Since Nobody Reads This...

I hate Lebron. Look at his face. You want to crown this asshat the NBA champion? I have to admit, if it comes down to it, I'm rooting for old man Kobe and the...puke...Lakers if they play the Heat. I cannot live in a world where this man succeeds. I hope he breaks both knees off like the T-1000 in Terminator 2. Anybody got a truck of liquid nitrogen?

Summer...

Will summer fix everything? Nope. But it will provide a nicer backdrop for which to be frustrated.

Indie Feces

I'll keep this short, party people. Just because a band records an album with nothing but boring down-strums, reverb, the production quality of a tin-can, and overly honest, trite lyrics, does not make them "organic" "hip" or "cutting edge". It means their studio equipment sucks, or they paid a lot of money to make their studio equipment sound like it sucks, and that they can't write complicated lyrics without sounding abstract and pretentious. Instead, they state the obvious and we crap our skinny jeans over how "honest" and "authentic" they sound.

Poo-poo on you, indie-wanna-bes. Poo-poo indeed.

A Christmas Story Without Cliche

Aisle 13: Chimney Sweeping Logs and LED palm tress. Aisle 12, adjacent: Christmas trees and multi-colored light strands; special buy! 5.99, 300 ft. But I've seen those. They are green, as every other tree in the world. Variance of size and color, but categorically vanilla. Same. And this little palm tree (wouldn't Jesus have liked palm trees?) lights up so clearly, so beautifully its affixed vignette--two people, man, woman, jacuzzi, probably lovers, maybe estranged due to unwelcoming posture, "Feliz Navidad" illuminated upon the jacuzzi, Coronas, chilled and glued to hot-tub, and a warm, salty sea-breeze to dispel the old year--that I can't help but wonder if the scene isn't real. I close my eyes, make a Christmas wish: that if I could be there with them, by some Christmas miracle, that I would reconcile the estranged, plastic couple, and that they, grateful in return, would offer me beer, company. I touch the little palm tree; it is hot and burns my finger, which I put to my lips to assuage the pain. An old lady rolls past me with a shopping cart, selects red ornaments and white lights for her green tree (clairvoyance? No, probability. She's not a Corona girl; her tree will be immaculate, presents and fake presents intermingled to give the impression of depth, of fullness, cheer). She stops to look at the other scenes: nativities, shops and sleds and snow, icicles and warm interiors. She selects one with children upon a skating rink. Children dance on the ice as the words "Merry Christmas" follow Santa's sleigh into the sky. Jingle Bells plays over the store's intercom. I quickly push the boxed vignette--palm trees and lovers and Coronas and all--into my basket.

I came here for wall anchors. I'm hanging this neon Cubs sign above my fireplace. It will not be centered. I've drilled too many holes, and now I need the sign to cover them. I've got to be in the right mood for spackling, and I broke my putty knife opening foreign beers last Tuesday. I don't need a putty knife; what I need is a bottle opener. Aisle 8: they have one that looks like a wrench. Stainless steel! A great gift for dad! It goes in the cart.

Aisle 24: faucets, kitchen then bath. I have a dinner buddy named Herman. We used to eat crab out on the wharf. Small time thief. Made a good profit on some Delta faucets a few years back. They catch a nice price on Craigslist. With zero overhead and a 100% profit margin he had himself a lucrative business. Herman had a stroke last month. Lost partial movement on the right side of his body. Now people stare at him because his mouth sags. He used to be a real unassuming guy. You'd never notice him. But that part of his business model went with the stroke, what with people are rude and can't help but gawk at the handicapped. He got in an argument with a store manager over it one day. He'd been caught with a faucet and three rolls of duct tape crammed in his pants and swore to god that the only reason he got caught was because the checker (a pretty little thing) had been staring at him since he hobbled into the store. Discrimination, he called it. Police, they called. The cop, a portly man nearing retirement, caught Herman as he stumbled over a sewer grate. He had terrible scrapes. Police brutality. He got off on bond. Asked for the checker's number. Got picked up again. She's seventeen and her dad's a lawyer. Herman and I don't have dinner on the wharf anymore.

I moved to the Gulf Coast for some peace and quiet. I didn't want South Beach; the women there would never give me the time of day and I don't speak Spanish. Didn't want Orlando, either, what with Mickey Mouse and thirty-thousand tourists. No, Sarasota suits me just fine. A good place to retire early. White sands and white hair and a pace that suits my modus operandi. I sold insurance (never very much) and now I take temporary work (winter: post-office, spring: stocking department stores, summer: inventory, fall: my vacation). I'm currently on workman's compensation for a spill I took next to a derelict water fountain.

