He's the type of guy who sticks his dick in a can of Crisco, then lets his dog lick it off. "Date night," he calls it.

He lives, gasp, in a trailer and always walks around shirtless, with his pants half-falling off, as if he’s perpetually trapped in an episode of “Cops”.

“You used to have to go to the circus to see a huge fat lady covered in tattoos,” he said to me the other day. “Now you just have to go to Walmart.”

They say God doesn’t have a sense of humor, but I strongly disagree. Take, for example, the giraffe—and this guy, who, for whatever divine reason, keeps popping up in my life.

I see him at the store, buying Crisco and a 30-pack of Keystone Light. I see him at the post office, digging through the trash for Victoria Secret catalogs. I see him trucking down the sidewalk on his unicycle. Lo, there and here he is!

What the hell?

Like a lot of people unable to explain something, I’ve blamed the whole thing on God—and His twisted sense of humor, the sense of humor that has the male seahorse giving birth to baby seahorses, that has the crab walking sideways, that created the prop comic Carrot Top, and, of course, THIS guy.

If I see him one more time this week, and certainly if he ever speaks to me again, I’m renting a U-Haul and moving to Alaska because deep down inside I really want to anyway.

Hell, maybe I’ll go looking for him.