To the regrettably talented hooligan-sculptor who practiced his craft on my image last night:
There are few things more important to a man than his bust. I can think of no more comforting image than one’s own, and when the horrors of rampant tooth decay or an unyielding zit make looking in a mirror an exercise in vanquishing vanity, the carved representation of oneself provides an untarnished ideal—something to strive for. That is why my favorite bust adorns the front entrance of my luxury condominium complex: so that after a trying day, when people were barely intimidated by my psychotic gaze and I just couldn’t seem to find the right seedless grape, I may be reminded of the power and glory that is Caesar. But no, you couldn’t let an old tyrant have that simple pleasure, could you.
BEFORE ………………………. AFTER
Just so you know, I’m holding on to the mangled thing; it should break your jaw nicely when I attempt to shove it down your throat.
Not kidding,
Caligula
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