If you were to look up the word asshole in the dictionary, you would undoubtedly find not only my name but also a short paragraph about me. If you were to consult an encyclopedia entry on the term, you’d discover a wealth of information about rectums, anuses, and the like—sure; but keep reading and you’ll essentially be looking at my portfolio, replete with photos, memorabilia, and an extensive biography. Let’s say that you wanted to watch a documentary about the archetypal asshole in his natural habitat, or maybe even a dramatic film about a ragtag group of assholes on an audacious, asinine assignment; well, in either case you’d inevitably see me strutting across the screen like a proud peacock. I guess what I’m trying to say, in a rather circuitous manner, is that, well, I’m an asshole. In fact, I descend from a venerable tradition of assholes, going back to my great-great grandfather Jakob, whose valorous service in the Franco-Prussian War did not seem to change people’s assessment of him. Whenever townsfolk saw him walking down the street it wouldn’t be long before some audacious simpleton would challenge him: “Du Arschloch!” He resisted the name-calling and flipped his rude neighbors the bird, but to no avail. The appellation stuck and I carry on the tradition.