You’re kidding. Surely you must be joking. You mean to tell me that an upstanding citizen such as myself is prohibited from wearing his favorite black-and-white striped shirt, chic flat cap, and tasteful domino mask into this fine art museum? What’s next, requiring me to carry a regular wallet instead of my trusty burlap sack with a dollar sign on it?

When I first entered this establishment, I assumed—foolishly, I now see—that all those stares and whispers were ones of admiration.

“Take a gander at that fellow,” I imagined everyone saying. “What a well-dressed chap he is. We simply must offer him free admission!”

Sure, to the untrained eye, my outfit might look as though I were some common miscreant or sticky-fingered scamp. However, any person of culture would see my garb for what it really is: not a thief’s uniform, but an homage to 19th century French haute couture. Duh!

My sack, I’ll have you know, is equally as elegant. For it is not some louse-ridden pillowcase brought along for a smash-and-grab getaway, but a European reticule-style handbag. And the dollar sign insignia? Why, a symbol of my wealth, of course! Tell me, what difference is there between a lady’s Birkin bag and my humble yet refined burlap? They both signify an access to mountains of cash, after all. The only thing that separates the two is how easily one is carried over the shoulder while hastily tiptoeing down a darkened alley.

Not like I would need it for that. Obviously.

I could have excused the ogling as little more than the helpless awe of common unfortunates. Where I have to draw the line though, is with what happened at the customer service booth.

“Pardon me,” I inquired. “Could you point me in the direction of the museum’s most priceless artifact?”

“What I mean,” I explained, “is that I want to know what your most expensive item is. And where can I find it? Surely you must have some Spanish gold lying around somewhere, or maybe a rare Picasso. Anything invaluable will do. But I must warn you, I’m really not one for crowds. Is there perchance an exhibit hidden away from everyone? One without any guards, possibly?”

Okay, now just hear me out on this one.

I understand that, to some, a guy dressed like an old-timey burglar talking about “priceless artifacts” and “no guards” might seem suspicious, but let’s use our heads here.

Why, I ask you, would anyone come to a place like this if not to see the best stuff? No one is paying the price of admission to look at some ancient pot. We want Starry Night, dammit!

As for wanting to be alone in the room, it’s not for stealing purposes. Rather, security personnel’s penchant for condescension prevents me from truly appreciating the depth and beauty of what’s before me.

It’s always “Stand behind the line” or “Don’t touch that.” Never, “Say, you look like you’ve got a brain and a half in that head of yours. What message would you say the artist is conveying about the nuances of Elizabethan kink culture in this still life? Our in-house experts have been scratching their heads over it for ages, but come up stumped every time. I bet you could offer some much-needed insight!”

At least, not in my experience with them, anyways.

You see, this whole misunderstanding could have been avoided by simply recognizing my fashionable, intellectually adventurous disposition as innocent in every way and not criminal whatsoever. Which it is.

So how about you hold off on calling the police to remove me from the premises, and we go our separate ways.

Full disclosure, I did bring a Tommy gun in here with me, and I’d hate for this to get messy.