I freak people out.

I like to tell stories. But when I do, I’m too much for people. I have been told this before but this weekend it kinda hit home with me just how true this really is. I mean, I get into talking about stuff and I’ll go crazy, bounce around, and flail my body like an electrocuted Jason Newsted looking praying mantis while yelling about the proprietary jiggle of a fat girl’s gut quake or how if Hillary Clinton suffered a prolapsed uterus we could use it as a burial cave for discarded waffle griddles padded with pickled toe knuckle meat from aborted dwarf wombat babies named Rambo.

It gets pretty dramatic and people usually run scared or try to punch me out of fear. I was told by a sober person that I scared away multiple patrons from entering the bar this past Friday. They were on their way in as I was in the middle of a story about how I had drunken, zombie sex with a vagina that looked like a mix between the Toxic Avenger and an Arby’s Big Montana roast beef sandwich that got splattered with a sledgehammer dipped in bulldozer grease. I’m telling this with full descriptive hand gestures, facial ticks like someone having a seizure, and drunken yelps that warm sleeping bums across town with enough hot air to launch a sports blimp. Some people laugh but most (aka “normal people”) treat me like I am a Cambodian testicle flea who lives off Pol Pot’s bag cheese. To them, I am the worst of the worst.

And it’s kinda awesome.

These snobby yuppie types seem to have no sense of humor whatsoever. Pretentious, New Agey types who won’t stop protesting for the rights of broccoli long enough to laugh at someone getting clubbed in the face with a kickball or the pretty faces who have absolutely zero soul outside of their Roofie or Viagra fueled “O-face”. These folks REALLY hate me. I mean, they do have a sense of humor but it’s either wine and cheese snark or bland, prescribed pop culture humor that oozes defeat to some MTV ad master. Try belching a hockey score to these people and they look at you like you’re leftover sludge underneath the pond scum barrel floating in a pool of slug urine. They sneer, huff and puff, and then they run screaming as your third handful of Cheetos gets smeared across your pasty gut during your fourth sports beer coma of the afternoon. No worries. My ogurt force field usually keeps snotty yuppies and humorless prudes of the boredom army at bay. But on occasion, this invisible ogurt vapor of mine enters into the mental stream of normalcy. This confuses people and they reach a decree that I am too enthusiastic about awesome or pork meat or unexpected, full-contact slobbery that I must be psychotic. But you know, having the entire population of a stuck up city think you’re a walking elbow rash is kinda awesome. So yeah, I know I am too much for people but that’s just how the puddle plops. Now pass me that sauce and turn on some sports. My ogritis is flarin’ up!