Before you take me for a hypersensitive, simpering weenie, let me offer you, the reader, several incidents that are a painfully accurate representation of life with these four words.

I spent some time in francophone Africa working for the United States government. I often heard the following yelled by African citizens as I innocently sidled down bustling streets among a sea of people:

"Bonjour, Monsieur President Beeeel Cleeenton!" "George Boosh, George Booosh!" "Jacques Chirac!" "Farrah Fawcett!"

To clarify, though I may have accrued a small, Manson-esque following in my lifetime, I have never been a leader of a large Western democracy, nor do I qualify for social security benefits. I am also not one of Charlie's original Angels.

I can accept these transgressions of decorum from West Africans, as I was one of few westerners at my post at the time. I have far less patience when it comes to my countrymen and women. Perhaps the worst experience I have had with these four words was when I undertook a brief and highly glamorous stint as a junior high school history teacher. (Think acne and flatulence jokes.) My students bestowed on me the following bon mots:

"He looks just like ..."

"... that nerd on that commercial." "your butt!" "Elizabeth Cady Stanton!" (and so went a long week on the women's suffrage movement) "Frederick Douglas!" (same idea) "Jeffrey Dahlmer!"

I am sad to report that adults have been no more kind. In the past 72 hours alone I have received the following choice bits of wisdom from my peers:

"You look just like ... Dagwood Bumstead, Woodrow Wilson, Olive Oyl, Ethan Frome, Dan Quayle, Suzy Chapstick, and 'that little kid who was really a puppet who killed all those people in that movie.' "

Unfortunately for you, dear reader, my tale does not end here. There is another disadvantage to sporting no distinguishing features. Due to my affliction as a slender, non-threatening, alabaster-skinned male, I am repeatedly accosted by individuals who seek directions. This attention is unwarranted for two reasons:

1. I can barely find my place of work without accidentally getting on a plane to Kazakhstan.

2. Though I appear non-threatening, I like to torture small rodents in my garage.

Worst of all, I can no longer venture within 300-feet of any metro, bus or airport. This greatly inhibits my travel opportunities and often makes me tardy. Employers have proven to be surprisingly unsympathetic to this struggle with adversity.

I have reached the point where I can discern the look of confusion two blocks away. An individual stares blankly at an unwieldy map. Said individual looks hopefully at passers by, seeking out easy prey. I approach cautiously, trying to grimace, to appear menacing. I vigorously attempt to emit ghastly body odors. Nothing works.

The enemy brandishes his weapons skillfully: devious knee-high tube socks, paisley polo shirt, and abrasively colorful "Jams" shorts, not sold since the mid-1980's, but somehow popular among the throngs of Midwestern visitors to major metropolitan areas. "Excuse me, can you tell me how to get to Broadway Street?" he asks, standing under a street sign that, of course, reads "86th and Broadway." An "I'm Keeping My Promise" button pinned to his lapel flops around menacingly in the wind.

I pause, hesitant, wanting to be rude, wanting to pull the bloody carcass of a field mouse out of my backpack. Instead, I submit. "Sure, it's right here, sir." For some reason unbeknownst to me, I give him perfect directions.

And I am far too friendly. "Thank you," he says, "I appreciate your help." I smile graciously, delighted to serve my fellow man. Perhaps this time will be different, I think. And then he strikes. "Say, I'm sure you get this all the time, but are you one of the Osmonds?"