From the bowels of Kurdistan came "the Dictatortots". Croaking a tongue unknown to civilized lands, they stirred fires deep within the loin of our decadent and despised republic. Twisting words and melody against all who came, they rendered art from depravity and spectacle. The cry was a warsong on tyranny, on meaning, on care. They gave not one shit, brooked not one insult. They drank as lords and whored likewise. They stood exemplar, serene as their schtickkreigge plowed forth, leaving butts, bodies and bartabs. Who are they? Perhaps even they know not. Perhaps charade has becomes life; masque, face; game, RL. Perhaps. Why are they? Rousted from sloth by gilt promises of fame and fortune; their drive has mired in a plateau of free drink. Yet... Fat on success, still they rage. What vile fountain vomits this? What evil dyne powers such stupidity, such offensive malevolence? What sickly pheremone draws the masses forth to flare out against this stuttering, yet blazing torch? Examination yields no understanding. It may, however, yield enlightenment.