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Hey Asian lady walking with your granddaughter, please stop looking back at me every few seconds with a frightened glance. Contrary to what you may have gathered from reading this column, I have no interest in stealing your grandchild and eating her. I’m a boring white guy from the suburbs. There is no logical reason to be afraid of me. Did someone tattoo a swastika on my face while I was asleep?

No, seriously. Did they? Because it’s happened before.

I’m from Minnesota, for Christ’s sake. The last time someone from Minnesota committed a heinous crime was . . . well, it was last week when some guy shot up a bunch of people in his workplace, but he shot HIMSELF afterwards, which was very polite and Minnesotan of him. Still, I blame Illinois for the whole thing. As most Minnesotans will tell you, people from Chicago are to blame for nearly every crime or wrongdoing in our state. Riff-raff, that’s what they are. Too much riff-raff passing over our borders.

I’m not riff-raff. I’m just some extra white Caucasian guy walking to work. I’m employed at an apparel company that prints t-shirts with clever sayings on them. There is literally nothing in the universe more white than that, except maybe riding a tractor while listening to Creed on an iPod you bought for half price.

I’m harmless. Also, I’m kind of pathetic. You should be pointing and laughing at me with your granddaughter, not cowering in fear. Allow me to list a series of things that are more intimidating than me: The Lucky Charms leprechaun, bags of Funyuns, photographs of Ira Glass, 16-year-old Olympic gymnasts who cry when they lose, Ryan Seacrest, unreasonably long bananas that look like penises, Honey Boo Boo, the weird spiky dildo character from Yo Gabba Gabba, plain toasted bread, a light breeze on a sunny day.

I’m not sure why you’re so terrified of me. I weigh 150 pounds. It’s doubtful I could even lift your granddaughter, let alone carry her all the way down the street to my apartment without stopping to rest several times. And even if I did, it would likely take months to find a buyer for her on Craigslist at the right price. So I’d have to feed your granddaughter and entertain her and clean up after her. To be honest, enslaving your grandchildren Thomas Jefferson style is just not worth the effort. It would be more of a bragging rights thing, but I’m Minnesotan, so I wasn’t raised to brag.

I also wasn’t raised to kidnap children, but bragging is really the larger faux pas for my people.

Would you please stop grabbing your granddaughter’s hand and coaxing her to walk in front of you? I could understand your fear of me if I were tattooed, pierced, reeking of booze or had a heroin needle absent-mindedly sticking out of my arm, but that’s what I do on THURSDAYS. Today is WEDNESDAY. I could understand your hatred of me if I were eating an apple. Is there anything worse than the sound of someone eating an apple? That gross, wet crunching noise with that creepy sucking sound some people make, and the constant smacking of the lips? Oh lord, that awful smacking sound. Christ almighty. I’d kill a motherfucker for eating an apple in front of me. I’d stab her until she was dead.

I’m sorry, where was I? Ah yes, your crippling fear of me. It’s unfounded. I’m actually a really nice guy. For instance, I’ve thought about giving to charity. I thought about it for a good ten minutes at least, and I made a vow to someday think about it again. I don’t have a definite date or anything, but it’ll happen. Right now all my money’s tied up in internet pornography, but I’ve thought about charity. I guess you could say I’m a bit of a hero.

So how does it feel?, indirectly insulting a national hero? Shaming a great handsome man of our nation? HOW DARE YOU. Wait, why are you crying? Is it because I’m suddenly shouting at you after having this lengthy pretend conversation with myself? This conversation that doesn’t actually exist, in which I made up all of your responses for you? Is that why?

Oh. Well I guess that IS kind of weird of me. Well that makes sense then. My apologies. I’ll just leave.

Hey, one more thing. If I wanted to buy some of that weird cartoon porn from your country with the tentacle monsters that . . . wait, what are you doing? Why are you crawling under that parked car? Do I