In the past, you are a cocaine-laced nougat lozenge iridescently cascading down the mouth of a cold war dictator’s single-toothed intern, itself having been beaten by the authorities so frequently and with such relish that this host has absorbed several of your most cherished personality traits, including, but not limited to, that array of qualities distinguishing you from your half-twin Moloch, a hot caramel liquid ingested piping hot at “Punishing Delicacies”, a chic steroid babe hangout next door to “Crips ‘n Dales”, a generally officious locale where heavyset male dancers vie with wiry street muscle.