"We hate to see you go during the Christmas season," my boss had said. He was a heavyset man with worried eyes and an ugly tie that rested on his belly.

"I'd hate to see anyone else slip near that water fountain." "This is our busiest season."

"I just hope I'll keep occupied, what with needing six to seven weeks to recuperate."

"The mail will be stacked and in need of sorting." He looked as if he would cry. I walked away. I heard him mumbling: "So, so high."

And so my vacation would extend through the lovely Christmas season, the reason I'm now shopping on Wednesday, hunched over my cart, dizzy on muscle relaxants. I grab my wall anchors and some gorilla glue for my model cars (I've got this Stingray I'm working on...shale green, lovely rims, should finish it tonight during Letterman).

At the register is a woman my age, maybe fifty, fifty-three? I look down and realize my chest is exposed, er, more than usual. I pat down my beard. I button the top of my shirt. The button strains and the hula girls faces are elongated but I feel a bit more proper.

"You find everything, sweetie?" Her voice is a bit worn, but her eyes are nice, and she smells sweet. Papaya? Mango?

"Passion fruit?"

"Excuse me?" she says.

"Your scent. Would it be passion fruit?"

"Strawberry lemonade."

"As lovely."

"Thank you." She blushes. If I don't mess this up, I could have a date for...wedding ring. She sees that I see, holds her hand up, wiggles her fingers. "He's been dead for six years, bless his soul."

"So..."

"I'd love to," she says.

"Six thirty?"

"Seven."

"The pier."

"Catalino's." A bit pricey, but..."and I'll buy my own dinner," she says. "You just bring the company."

"I'll see you then."

"Sweetie?"

"Yes?"

"You need to pay for those items." I pull out a twenty, drop my wallet and hand her the money. She gives me my change. "Come back and see us."

"You too," I say. Dammit.

That night I sing to my shower radio and shampoo my scalp and whiskers. I condition them every other day because otherwise my face feels oily. I rub aftershave over my face and chest and put on my best gold necklace with the star of David (my ex is Jewish). I rub the steam off the mirror and comb the top of my head. There are a few hairs up there and they are quite soft, a point of attraction. I put on a blue blazer and a green and yellow hawaiian shirt and my best jeans. Gold bond in the white sneakers, and I'm read forty-five minutes early. I haven't been on a date in a while.

I use the time to straighten up, clean a few dishes of some much-crusted beefaroni. I turn on the palm-tree vignette and watch the jacuzzi lights glow. The lovers have reconciled their differences; maybe the store model was broken? The lights change from red to green to blue, as does my glowing reflection in the bay, kitchen window. I walk to the porch and open the screen door. I like the bay air and the sand. I need to catch my breath. My face is flushed. I haven't been on a date in a while.

I leave the door open to let the place air out while I'm gone. The neighbors are elderly and very nosey, and have on more than one occasion called the police on me for entering my own home through the back door. The Lesters are nice people, but they sleep less than vampires. If things go well tonight, I may have to explain myself at the mailbox. But that's only if she...wait, I forgot her name. What did her name-tag say? Oh hell, this is going to be a disaster. I haven't been on a date in a while.

In the garage I open a new box of air fresheners. Ocean Breeze. Redundant? Pastiche? Fair, but it smells better than chili-fries and motor oil. I throw some trash away from my car, vacuum her seat, and start the engine. I rifle through some cds: Billy Joel, The Stones, Journey...I take a risk on Floyd. Dark Side? No. We're going classy. A Momentary Lapse of Reason...yes, a sexy record by any measure. I haven't been on a date in a while.

I'm at the table fifteen minutes early. It's a nice table. I request a candlelit table near the window overlooking the water, and although the candle is fake and the light reflecting off the window prevents one from actually seeing the water, I find the ambience charming.

She arrives a few minutes late. Her hair is up, strawberry-blonde with a frosting of gray. She is wearing a lot of eye make up, but she looks nervous, excited, and beautiful in a flowing purple dress. The hostess points her to my table and she sees me and smiles. I smile back. Bigly. Word? Maybe not, but it describes the stupid look that spread across my face. A fat man and a donut. A dog and bone. Me and a woman. Big, dumb look. But she giggles.

I order us a bottle of red wine. I have a salad. She has the lasagna. I order another bottle of wine. Breadsticks, conversation, another bottle of wine. I've become a bit silly and will need a ride home. She agrees.

The night is comfortably chilly, and I place my blazer around her shoulders in the parking lot. She leans in close and gives me a kiss on the left cheek. When she parks in the driveway I offer her decaffeinated and possibly some warm and masculine company. She laughs and smiles and kisses me on the left cheek again.

