On board, the man stuffed his boxes overhead and then sat down next to me. As the bus began its journey into night, he said, "Do you like my pants? My name is Hugh Clayton, but I'm sometimes known as 'Chickenman'."

The nickname should've been a big clue as to what would follow, but I was still young and oh-so naive.

As the bus drove on, 'Chickenman' explained his mission. He had one thousand copies of a many-paged manifesto, which he was taking to Washington DC to give to as many Republican congressional members as he could.

He didn't plan to give any to the Democrats, calling them, "a collection of liberal degenerates, militant homosexuals, slobs, bums, traitors and worthless bureaucrats." He added, "They should all be executed if you ask me."

"Aren't you being a little rough?" I asked.

"No, not at all," he exclaimed, "Give them even one inch and they'll run right over you. See, you're young but I've been around. I'm 52 years old. I was once a psychologist. I graduated from Harvard."

As the road went on, 'Chickenman' railed against smokers, social drinkers, overeaters, those who watch "low grade TV" and people who don't wash often enough.

He spoke of the younger generation who, in his experience, was a collection of "dense blockheads" and "base idiots". People with no brains who, in his words, "have no business throwing their half-witted anomalies in society's face" by reproducing.

After over an hour of his monologue, Clayton got uncharacteristically quiet for a few minutes.

He then leaned over and whispered, in an almost conspiratorial tone, "Want me to feel your cock?"

"No," I replied, "I'm a bit tired from traveling and think I'd rather try to sleep a bit."

Yeah, like I'd be caught sleeping on the bus at that point.

Becoming a bit flustered, he stammered something about how he thought that was a good idea himself, so 'Chickenman' quickly got up and moved down the aisle, finally reseating himself some seven rows back.

Later, as the bus pulled into the next city, I felt a hand on my shoulder.

I looked up to see 'Chickenman' standing there.

He thrust a thick, red book at me.

"I want you to have this book," he said. As I took it in my hand, he quickly turned around and went back to his seat.

I peered more closely at the worn book he had given me.

It was, evidently, his personal a copy of Hitler's "Mein Kampf".

Fully annotated and highlighted throughout by 'Chickenman' himself, with plenty of hand written notes in the page margins.

That was the last I heard from Hugh "Chickenman" Clayton. Gone, but not forgotten, as I don my tin-foil hat and remember him on this, the most special of days, "Kooks' Day" - June 26th.

So, I hope you'll join me and celebrate by getting a little crazy!