I'm a rhinoceros.

I have something of an interesting nickname.  A significant number of my friends refer to me as "Rhino."  Sometimes I'll even refer to myself as a rhinoceros.  I'm not nuts, I promise.  But there is a story behind it.  A story that harks back to the days when the internet was young and new, when Facebook was not yet invading every aspect of our private lives, when AOL was the most popular ISP in the world...  And when internet chat rooms offered nigh-total anonymity.

In the early days of internet chat, many rooms were HTML-based and had no set "login" feature.  One would simply type in whatever chat handle they desired and click Enter.  Voila!  You could select any handle at any time, which was a veritable bonanza to the seemingly endless litany of cranks and weirdos in cyberspace.  (No, I'm not one of them.  I thought I already covered this...  Please stop thinking it.)

Those early days were amazing.  One would encounter super models and billionaires on a daily basis, in almost every room you entered.  I met the likes of Bill Gates, Carmen Elektra, and Michael Jordan on multiple occasions...  Although strangely enough, they wouldn't seem to remember me from meeting to meeting.  How odd.

Naturally, I knew that these people were fake.  Anyone with a brain knew that these people were fake.  Sure, there were quite a few of them...  But, mostly, they would simply blend into the background chat-noise and be forgotten.  I say "mostly," because there were a few amongst them who refused to blend.  A few obnoxious, phony jerk-offs who were so utterly, flamboyantly offensive that they could coach a snarl from the lips of the most stoic chatter.  These elites, when encountered, would clear out entire rooms.  They seemed to seek out chatrooms that lacked moderation or an ignore feature, and once such a room was located they would troll it up, luring people in with their phony online persona.  Some were dudes pretending to be chicks.  Some were nobodies pretending to be celebrities.  Some would pretend to be foreign dignitaries.  Some would pretend to be law enforcement.  And one epic jackass that I encountered apparently had his little heart set on pretending to be everything in the world all at once.

This gentleman was one of the most annoying folks I've ever run into online.  He claimed to be a multimillionaire with the body of a god and the endowment of a porn star.  He had fifteen doctorate degrees, a hundred cars, an IQ in the upper 300's...  And he presented it all in a manner reminiscent of a head-on collision between two florescent-colored semi trucks carrying over-sized loads of live peacocks.  He puked out flamboyant lies with a speed and efficiency that would've been dazzling had it not made me want to bash my head against my desk.  If this dude had been a Transformer, (which he may or may not have also claimed to be- it gets tough to remember his full shtick in all its trollish glory) his name would've been Doucheimus Prime.

Eventually I grew tired of his obnoxious routine so, cribbing from a famous internet chat prankster named Bloodninja, (Google the name if you don't know who I'm talking about - it's hilarious) I typed the words that were to create my future moniker: "Hi...  I'm a rhinoceros."

A few people laughed, but King D-Bag went immediately on the defensive.  He asked what I meant... 

I told him that I was a 2000 pound herbivore who liked to eat hay. 

He tried to ignore me, and started to launch into another imaginary story about his cars/money/girlfriends/etc... 

I countered with a long rant about how tough it is to type when you have big, flat rhino feet.

He told someone that he could bench-press 900 pounds...

I announced that I had solved my typing problem by perching my laptop on a rock in my pen and pressing keys with a chopstick held between my teeth. 

He started telling someone about an imaginary date with a celebrity... 

I told someone else about my latest wallow in the mud. 

He eventually started to get mad, and told me that I was jealous because his life was perfect... 

I told him that he couldn't possibly be that great, because nobody would buy a ticket to sit and watch HIM eat a bale of hay.

We went on like this for a while, and it was tons of fun.  I'd counter every lying, douchey thing he said with a rhinoceros-related comment, and, when he really started to lose his cool, I began speaking only in rhinoceros onomatopoeia...  Which mostly consisted of variations on the word "snort."  Know why that can get annoying?  Because SNORT! SNORTITY SNORT snort-snort SNORT!  ...Gruuuuuuunt SNORT!  Snort-SNORT?  SNOOOOOOORT!!!  You get what I'm saying?

Eventually he gave up and left, and he never came back...  But that's when I discovered the problem.  My rhinoceros persona, it seemed, had stuck.

A day or so later, I was riding in the car with my then-girlfriend when, out of the blue, I turned to her and said, "Hi, I'm a rhinoceros!"  She looked at me like I was crazy, (which I clearly am not) but I carried on, blurting out rhinoceros-related opinions on everything we encountered.  Things like "rhinos don't shop at 'Bed, Bath and Beyond,'" or "rhinos LIKE pie!"  After watching "The Fellowship of the Ring," I announced that the first wizards had clearly been rhinos...  Because their conical hats were originally made to be worn on a horn.  It all went downhill from there.

Eventually some of the folks I knew started calling me "Rhino," and it just sort of stuck.  That was around 10 years ago, and it's lasted to this day.  It's my favorite nickname...  But then again, I'm named "Peter Johnson," so you can probably imagine some of the other things I've been called.

