Your old friend Behr who grew up in post-war Germany (before reunification which was a heck of a time let me tell you even though I was in Baltimore when it happened) has had a problem that has existed since he was boy size. Ever since I can remember, dating back to when I lived with my mother (now dead) in a house adjacent to the Berlin Wall and patrolled it with a very large caliber weapon so that the soldiers could have prostitutes, there have been men. I don't mean regular everyday "men." I mean the kind of men who are up to no damn good, sort of like Democrats but with a mean streak.
During one of my important Tea Party meetings I listened to a man talk about having the same kind of troubles I'd been having since I was boy size. He had been followed around by people who stared at him and watched everything he did and sometimes they would make winky eyes at him. After hearing this I made an "ehem" statement in my mind (although there is a chance the sound was audible but only to those seated in my immediate vicinity) because I'd been having the same troubles myself ever since the days when I helped brave soldiers get prostitute time when they should have been guarding the Berlin Wall.
At that time, meaning during the time when I lived in post-war Germany and was boy size, I first noticed diabolical men staring at me with hate in their small hearts. These original men (who I do not think are the exact same men who still watch me every day) would move from window to window, from house to house, from shop front to shop front, from bush to bus as they watched me. One would have a small notepad on which he would jot down observations (I believe this is the case although I never saw the notebooks in question due to the diabolical nature of the diabolical men who wrote in them while looking at me). At the time I thought they were simple, ordinary perverts because I was boy size and naive and not accustomed to the ways of the world. What I later came to think about (but not yet realize) was that since my absentee father was a triple agent working for the United States of America, the Soviet Union and a commercial fishing venture there was reasonable cause for me to suspect these men were part of the vast underpinning of spies who were attempting to track my slippery father by skulking about and staring at his son, your friend Berhardt Goats (who was at that time not yet your friend but is your friend now).
For many years I learned to disregard these men and their ways, but even after my mother came to America with her young son Behr (your friend Berhardt Goats is known to friends as Behr so since you are a friend you can call me that) the spying on Behr did not stop. Mother was spied on as well, but since she was never easy on the eyes they did less spying on her than they did on Behr who has a bald head and glasses and was adorable when he was young. I would see them in the parks, in office buildings, following me around in cars when I was selling vacuum cleaners door to door and even at the motor vehicles administration when I was registering my Pontiac. I knew there was something going on, and something sinister in purpose behind the goings on that were going on, but I had never really jumped out of my skin far enough to really investigate on a one to one level with these spies of one kind or another.
After the important Tea Party meeting and processed meat exchange that followed the meeting, I went to meet up with my friends Chopper and The Slow Kid, who are no longer welcome at important Tea Party Meetings because of their habit of breaking wind loudly and with foul stench and then laughing hysterically even when important speakers are speaking at important Tea Party meetings. I met up with them in order to discuss a plan of action for dealing with these men who stare at Berhardt Goats. I had decided to take action and to finally confront these men and get to the bottom of their sinister purpose.
One of the things that happens when you lie around naked in a public swimming facility is that the police arrive and take you out of the pool and put you into their squad car. Another thing that happens is that you have epiphanies. Sometimes you have one epiphany after another, and while Chopper, The Slow Kid and your friend Behr were in the pool we realized the best way to confront these people who stare at Behr is to walk right up to them and have a confrontation with no more than six inches between our faces so as not to give them any opportunity to turn tail and run. And that was what we decided to do.
We stopped at Faidley's and got some crab cakes to go and then went down to a local bar and ordered some domestic beers made in America because we are true patriots, meaning Chopper, The Slow Kid and myself (Behr). We knew that a bar was a perfect place for the spies to watch Behr and associates (Chopper and The Slow Kid) because it contains a lot of people who don't necessarily know each other and people get drunk in bars and stop paying attention to the fact that people are watching them. Sometimes people can get so drunk that you can sit on a bar stool next to them and stare at them and they don't even notice. I've seen this in action before.
We waited for about ten minutes, drinking a couple beers each (although The Slow Kid drank six Miller High Life drafts in the first five minutes then slowed down and sipped the next one over the course of about twenty minutes - this is just his method of drinking). After those first tense ten minutes the men came in, wearing sunglasses and baseball hats and suits. You can tell when someone is a spy because spies always wear suits and baseball hats together because they are professionals who spent time out in the sun and therefore need suits and something with a visor and a baseball hat has a visor by definition.
The leader of the men who stare at Berhardt Goats was wearing a dark blue suit and a Baltimore Ravens baseball cap, which makes me mad because I do not accept the Baltimore Ravens as the legitimate sports team of old Baltimore. The Baltimore Colts belong to this city and should be returned instead of being forced to play in some hick town in Iowa. It makes me sick.
I found the gumption to approach this leader with his questionable sports loyalties and got right up in his face. Chopper was there to back me up but The Slow Kid had gone to the rest room to urinate on account of drinking six beers in five minutes and having a sick little liver that is just hanging on by a thread. I told him I knew that I had been followed and my movements documented for over forty years and I was sick of it. I demanded answers. He tried to tell me he worked for a radio station in town, but I knew that was a cover story. I could smell the fraud coming out of the pores of his body and I called him to the mat and so did Chopper.
Answers were not immediately forthcoming, so drastic measures were undertaken. Chopper smashed a beer mug against the head of the man to the leader's right, causing the bartender to come out from behind the bar with a baseball bat that had been signed by Cal Ripkin, Jr.. He told us we couldn't eat our Faidley's crab cakes in his bar and that we had to leave. We told him we had business to settle with the men who stare at Berhardt Goats but he would have none of it. He took a practice swing at Chopper's head and we made an egress.
The men who had been staring at me followed us out of the bar, as men who stare at you often will, and we met them in the alley outside the bar, which was the same alley in which I had some time ago enjoyed an encounter with a water buffalo. There were four of them and still only two of us as The Slow Kid was apparently still urinating in the men's room in the bar. They were annoyed with the fact that Chopper had smashed a beer mug into one of their heads, although he apparently had a steely head because he wasn't bleeding and wasn't unconscious. The leader continued with his bullshit story about them being from the promotions department of a local radio station that was up to no good in the bar, basically getting drunk instead of working for a living which really riles up my feathers let me tell you. I demanded to know who they really worked for and who was paying the spy bill for these decades of spying on humble old friend Behr (your friend, not a friend to the staring men). They started telling me that I needed to seek counseling, and I quickly retorted that psychology is a big lie and that no one has mental problems because they are all in the mind. I left him speechless and it was at that point that The Slow Kid finally came back into the picture (having finished his urination and hopefully for once washing his hands).
They were wimpy types so the three of us were able to subdue the four spy men and drag them into Chopper's basement, which is where questions are answered through the technique of waterboarding. We waterboarded each of them in turn until we finally got the answers we were looking for. They had been staring at us, working for a rogue spy agency broken off from the KGB after the fall of the Soviet Union, and they were trying to track down and kill my father. I told them these facts repeatedly as Chopper waterboarded them until they admitted these facts were the real facts and we stopped waterboarding them due to the truthful admissions they had made.
The next step was to find out who their handler was, as a handler is a person who handles people who stare at other people in order to get information that is not available on the surface or through just glancing at a person. The one who admitted the truth gave up a telephone number and once we had that, we let the spies go as they were of no further use to us.
We called the telephone number and it had been disconnected. Apparently they had tipped off their handler and we had released them too soon, as spies will always crawl back to the nest after being waterboarded. Something clicked though, because no one has stared at Berhardt Goats since that day. I say "Case Closed." And good riddance.