Sometimes I am beset by strange and irrational fears. For example, I am currently terrified of getting my hair cut.

Here's why.

I generally go in for a trim every two or three months, and during the interim my hair fuzzes out like a white man's afro. Well, except that it isn't curly. Anyway, the point is that my hair gets really thick and fluffy, but, when I make it to the barber shop, I get that shit shaved down to a crew cut, stubble on the sides and slightly longer stubble on top.

Now, to achieve this effect, the woman doing the cutting (and it's always a woman, because that's just the kind of crotch I want hovering in my face for 15 minutes) has to use a trimmer on one setting on the sides and a slightly higher setting on top. This leads to a slight gap of time between settings, during which my hair looks like a fat, fuzzy pancake on top of my head.

Here's where the fear comes in.

What if something were to happen to interrupt the hair cut at this stage in the process, forcing me to go out in public looking like Karl Childers dumber brother?

Worse still, what if it was something dramatic, such as a robbery turned hostage situation at the massage parlor next door to my haircut place in the strip mall? Something that would draw the attention of the media.

The media, which means cameras. Television cameras.

So, after about 30 minutes of waiting for Hector and Tyrone to release their hostages or order pizza, the TV vultures would begin to get bored, and they would start looking around for what they call "color." And they would see me, too shocked and hypnotized by the drama to get in my car and drive home, standing there gawping with fat, round mohawk.

I would draw the eye.

So, they would interview me.

"Sir, sir, could you please tell us what you saw? What were you doing at the time the drama began?"

"Uh, well, you know, I was in the shop there, and we heard shouting, and then everything just went crazy."

"So, you were in the middle of getting your hair cut, and suddenly you were forced to evacuate the premises, and that's why you look like this?"

"That's about right, yeah."

Of course, the explanation about the hair cut would be trimmed by the time my segment reached the evening news, and all the world would see would be my retarded looking ass saying "Uh, well, you know ..." and you know the rest.

Then, because Hector and Tyrone chose to blast their hostages and die in a hail of police bullets because they couldn't agree on whether to leave the pepperoni off the pizza, the news report would be picked up by CNN and Fox and BBC and what not, and all around the world people will see me and forget all about the mass homicide. The video would become all about "Retard Haircut Guy."

Eventually, somebody would cut my section out and begin posting it on You Tube and Ebaum's World, where the comments will range from "Gay" and "LOL" to "Jesus, that goofy cunt looks like a fucking wigger emo! I hope the barber cuts his dick off next time so he won't reproduce."

And I, of course, will read all this. And everybody I know will read all this.

My wife will leave me, taking my baby girl with her back to Japan. I'll start drinking and come to work drunk, where I'll punch my boss and get fired. I'll lose my house and have to move back in with my parents while I attend AA meetings, which won't work.

Then, when I'm driving home from a meeting, I'll be stopped by the cops because by this point, due to a phobia of hair parlors, I would look like a savage hippy with some pot they can "confiscate."

And I'll break down. I'll just flip out and start screaming at the cops until they drag me out of the car, hose me down with pepper spray and kick me into unconsciousness. They'll do all this, forgetting that the dash cam is on and pointed right at them.

And that video will end up on You Tube and Ebaum's World. And the whole vicious cycle will start all. Over. Again!