If you call me Spatch, you're you.
If you call me Slappy, you remember my days as child actor in the Lil' Gang series, playing second banana to Humphrey and Lucie.
If you call me Hustlin' Lou, you're either my third-base coach or a very unoriginal sportswriter.
If you call me Chief, you're the spunky cub reporter/photographer who gets on my nerves by calling me Chief.
If you call me Ambassador, you're a countess and no doubt fondly remember our rum-soaked nights on the veranda where we danced the humdringo and drank toasts, arms entwined, to each other's jewelry.
If you call me El Jefe, you were in my band of revolucionarios as we hid in the hills and plotted to do away with ese alcalde desdeñado.
If you call me Max Harris, you've just breezed into my office like a fever dream you don't wanna wake up from, gams scissoring across the linoleum with intent, eyes red with restrained tears and resigned desperation. Lemme guess, dollface -- the bum's cheating on you and you want my help?
If you call me Bailey, you're my normal next-door suburban neighbor whom I see about once a week when you find yourself in a jam and need some homespun advice on how to work things out. For reasons neither of us can seem to explain, I am always wearing a different silly hat.
If you call me Carlsbad, you're gonna need my electronics expertise to shut down the power in the camp for two minutes and two minutes only to create a diversion while Jinx and New Hampshire sneak through the crawlspace to Herr Kommandant's private quarters and make copies of the master key.
If you call me Miss Jackson, then you're nasty.
Phew! I'm glad that's all cleared up.