"Thank you," she says. "Have a merry christmas."

"Will I see you again."

"It's likely."

I smile and hop out of the car a bit electrified, a bit intoxicated; I hit my head on the car door. She laughs again. I haven't been on a date in a while.

It's freaking sweet.

I unlock my door and she honks the horn. I turn to see her holding the blazer outside the window. I rumble (run/stumble) towards the car and take my coat. She motions with her finger, and I lower my left cheek for a third (three!) kiss. I throw my blazer over my shoulder with some bravado, and strut into the house where I immediately throw up in the bathroom.

I haven't had red wine in a while.

I flush the toilet and sit on the cold tile floor for a few minutes, try to catch my breath and focus my eyes. I wipe my mouth on a towel with an embroidered ace of spades and throw it in the hamper. I walk to the kitchen to make my hangover cocktail: three glasses of water, one two alka-seltzer tablets, one multi-vitamin, a piece of whole-wheat bread, and four Advil.

The house is cold with the back door open and the cold winter waters of the gulf washing up the beach. The door is closed half way when I hear a pathetic little noise. It could be the wind or any number of things, but something tells me to walk out on the beach a bit. What I don't realize is that it's very dark at night, and but for the moon, the black mass of water would be an extension of the night sky and the sound of waves. But the waves are not the only sound. A small, pathetic little whistle, or gurgle, or choking, echoes up the shoreline.

I think: oh god, it's a kid. Some party that's gone on too long and mom and dad have had too much to drink and some kid walked right out the door and onto the sand and into the water and holy hell he'll be dead in minutes and no one will ever, ever hear him. But it doesn't sound like a kid. It sounds like...a dog? Just past the breakers is a tiny little dog, spitting water and paddling and paddling and getting pulled straight out.

Without thinking I run into the water, jeans and all, and dive into the oncoming waves. He's about twenty yards out, but when I get to him I can't see him anymore. I dunk my head and open my eyes, which godalmighty stings like crazy. But there, in the moonlight bending underneath the water, is the little guy. He's swimming upward and not getting anywhere. I stroke downwards a few times and grab him under his front legs.

I don't remember swimming being this difficult. By the time I reach the sand I am exhausted. I fall on my knees on the shore and roll to my back. The little guy coughs and spits a few times, throws up on my arm, and then shakes the water off. He licks my face a couple times, and despite the vomit breath, it's kind of cute.

"What were you doing out there, little man?" I get a closer look at him. He's no breed I've seen. Pure mutt. Tangled fur, pointy little ears, and big-huge eyes. "Are you a fisherman?" He lays his head on my arm and sighs.

And it's all too much. I moved down here for some peace and quiet and me time, and all at once I've got a new roommate. What was I going to do? The fates washed the little fisherman up to my shore. I call him Hemingway, Hemi for short. I bring him into the house, give him a nice warm bath and shampoo and put a little drop of aftershave behind his ears. We sit in front of a box-fan for half an hour until he's dry. After I shut the fan off, he shakes the remaining ocean water onto my face and shirt.

I let him up onto the recliner with me, and the two of us watch A Muppets' Christmas Carol, trading spoonfuls of vienna sausages and mustard. We fall asleep in the recliner, both stretched with our arms in the air, warm and tired and furry in the face.

Baby Name Consternation; Good and Plenty

Speaking of which, Good and Plenty are the nastiest candies ever. It's black licorice (sick) dressed up as Mike & Ikes (delicious). I made the mistake as a young boy of popping a handful of Good and Plenties into my mouth and then becoming ill. I spit a giant wad of them into my lap, dripping with slobber, only to reveal the true nature of Good and Plenty : they are black licorice, they are n
ot good, and though they may be plentiful, you may as well eat rocks (which are plentiful as well). If you can tell me which of these photos contains a disgusting candy, and which one contains prescription medication, I'll give you a box of Good 'N Plenty I recently took from a kid. The kid cried, but he'll understand when he's older...I did it for his own good. Someday he'll think back on the creepy guy who stole his candy and scolded him, and with a sigh and a feeling of gratefulness he'll think: "Thanks creepy guy in the Dickies work shirt. That candy really is nasty." No problem little guy; that's what I'm here for!

Now, a delicious candy would include anything with chocolate and peanut butter. This is a marriage that puts all other romance to shame. The sultry dance of the peanut butter as it is caressed by the smooth chocolate, well, it's a little too ambrosial to discuss. I'm blushing.

I can assure you: a faithful and thorough one.

But that is neither here nor there. What is here, and simultaneously there, is the second and final installment of The Latest and Greatest Baby Names of 2010! So buckle up and spit out your Good 'N Plenty, it's gonna get worse before it gets better.

