Forms of Flattery that I would Consider Higher, though Often Creepier, than Imitation.
<0> no-strings-attached, no-holds-barred sexual relations.
<0> donating your facebook status.
<0> a chestpiece tattoo of my face, grinning widely, my eyes delicately shaded to indicate hidden knowledge.
<0> a pet gryphon.
<0> making me the final boss in your video game.
<0> a tribute album containing a twelve-song cycle about each year of my K-12 school life (with interludes and skits covering my summer exploits).
<0> naming your firstborn not after me but after my favorite sexual position, the wheelbarrow. It's a unisex name.
<0> the whisper of my name in the night, furtive, urgent, and tinged with awe.
<0> imitation, but in the form of a rock opera.
<0> murder-suicide.
<0> appending to any reference to my name the phrase "a man of calamitous intent."
<0> telling me that, while tripping, all the gods and demons with whom you talked spoke in my voice, their speech a thunderous growl drawing razors across the mind and flaying back the layers of diseased illusory tissue to expose the glistening coruscant heart of the truth.
<0> a Battlebot that bears my name and uses a worrisomely phallic drill as its primary weapon.
<0> determining, through rigorous detective work, anyone who has ever thought or wished me ill and enacting baroque forms of poetic justice upon them, which I will notice when the anonymous bloodstained letters start to arrive detailing your exploits.
<0> raiment.
<0> a portrait in my likeness, modeled on Goya's The Colossus* or Saturn Devouring His Son. Bacon's Study after Velázquez's Portrait of Pope Innocent X would also be acceptable.
<0> uttering, on your deathbed, the words "you were right all along" (if in my presence) or "he was right all along" (if I am absent). If onlookers ask for clarification, stare misty-eyed towards my portrait on the mantlepiece as death overtakes you.
*I am aware the El Coloso is now suspected not to be an actual Goya painting, but I maintain that the flattery would be undimmed.
<0> donating your facebook status.
<0> a chestpiece tattoo of my face, grinning widely, my eyes delicately shaded to indicate hidden knowledge.
<0> a pet gryphon.
<0> making me the final boss in your video game.
<0> a tribute album containing a twelve-song cycle about each year of my K-12 school life (with interludes and skits covering my summer exploits).
<0> naming your firstborn not after me but after my favorite sexual position, the wheelbarrow. It's a unisex name.
<0> the whisper of my name in the night, furtive, urgent, and tinged with awe.
<0> imitation, but in the form of a rock opera.
<0> murder-suicide.
<0> appending to any reference to my name the phrase "a man of calamitous intent."
<0> telling me that, while tripping, all the gods and demons with whom you talked spoke in my voice, their speech a thunderous growl drawing razors across the mind and flaying back the layers of diseased illusory tissue to expose the glistening coruscant heart of the truth.
<0> a Battlebot that bears my name and uses a worrisomely phallic drill as its primary weapon.
<0> determining, through rigorous detective work, anyone who has ever thought or wished me ill and enacting baroque forms of poetic justice upon them, which I will notice when the anonymous bloodstained letters start to arrive detailing your exploits.
<0> raiment.
<0> a portrait in my likeness, modeled on Goya's The Colossus* or Saturn Devouring His Son. Bacon's Study after Velázquez's Portrait of Pope Innocent X would also be acceptable.
<0> uttering, on your deathbed, the words "you were right all along" (if in my presence) or "he was right all along" (if I am absent). If onlookers ask for clarification, stare misty-eyed towards my portrait on the mantlepiece as death overtakes you.
*I am aware the El Coloso is now suspected not to be an actual Goya painting, but I maintain that the flattery would be undimmed.