No matter how hard I try, I can't summon terror, rage, or even disgust when I behold your dopey, dull, doltish demeanor. The most I can muster is pity. And cringe. Lots and lots of cringe.

Fawning over Henry Kissinger, for example. Like a tongue-tied seventh-grader crushing on a rock star backstage, you tumble over yer verds, a goofy smile frozen on your flushed face as you bat your eyelashes at your dreamy guru.