FASTEST-RISING BOY'S NAMES
1. Castiel
2. Bentley
3. Eoin
4. Easton
5. Lucian
6. Aarav
7. Zion
8. St. John
9. Kaiden
10. Sterling
11. Callan
12. Leland
13. Harper
14. Mikah
15. Dashiell
16. Eliah
17. Dawson
18. Kayden
19. Lennon
20. Dorian

Alright, for those of you who missed the first installment, please read below. It was...enlightening. But I'm done picking on the poor girls with -ley at the end of 45% of the names chosen for 2010. I actually don't know if it's 45%, but I don't care to do accurate math either, which is wonderful when you try to explain to your wife how much something you've purchased truly costs, but you can play the "I'm a dumb English major that nearly failed Algebra II as my last math class during my Junior year of high school" card. Unfortunately, this didn't work for the Batman and Robin Dynamic Duo 2-Pack; they'll soon be returned to Wal-Mart to be purchased by some ungrateful, ignorant brat who thinks that Batman is actually Dick Grayson, or that he looks like this:

So draw the guy however you want, but the whole premise of the show was to give Batman some sidekicks from the DC Universe that aren't as recognizable. No, that's a great idea. Do you know why some characters are more recognizable? Because no kid wants to be Blue Beetle (I think you can tell which one he is) or The Green Arrow. They want to be Batman, Superman, The Green Lantern, The Flash, not this guy:


No, I take that back. That's exactly who I want to be when I grow up. What was I thinking? Weapon-X didn't actually fill Logan with adamantium, but instead, butter popcorn flavoring and twenty gallons of pure, unadulterated cool. (TO AVOID CRITICISM FROM NERDS LIKE MYSELF, I NEED TO HEREBY ACKNOWLEDGE THAT I AM FULLY AWARE THAT LOGAN, WOLVERINE, AGENT OF WEAPON-X, IS NOT A PART OF THE DC UNIVERSE, BUT RATHER THE MARVEL UNIVERSE. BUT COULD YOU PASS ON A PICTURE LIKE THAT? ME NEITHER, WHICH IS WHY I POSED LIKE THAT FOR THE CAMERA. I THINK I REALLY CAPTURED WOLVERINE'S INSATIABLE APPETITE FOR BRAWLING; WELL, AT LEAST HIS INSATIABLE APPETITE.)

But all of this is quite tangential. Let's stay on task here!

Boys:

1. Castiel: The trend for this precious one comes from an angel in the show Supernatural, which knows about as much about the spiritual world as Oak Park Mall. But the people on tv are pretty, and we want our kids to be pretty (however void of substance) and so we name them after fictional angels on an otherwise screwed up television drama. Names used to be thoughtful. Now we point and click to name our kids. No seriously, this could be great. You know that giant wheel on The Price is Right? What if we named all babies like that?

Sorry son, but your name gets to be Castiel. It's the only thing worse than spinning for 5.

This name could also be a product of the first generation of people with online avatars naming their children. No one wants their AIM name to be "Bob" when you could be "Azrael the Destroyer" or "Eviscerator" or "Hammersmashedface420" (btw, I haven't searched, but I'm willing to bet you these screen names are already taken. Bet you fifty bucks).

"So honey, I was thinking of naming our kids after your father and mother, or a biblical patriarch/matriarch."

"Yeah, but that lacks a certain pizazz."

"Pizazz?"

"Yeah, pizazz. Like Castiel, or Lord Azaroth."

"You're a piss-ant."

2. Bentley: This name again? This was on the girls' list. If you need further reason to never, ever name your child this, please scroll down and read my first post. Unless Bentley is going to be the greatest MC since 2pac, you don't get to give this name to your kid. Especially if Bentley is someday going to cut the muffler off his Honda Civic and wear visors backwards and upside down. There are too many Sig Eps out there already. We don't need to add to the growing douchery.

3. Eoin: Seriously, wtf? This is what my name sounds like when you say it like you can't say your "Rs". Aaowin. Eoin. It reminds me of loin.

This is your kid, shortly before being roasted in a lemon-rosemary glaze. I hate you, and so will he/she.

4. Easton: Represent. Weston? Northton? Southton? Cardinal directions don't get to be names of anything other than directions. Why? Because they sound stupid as names. Imagine a Sergeant at Normandy calling off a list of names:

"Buck?"

"Here Sarge."

"Ace?"

"Ready for duty, Sarge."

"Hal?"

"Let's kick some Nazi testicles, Sarge."

"Easton?"

"Ready and accessorized, Sergeant!"

"Who the hell are you?"

"I'm the squad's fashion adviser."

