Unless you’re Brad Pitt or that dude from Twilight (not that one, the other one) odds are you’re just going to creep everyone out, especially when you’re sporting a pastel polo and a creepy grin — common attributes of a playground pedophile.

Last night, I went out for some late-night fro-yo (that’s cool-kid speak for frozen yogurt) and made it just before the place closed. There were a few stoned kids sucking on sample cups inside, and a couple stragglers scraping the last bits from their containers, wishing they hadn’t eaten so fast.

This place is self-serve (pay by the ounce) so I packed my container as full as physics would allow and made my way outside to sit among the others, who eyed me and my fresh stash with envy.

“Heeeey,” I heard.

I turned to my left to see an older man wearing glasses, a comb-over and Dockers hemmed an inch too high who made a without-a-doubt choreographed “Why don’t you join me” motion with his hand, followed by a head nod and a toothy smile.

His table was spotless, and there was no evidence of frozen yogurt consumption. I swear I smelled chloroform.

The sidewalk could have been crawling with cockroaches and his chair laden with million-dollar bills, and I still would’ve chosen to eat my frozen treat sitting on the ground.

Sure, maybe he was a perfectly friendly guy with acceptable intentions, but if it looks like a duck, smells like a duck, and sounds like a duck — it’s probably a rapist. That’s an adage to live by.

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