Forgetting the time spent gazing at your beatific membrane and ever exuding the bootstrap cologne of your forefathers, you liken the noxious gaze of your enemies to the absence of noses on their faces. What don’t they smell, you said that time at band camp when, The Chief, strung up and centered in the spherical auditorium in a mauve wingsuit, messaged the entire young cadet force by spitting HCl acid emoticons on a 30’ x 30’ chocolate table with a “Hate the Game” tee over his double-breasted airfoils. The morning after they removed his chrome throat, they found Assyrian cuneiform laser etched on his epiglottis detailing the rise in popularity of ancient epic tales recast as Hollywood slo-mo action porn.