Your butt is absolutely stunning in that shade of lipstick.

Good old Eddie Haskell. Lord bless his smarmy, disingenuous heart.

What words come to mind when you think of Eddie or others of similar ilk?

Kiss-ass? Suck-up? Bootlicker? Ego-stroking, backstabbing, brown-nosing weasel?

Or maybe just a guy who knows how to play the game.

Ed McMahon's nostrils seemed to consistently caress Johnny Carson's lower large intestine.

If Sean Hannity's proboscis stuck any further up Sarah Palin's tuckus, she could perform a rhinoplasty on the guy simply by consuming too many Grape Nuts.

And we're all quite aware that had Karl Rove not illegally emmigrated his entire cranium up Bush's Rio Grande, our simian commander-in-chief would never have bought into the whole "Jesus decided I should be the decider" shtick.

So why do some hop onto the Brown Nose Express while the rest of us witness its eventual derailing and explosion on the floor of Shame Canyon?

I'm not sure why, but I know it begins early.

Remember back in elementary school, when everyone plopped a Christmas gift down on the teacher's desk on the last day before winter break? And that one kid, who raised his hand all the time, recklessly scattered the small eight packs of See's Nuts and Chews to clear a space for a scale model of the teacher's house, constructed from Almond Roca, Red Vines and Magic Shell?

"Merry Christmas, Miss Prudenta," he boasted. "My mom stayed up all night making this but it was my idea. Good thing for Google Maps."

The south end smoochers seem to grow more brazen as they age. My college Accounting 451 class contained approximately twenty-three percent strokers, all seated in the front row and all vying for the professor's attention and approval. Occasionally, our instructor liked to launch into a bit of accounting humor.

"So I said to my colleague, if you capitalize that fixed asset, any amortization could lead to an extraordinary loss. Talk about a change in working capital!"

I remember sitting in the back row, puzzling over his comment, desperately mining it for any humorous content. I found none. The front line of students erupted in doubled-over throes of laughter, a couple of the more rabid bottom nuzzlers actually dabbing their tears.

Apparently, my brain's centers for pity and extreme loathing are next door to each other.

I am now employed by an American corporation, and I'd like to remain employed by this American corporation, so I shan't be delving into the amount of brown nosing which occurs in this environment. It is, however, substantial, and those who excel at it usually fare quite well in this palace of unclothed emperors.

So happy, so satisfied I am, that my DNA has withstood the temptation to prevaricate the facts, to pander for nothing but personal gain.

And I'm totally serious; those pants didn't make my wife's butt look fat.