I have to admit: I'm still not sure about this entry.  I mean, this isn't exactly the most exciting topic in the whole world...  But it's late, and certain rhinos needed something to blog about before settling down in their paddock for the night.

(I swear I'm a normal, well-adjusted adult.  Really.)

...SNORT!!!

Technical support for panhandlers.

A while back, I was having lunch at a local mall called Chandler Fashion Square.  It's a nice place to eat, and there's plenty of stuff to do there.  It's fancy and nice, but (mostly) without that snooty vibe that you get at certain malls up in Scottsdale...  But they still have a certain reputation to maintain (there's valet parking and a Nordstrom's, for God's sake) so certain types of behavior are frowned upon.  Keep this in mind.

Anyway, I had polished off my traditional Subway foot-long roast beef sandwich, and was meandering about aimlessly in search of something to do.  I decided to go outside to the courtyard and browse at Atomic Comics, so I walked out the food court exit that's near the aforementioned valet parking.  I had taken perhaps twenty steps out into the blazing Arizona heat when I was hailed by a rather rotund, sweaty fellow who was sitting on the edge of a large concrete flowerpot.  Out of curiosity I stopped, and he immediately launched into a long, stumbling soliloquy about how honest he is and about how asking for money is totally beneath his dignity...

Uh-oh.

His introduction was a minute or two long, and then, without even pausing for breath, he launched into an even longer story.  I'm going to paraphrase here for a reason, and said reason is that this gentleman probably holds the Guinness Book world's record for "Longest Winded Vagrant."  I've heard State of the Union speeches that were shining examples of brevity compared to the rambling mess that this poor guy stumbled through.  The gist of it all was that he had been in the hospital for some sort of crippling emergency medical procedure, had been released earlier that day before he could fully recuperate, and was trying to gather funds so that he could get home to his daughter in Gilbert.  Plausible?  Maybe...  If not for the small, non-medical grade "bandage" (this thing was made out of masking tape, no joke) wrapped around his arm, which he held up as "evidence."  Also, if not for the fact that he had somehow managed to go several miles in the wrong direction to get to the mall.  Also, he was presenting a problem that could literally be solved, in its entirety, for about a dollar with a Valley Metro bus ticket.  Or by simply asking someone for a lift.  Worst of all, when he finished his long story, he didn't even ask for money.  He just kind of sat there and looked expectantly at me.

I stared him down for a moment, pondering my options.  Normally I would have just shook my head politely and walked away, but I actually felt bad for this guy.  Not because of his story, or the masking tape bandage, or his lack of a bus pass...  But because he was literally the worst panhandler I've ever seen.  And I've seen lots of them.

As a small-town kid at Arizona State University, I had to learn several lessons fairly quickly.  Chief amongst them was "if you give a dollar to everyone who asks for one in the street, you'll go broke."  ASU has some truly professional-caliber panhandlers.  They're all quick, sincere, plausible...  Sometimes funny.  I distinctly recall one guy who used to stroll around campus with a cardboard sign that read "I won't lie, it's for beer!"  I wouldn't be surprised if that dude drove home in a Lexus every night and had a healthy IRA stashed away somewhere.  Sometimes, particularly on Mill Avenue on the weekends, there would be a line to hand him money.

In any case, I've been panhandled by the best...  And the long-winded fellow at the Chandler Mall was clearly the worst.  And, as he sat staring awkwardly and expectantly at me, I suddenly realized what I had to do.

"Dude..."  I said, "you're horrible at this!"

He started to protest, but I cut him off.  "Look, I don't mean that as an insult.  It's just a technical observation.  Have you managed to get any money today?  Anything at all?"

His answer was sullen silence.

"That's what I thought.  Here, look around...  First of all, your choice of venue SUCKS.  The Chandler Mall?  For real?  You realize that as soon as someone who works here spots you, they're going to call the police.  And the police won't be friendly.  At all."

He looked about suspiciously as I carried on.  "Worse, nobody here is carrying cash.  I don't carry cash on me, most of these other people," I gestured about, "don't carry cash here either.  This is the mall, not a bar or a sports game.  You can't take a credit card, can you?  Of course not.  You need to sit down and plan, and find a spot where people are likely to have actual money in their pockets."

He looked surprised but receptive, so I pressed on.  "Now let's think about your pitch.  Do you know how long you were talking just now?  It was a good several minutes.  Do you see how many people walked by in that time?  How many people, besides me, you could have made your pitch to if you hadn't been taking so much time with me?  What you're doing, dude, is kind of similar to telemarketing.  It's a numbers game.  Most people are going to tell you to get lost.  A few are going to give you money.  The more total people that you can pitch in that hour, the more receptive people you'll encounter.  And the more receptive people you encounter, the more money you'll make."

"Now let's talk about your prop."  I pointed at his arm.  "No offense, but if that thing came from an actual hospital, I'd suggest that you stop asking for change, and start seeing a malpractice attorney about a multi-million dollar lawsuit.  Dial the Wolf," I said with a small smile, referencing an infamous television ad for a local lawyer.  He smiled back.  Oddly, it made me feel good.  "What you need is something plausible that you can present as evidence of a problem that takes a bit of money to fix.  Something like a small, busted car part or similar.  Something that could happen to anyone.  That'll create empathy."