"Our what?"

"Fashion adviser. Can't kill Nazis in mismatched socks, you silly Sarge!"

It wouldn't happen. You know why? Because the generation with names like Tad and Easton will never be able to beat the Nazis, Zombies, Robots, or Aliens. We've screwed ourselves defenseless. We should have just named all our boys Cindy or Shirley. Hey, why not? Half the names appear on both the girls' and boys' lists.

5. Lucian: You have got to be joking. You're the king of Werewolves? Seriously? Do you go to Dragoncon, too?

Sure, he looks cool as a werewolf, but you're not a werewolf, and you'll never be one. But don't worry kid! I'll tell you what you will be: a defenseless loser who gets his head slammed into the dirt of the playground. Get ready to eat wood-chips kid! You're going to be an all-star wimp with butt-zits.

If you're going to name your kid this, just get them a Metallica t-shirt and teach them how to play D&D, because they're hopeless from the start. I hope you have a lifetime supply of diapers and Clearasil, because little Lucian's going to need them well into his thirties.

You know what lycanthropes do? Take pictures of themselves alone in the bathroom. And polish their foreheads to reflect moonlight.

6. Aarav: I don't really know what to say about this one. I can't even think of a single negative thing to say about this name. It starts out strong with two "As" and then an "R", but after that it loses me. Wait! This would've been the one asshole kid who beat me out for line-leader in elementary school! I think some parents are alphabetically bitter at all the cool kids named "Aaron" because at one point they had to stand behind an Aaron in line, even with names like Andy or Alex. Ha ha ha. This was my one joy in school, watching the class douche-wad jump up and down like an idiot dog when he thought he was going to be first in line. His name was Andy. I let him jump for joy, and then smirked my way to the front of the line where he attempted to argue that Andy came before Aaron alphabetically. Suck it you Umbro wearing rot-bag. I win. And I'm taller than you. And you suck at soccer. And in general, I hate you.

7. Zion: Okay, unless you're Jewish (in which case you would never name your child this) you don't get to name your kid Zion. Seriously? I can't even fathom how this gets to be a name. Seriously. This is a name given to kids (who are not Jewish in the slightest) by over-zealous Christian parents who listen to this kind of music.

I'm really glad that Jesus taught him how to "turn his cheek when people laugh at him" because I'm doing a whole lot of laughing, and this dude is running out of cheeks. And seriously, this was probably made in 2005 by some poor little church that got a camcorder and is trying to reach the "youth" of the nation. Oh so very sad.

8. St. John: If you put the word "Saint" into your kid's name, you're asking for a holy-living terror. I guarantee you this kid is going to eat the pet parakeet and then blame it on his sister by putting bloody feathers on her bedspread.

And you know what? I can't do this anymore. I have made fun of exactly twenty-eight names, which to me, is a success. I'm running out of steam on this one. Sorry folks! Stupid names are just that: stupid. And there's only so much stupidity that I can wallow in without throwing up. So I'm gon' go puke.

Apocalypse Now: The Fastest Rising Baby Names of 2010

Alright party-people, the party's over. Take care of your eternal business, because it's all ending soon. Do you want to know why? Because soon we'll have a sizable population of people named "Sookie". Don't believe me? Here are the fastest rising baby names of 2010:

FASTEST-RISING GIRL'S NAMES
1. Tenley
2. Harper
3. Everleigh
4. Martina
5. Sookie
6. Navi
7. Charlotte
8. Eloise
9. Lorelai
10. Ursula
11. Briella
12. Kinley
13. Tinsley
14. Mhairi
15. Leighton
16. Maelle
17. Ever
18. Kinsley
19. Lux
20. Everly

FASTEST-RISING BOY'S NAMES
1. Castiel
2. Bentley
3. Eoin
4. Easton
5. Lucian
6. Aarav
7. Zion
8. St. John
9. Kaiden
10. Sterling
11. Callan
12. Leland
13. Harper
14. Mikah
15. Dashiell
16. Eliah
17. Dawson
18. Kayden
19. Lennon
20. Dorian

And because I care, I'm going to analyze these one by one to illustrate why and how the apocalypse is going to consume us all, with no help from anyone named after one of the names on the list, because someone named "Harper" is going to be exactly ZERO help when the zombies come flooding out of hell to eat your brains. Or when the Chinese invade. Or when we desperately need a cure to a cripplingly infectious disease. Or when we need smarter crops or water purification. Or really when we need anything that requires some sort of cojones. Pardon me if I'm not trusting my life to someone named Eliah.

"Wait, what's your name?"

"Eliah."

"Leah?"

"Nah bro, Eliah."

"And you're a dude."

"Yeah bro."

