Me: Oh, good evening Mr...Stahlin.
Stahlin: Shut up, I hate you.
Me: May I inquire as to why? I've just barely met you.
Stahlin: I hate the way you face sits on your head. I wish to remove it, and plant it on a canvas somewhere so a starving artist can make good use of it; or eat it.
Me: Glad to hear you support the Arts, but I didn't ask that you sit next to me.
Stahlin: No, perhaps not. How did you get this seat with that face?
Me: I guess even a bad face can have enough money. Do you hate all people because of their faces?
Stahlin: No. Just yours. And my mother's.
Me: I see. Do you like your-
Stahlin: If you continue to speak with me, I must insist on your demise.
Me: I don't believe you like your face either.
I then died.
This was roughly, and dramatically, my circumstances this morning driving back from Hooper. Perhaps not Stahlin, but had Stahlin and Freud made a love child, then him. Sitting next to that guy. That's all.
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