"I'd give you a couple of dollars just for standing here and letting me blow off steam, but like I said, I don't carry cash."  I shrugged at him.  "If I were you, I'd get down by ASU and hit Mill Avenue.  Look for freshmen.  They're gullible, believe me."

With that we smiled and nodded at each other, and I meandered off to the Comics Shop.  The incident has always stuck with me, because I don't really know how to feel about it.  In a way I did good, because I gave out some advice that probably helped the long-winded panhandler get by.  In a way I did bad, because I gave him advice that wasn't exactly of a virtuous moral quality.  Oh well, just one of those weird experiences that you talk about later because you can't find the right mental "box" to file it in, I guess.

But I have to say...  Those little freshmen at ASU needed someone to help them grow up to be jaded and cantankerous, like me.  I guess there's a silver lining after all.

Get off my lawn...

A little over a year ago, I bought my very first house.  It was brand-new, and as such lacked certain amenities.  I had no blinds, for example, so I put up some temporary (paper) blinds from the Home Depot.  I had no garage door opener, so I parked in the driveway.  I had no landscaping in the back yard, so I learned to enjoy looking at dirt...  You get the idea.  At the time, I didn't give it a second thought.  I rather liked my temporary blinds (Imagine a giant, accordion-folded Post-It note.  Totally badass, right?) and I thought that they looked rather stylish.  Heck, you could barely even tell the difference from outside...  Or so I thought.

WRONG. 

As it turned out, I was putting out the wrong kind of vibes.  Vibes that made certain people think that I wanted certain things...  Even if I wasn't consciously aware of it.  They'd roll by slowly, creeping along and looking my house up and down.  Look at this guy, they'd think to themselves.  The car parked in the open, the dust-bowl out back, the phony blinds in the windows...  We know that he wants it.  Hell, he's ASKING for it.

Naturally, I didn't notice any of this nefarious activity.  I just went blindly about, minding my own business and doing my own thing.  As such, I managed to spend three whole days in my new home before I realized that I was being stalked.  It was early Saturday morning, around 8 or 9 AM.  All was quiet.  I was sleeping, my girlfriend was sleeping, the dog was sleeping, and my cat, Hercules, was silently plotting our deaths...  Suddenly, I was jolted awake by a hideous burst of noise.

Ding-DONG.

Ok, so it was just my doorbell...  But I had never actually heard it ring before, and that thing is ROBUST.

So I lay in my bed for a moment, attempting to get my bearings and apply a bit of logical analysis to the situation.  Everyone who knows me knows that I'm not a morning person.  In fact, that's probably one of the greatest understatements that I've ever types.  I wake up with all the charm and grace of Godzilla with a hangover and full-blown PMS...  And I usually smell like a <content deleted so as not to make readers nauseous and destroy my sex life>.

Charming, eh?

So I'm laying there, wondering who might be at the door, and I find myself giving a crap less and less as I gradually slip back into the wondrous bliss of weekend slumber when all of a sudden...

Ding-DONG.

Oh HELL no.  With the unique determination that one only acquires when they're both barely conscious and ass-kicking furious, I leapt from the bed, stomped into a pair of (dirty) boxers, (from the floor) slung on a (dirty) wife-beater, (also from the floor) stomped to the front door and threw it open.

In front of me stood one suddenly bug-eyed moron, clutching a small pile of pamphlets.  As the door flew open, a small snowstorm of other pamphlets (jammed into the crack of my door by previous morons who had not succeeded in waking me) flew across my porch.  As I stared the man down, my brain began to take in information.  The over-abundance of hair gel.  The beady, shifty little eyes.  The tell-tale reek of polyester and cheap cologne...

SALESMEN.  Good God almighty, I'm under siege by SALESMEN!!!

If looks could kill, mine would have already slain this pernicious little skunk and probably retroactively obliterated his entire line of relatives from the space-time continuum.  Nonetheless, he opened his mouth and began to make his pitch.

"Um...  Good morning, sir," he began, holding out a pamphlet from his pile, I couldn't help but notice that you're in need of-"

"WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!" I queried gently, "DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT F&^KING TIME IT IS?!  GET LOST!!!"  And with those friendly words I bid him adieu by torquing my entire body about and slamming the door in his face.

Don't get me wrong here; I'm an ardent capitalist and I love money as much as the next guy.  I'd never fault someone for trying to make a buck.  However, I'm also extremely territorial and don't appreciate being pestered, so if your method of making a dollar involves invading my domain and annoying me, things are going to get unpleasant.  To this day I still come home to find that people have stuffed crap into the crack of my door, and one of these evenings I swear that my molars are going to explode from grinding my teeth together so hard.

Bottom line: If I want your crap, I'll seek out your crap.  If you have to try to convince me to buy your crap, I'm never going to buy your crap, even if I discover a need for said crap in the future.  And, with God as my witness, if you come to my house and try to force your crap upon me, I'm going to make like Yosimite Sam confronting a varmint.

Or, as Clint put it...