"But your name sounds like Leah."

"Maybe."

"So it's like Elijah minus the cojones."

"What are ka-joan-eez, bro?"

"Go bury yourself."

"Sweet bro."

See what I mean? We're screwed.

But hopefully this can all be prevented. I figure if the people who read my blog each tell two people that at least four people might hear about this in time to prevent the wuss monstrosity that will me the next generation. For now, listen...and pray...

Girls:

1. Tenley: Here are my theories on this name. First: people like the suffix -ley on any name now, male or female. And for the record, the only time this suffix has ever been cool is on the name Bentley.
Nice. See what I mean? That's something that can have a stupid -ley on the end and still have cojones (I'm now in a race with myself to see how often I can type the word cojones and still have you take me seriously--oh wait, you don't. Then let the cojones fly! <---see, it's perfect!). I'm willing to bet you that a couple who looks like the two pictured at the right
sat down at wrote out a list of their favorite numbers:

"I dunno, Tad, I think that six is cute."

"Nah Kinley, I like fourteen."

"Well, our marriage book says to compromise."

"Like we did with my wearing your underwear?"

"Yes, Taddy, exactly like you wearing my underwear."

"Compromising is tight!"

"Well then, let's go with Ten."

"Yeah, ten was like my lacrosse number at Duke."

"And Ten starts with a T too, Taddy!"

"Oh, so she'll like, in a way, be named after me? I'd cry if crying wasn't for gaywads."

"I'd cry if I didn't have botox."

Hence Tenley.

2. Harper: This name appears on both lists. Now I can't exactly speak against androgynous names, being that mine could be both, but at least it's spelled differently. Harper is exactly the same, no matter what. But this could be funny for as long as they're small, say infant to seven or eight. What you do is make your kid like Pat and dress them in light green clothing and buy them toys that both boys and girls will enjoy
so that absolutely no one will know what little Harper's working with downstairs. Then, out of sheer frustration, people will start calling your kid "it" and will immediately feel awful for referring to your kid with a pronoun that is synonymous with a beast or inanimate object. If you're up for turning your kid into a lifelong practical joke, please name "it" Harper.

3. Everleigh: Seriously, what the crap kind of name is this? This is another one that goes one of two ways: 1. I play too much Everquest and named my kid after the evergreen glade in which my elf grew from an elfling into a mighty warrior king, or 2. I want to be inventive and still use the stupid -ley suffix, because they're pronounced the damn same. You're still not cool. All the name means in the latter case is that your kid has an infinite amount of that same stupid suffix. Want an alternate choice? Name your kid "Infinitelystupid". It has a nice ring to it.

4. Martina: Okay, Tina already sounded too much like Tuna, and while said fish may be delicious, it's a terrible name for a little girl.
Tina is the equivalent of saying, "Hey, this is my little girl, and her name is Trout. Ain't she gorgeous?" Add Mar to the equation, and you've got marred Tuna. You've named your daughter after a slaughtered, besmirched fish. Best of luck to this kid growing up.

5. Sookie: Hahahahaha...this used to mean something very specific in the '60's. But parents today don't know this, or they're entirely cruel. Steppenwolf knew what sookie meant, and then they wrote this awesome song about it:


Do these people look innocently childish? Uh-uh. Nope. They look like they're after one thing, and that's some Sookie, or in this case, your daughter. Want hippies from the '60's chasing easy love from your kid? Didn't think so. Think before you name. On a side-note, Jesse Jackson dances to Steppenwolf at the 1:54 mark. So cool.

(I get why people really name their kids Sookie: that stupid vampire pseudo-porn "True Blood." But do you really want to name your kid after a promiscuous vampire floozy? If you do, you're an idiot and this blog is above your reading level. Go kick a rattlesnake--their bites are even more exciting than vampires'!).

6. Navi: like navigation, or Navi: the world's number one Michael Jackson impersonator:


Or the overgrown vampire smurfs from that James Cameron movie that wasn't as cool as T2:


Good choice. This kid's survival rate on the playground: 1 in 100, or the equivalent of me surviving a week without air conditioning and an Xbox.

7. Charlotte: I'm okay with this one, surprisingly. Lot's of good has come out of this name, like Charlotte's web, and that one chick from Sex In The City (I think; who am I kidding, know), or these lovely offenders who are the featured offenders of the month:


So Charlotte's got spiders, harlots (which rhymes, btw) and the city of Charlotte's most wanted. There really is no reason not to name a little girl (or boy, if you're a bohemian wannabe yuppie) Charlotte.

