Either I'm Crazy... Or You're Dumb As A Box Of Rocks. Guess Which?

So, ok, the other night, my son found a new form of entertainment: try to cripple Daddy with a mine field.

See, he has these little, hard plastic cars - you know, the ones from that Pixar movie - that he loves to play with. But the thing is, he's 15 months old; he's easily bored, and tends to go all "Oooo, shiny," and drop whatever he's holding to go after the new shiny thing.

So, at about 3 AM on Monday, nature calls, and Daddy staggers out and across the living room to the bathroom. About halfway across, *crunch* Daddy's left foot lands squarely on one of those cars. Daddy swears very quietly under his breath, picks up the misplaced toy, and places it back in the crib next to the adorable motionless lump of baby boy, and limps on his merry way.

Seven-thirty rolls around, and Daddy gets up for a return engagement. Unbeknownst to Daddy, the boy has already hatched the next phase in his master plan, and halfway across the living room, *crunch* Daddy's left foot comes down squarely on another one of those hard plastic cars. Daddy really, really tried to keep the swearing under his breath, but fails, waking the boy, who laughs openly at Daddy's comical limping and gesticulating. The car is returned to the toy box.

Morning routine complete, freshly shaved and showered, Daddy is coming back upstairs to get ready for work, when without warning, *crunch* Daddy's left foot comes down squarely on another of those retarded fucking little cars.

Daddy's swearing didn't even START under his breath the third time.

"How many of these fucking things does he HAVE, anyway?"

Right.

So, I started Monday with a horribly bruised foot. Now, some of you may be able to sympathize with my situation; my job entails ten hours of standing on unrelieved concrete. This is not exactly kind to feet anyway. So, all week, I kept my weight on my other foot as much as possible, which of course resulted in the other foot getting bruised up as well.

What this means is that for the last two days, instead of a confident stride, or even a Texas-style amble, I've been walking in this hitched, no-doubt-awful-looking double limp remarkably reminiscent of zombie movies. I know it is, because one of my co-workers informed me that if I put my arms up and growled a lot, I could get a part in the next Romero flick.

So, because I am a clown, I've been doing exactly that; growling, zombie walk, "Brrrraaaaaaaainnnnnssssssss" and all that; I mean, this sucks, but I'm stuck with it; why not play it for a laugh?

I didn't count on people suffering from TLOH Syndrome. (Pronounced Tee-Low.) That being, Total Lack Of Humor.

Which brings me to Thursday!

I was coming back out onto the floor from a break, when a woman from a different line runs into me.

"Rarrrrrr! Brainnnnssss!"

She jumped nearly a foot in the air, and said, "Oh, my GOD, what was THAT?"

"A zombie growl."

"Well whatever for?!"

"Because this week, I'm a zombie."

She gave me a look of total incomprehension mixed with WTF, and I decided to have mercy on her.

"Look, the plant is eating my brain, heart, and soul; it's only fair if I get to eat everyone else's brains, right? So, RARRRR! BRAINNNNNNSSSS!!"

She started backing away from me like I just grew fangs and horns right in front of her.

And I came to the sudden realization that this poor woman really believed I was serious. She had not a CLUE that it might be a joke.

I mean, if something is a joke and you don't get the punchline, you can usually at least tell that it was intended as humor, right?

So, there we are; either I'm batshit crazy, or she's as dumb as a box of rocks. I know which one I lean towards, but hey, it's the internet, so I will go out on a limb and put up a poll.