If I walk into the dugout at the men's softball game, the guys would high five me and call me "Dude" and say things like, "You da man," and then make me stay after the game and pick up all the bases and bats.
To a young woman snapping bubble gum and painting her fingernails, I'd be the one she asks for the time, and when I tell her, she'd look all hurried and late for something and she'd say, "Hon, be a kitten and grab a cab for me, will ya."
When I'm on the city bus and a group of hoodlums with leather coats and cans of spray paint hop on and start harassing everyone in sight, I'm the one under the seat.
I'm the green one when (a) someone yanks a big wad of cash out of the glove box of their Maserati while looking for change at the toll booth, or (b) when some college-aged waiter serves me bongwater at Steak N Shake.
Perhaps I'm more of an absence in my presence, and that's why I'm a billygoat laying in fresh poop and pee on a carnival train en route to the county fair petting zoo. Watch for my new movie: Like Urine for Billygoats.