8. Eloise: This name screams "I died in 1929." Enough said.

9. Lorelai: I don't even know how to say this one. Laura-Lie? Lore-Lie? Lore-Eee-Lay? If you can't pronounce it one of two ways, it's stupid. It also sounds like something an Irish folk singer would scat, like Too-Rah-Loo-Rah-Lorelai. Okay, I just almost talked myself into this one...

10. Ursula: ARE YOU EFFING SERIOUS??? Let me help you with this one:

Uh, yeah, it's that hideous, fat b@+&h with the eels that tried to kill Ariel. If there has ever been an uglier drawing, I haven't found it. Seriously. She's disgusting with a case of mole-face and tentacle butt. But by all means, don't let that sway you from ruining your little girl's life forever. I'm sure she'll be real popular with her mustache and broad shoulders. To be fair, typing "Ursula" into the Google image search also brings up this picture an equal amount of the time:


So if your little girl grows up to be a Bond girl, my sons Beowulf, Achilles, and Batman would love to meet her.

11. Briella: Hey, pass me your kid; it's raining and I don't want my hair to get wet.

12: Kinley: IT'S RETURN OF THE -LEY!!! STOP IT! STOP IT NOW! YOU CAN'T JUST PICK TWO CONSONANTS SURROUNDING A VOWEL AND PUT IT IN FRONT OF -LEY! IT'S STILL NOT A NAME, DAMMIT!

13: Tinsley: Okay, four consonants and -ley. Very clever. Here are some other -ley names I just pulled out of my butt:

Elmsley, Festerley, Rotley, Buttley, Crapley, Fartley, Infectedley, Prostateley, Boogerley, Hairley, Blisterley, Aidsley...I rest my case...but wait! There is one great -ley name:



MUTLEY!

14. Mhairi: Like, "No, sorry, I can't go to the pool, Mhairi and I haven't had my back waxed." Do you really want to name your child I'm Hairy? Okay, here's one: Msmelley. See? I even included the -ley for all you idiot fartholes out there.

15. Leighton: I give up. Just name your kid EverLeightonleyshiresquidballs. It's attractive.

16. Maelle: Names with two vowels next to each other are stupid. Like Aaron. What moron is named that? This name sounds like a toddler trying to say Michael. Maybe this was the name a toddler chose for his/her younger sibling, before becoming completely verbal?

17. Ever: As in, don't name your kid this. Ever. Or the mockery endured by your child will be ever-presently everlasting. Forever. Whenever. Whatever.

18. Kinsley: A cute mutation of Kinley and Tinsley, but we haven't been fooled, your kid still has a crappy name. If I meet your kid, I'm calling her Bob.

19. Lux: This is for a girl? I picture a giant bull dog that hasn't been neutered slobbering on the furniture, or a pseudonym for a rapper named De-Lux. Both are cool, but for a girl? I dunno.

But both exist!

Sammy Deluxe: And your baby Lux, whichever it is:


20: Everly: The -ly suffix returns, cleverly. Haha...what a great spot to end on!

That does it for the girls. Tune in next time for the lukewarm milquetoasts that are the boys of 2010!

You Know What's Awesome?

THIS:


But better yet, it has a story!

Characters: Me, Batman and Robin 2 Pack, Toothless Walmart Checker
Setting: 2 A.M., Walmart Toy Department
Context: On an emergency search for water balloons for my wife's summer school. On a side note, the water balloons strongly resembled a certain form of contraception when filled, which greatly embarrassed my wife in front of a male coworker. I know it seems suspicious, especially given my track record of inappropriate humor, but I swear that this was just a funny side-effect of buying the brightest colored balloons I could find; empirically speaking, there's really no way to prove that my knowledge of the shape of the balloons when filled predates my purchasing the balloons, since the balloons were packaged and sealed. But would I buy them again? You bet your life I would.

Continuing with our story, I am in the Walmart toy department at 2 a.m., which may be creepy in and of itself, but I can't decide if it's truly creepier to be in the toy department when there's no kids at 2 a.m., or if it's creepier to be there when it's packed with kids during the day. Perhaps they are both uniquely and distinctly creepy. The former is creepy in an "I don't cut my nails and I live with my parents and play Dungeons and Dragons when I'm not LARPing or playing Xbox games featuring fighting game characters in swimsuits" sort of way. The latter is creepy for obvious reasons.

But I am neither of these people. I have a nice job, a home, a wife, and 2 dogs. I might even reproduce! *Giant Gong Noise*

I was just buying water balloons. There's my alibi. Until I saw the Dynamic Duo 2 pack.

