loud. I felt a draft. The crowd went wild and cheered gleefully. Then all was dark.
I suppose that's why I am the way I am. Think about that before you mock me next time.