Before I even tell you how much it cost, let me first say that I haven't bought an action figure in at least eight years. Yes, I know, that puts me at 20 at the last purchase of a plastic superhero toy, but let's put this in perspective: when I was 20, I was also hitting my friends in the privates for entertainment, listening to Snoop Dog at 2 a.m. and chugging Red Bull to cram for finals, and wearing a thong and Werewolf mask as I shot giant Nerf missiles at my friends (go figure) privates. I mean, come on! Two out of four of my activities involve striking my friends' privates for cheap laughs! An action figure is comparably normal.

All of this is to say: when I last bought an action figure, it was like seven bucks, which is WAY more than they used to be, which was around five bucks. Let me also preface this by saying that usually, the action figure selection is pretty lame. Here's one of the figures I've seen recently:



I mean freaking Booster Gold??? Really??? Yes please, I'll take the worst superhero of all time, who, essentially has Space Ghost's powers minus the redemptive and reinvented comedy show on Adult Swim. So it's pretty much like "Hey, I'm Booster Gold, I suck."

But behind Booster Gold was not the Black Manta or The Wonder Twins (although the Wonder Twins would be awesome for sheer comedic value) but the DYNAMIC DUO. That's right folks: the Real Batman and the Real Robin. And all the people said? Amen, or booyeah, since this is like twice as exciting as church, and church would be twice as exciting if we all said booyeah instead of amen. I mean they're kind of the same thing. Amen means "let it be", and booyeah means, like, "let it be" only really hard and extreme like Mountain Dew, or "I just dunked on you, go back to summer league, chump". And if we did the Arsenio Hall fist twirling thing when worship got real excited, well, you'd have a church that Fox could sell. If you remember Arsenio, can I get an amen? A booyeah?

WAIT! Epiphany: Arsenio played that awesome gospel preacher in "Coming to America". He hosted Miss Black America. Why not make him the pastor of this Fox-sponsored mega-church? I'm telling you, I'm on to something.

Just kidding...

So I scream booyeah in Walmart at 2 a.m., which didn't frighten any children because there weren't any, and the zombies who work there overnight are undeterred by loud noises (though I did get a few empty stares that screamed "I crave brains!").

But the pack doesn't have a price and neither did the shelf. So I assume, foolishly, that the duo pack costs 14 dollars by looking at the nearest tag, and I'm like: "WHOA! 14 dollars is absurd!" But for two figures, well, it adjusts for inflation since I last bought a figure, so seven dollars for Batman and seven for Robin (really like twelve for Bats and two for the boy-hostage) is a steal!

To quote the Joker: Heh.

When I get to the register with the neon, glow in the dark contraceptive water balloons, and the action figure pack (and 72 rolls of much needed butt wipe) I looked a bit strange, even for a late night Walmart customer. So I threw a pack of gum on the counter like it'd make me look more normal. "Um, yeah, the uh, gum and toilet paper and balloons and action figure pack will be all I'm needing, thanks. Yes I found everything I was looking for...oh and so much more, Candace! Thanks for asking!"

But Candace didn't ask my name. She just beeped my items over the lasers with her mouth half open and her eyes looking different directions. That's what fluorescent lights and everyday low prices do to you after prolonged exposure: they ZOMIBFY you! If zombify isn't a verb, it totally should be.

So Candace drags the gigantic toilet paper pack across the beams, then the balloons and gum, and the total is like 12 bucks or something because I need lots of toilet paper and the jumbo pack is expensive. Then she drags the Dynamic Duo across, and a number flashes that's not fourteen. No friends, the number that flashes is twenty-nine! Do the math party-people, that's 14.50 a figure. Batman's worth it, but at this point, I was ready to kill Robin. If it hadn't have been Tim Drake, I would've taken it back. I'm not paying that kind of money for Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, or Carrie Kelly (I'd actually pay more for Carrie).

To clear up the confusion caused by the last two sentences, read here.

My wife was asleep while all of this happened, otherwise I'd have taken it back to the shelf immediately (to clear things up, she was asleep at HOME, not at Walmart. I'd never let her go to sleep at Walmart: everyone knows the aisle goblins eat your kidneys once the fluorescent lights lull you to sleep).

I walked from the store completely stunned. It was like someone in a werewolf mask and a man-thong had just shot me in the privates with a Nerf bazooka. I had a case of profound sadness, like these guys:



Nonetheless, my wife has been gracious and has not made me take the dynamic duo back. With all fairness, I am decorating my basement with Batman stuff, because hey, why wouldn't you decorate with Batman stuff when Batman stuff exists? If you lived in another universe with no Batman, well, I guess your basement would be boring like church or math.

Again, just kidding. Except not about Math. Math sucks.

But Batman rules. Want proof? Here's what happens to people that pay that much for Batman crap.



I hope my parents have room in their newly re-finished basement.