At the back of the hill

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Sunday, January 20, 2013


One of my friends is seriously considering changing his name. This is an important decision, not to be taken lightly. A name, after all, is the handle by which other people remember your personality. Say the words, and the face and mannerisms come to mind.

A very serious decision.

If I were to change my name from 'Bogorodicza Guadalupeskaya', for example, to 'Bingo-Jesus Dingleberry', my friends might well expect something momentous. Surely, they would think, he will grow into that name? And does it reflect the man we already know as well as his previous nomen?
I would have to explain that Bingo-Jesus Dingleberry is much, MUCH easier to remember and pronounce than Bogorodicza Guadalupeskaya, and furthermore matched my conversion from an antiquated branch of Christianity to Native-American religion.

Reborn Man Runs With Dingleberries!

It's very spiritual. I've got a tattoo which says so.

Unfortunately, my friend is thinking of changing his appellation to 'Spike'. Spike Ratchette. Something having to do with his Harley, not sure what.
I cannot see him as 'Spike'. I was thinking more along the lines of Shep Dawg. Or Leonard ('Lenny') Baldy-Whack. The first indicating his physique and personal habits, the second reflective of both gravitas and a profound lack of top-hair.
His choice, however, screams 'middle-age crisis'.
Not something I have much respect for.
Just glue on a ponytail, dude.

His plan is on hold for the time-being. I've managed to convince him that in the interim, while he thinks this thing through, he should get himself some worry beads and a bottle of Bourbon. By acquiring those two things he can cover the span between his refound spirituality and his missing machismo.

When the time comes, I'll happily advise him again.
Regarding his change of name and image.
And how his kids will react.
With hysterical hooting.
And snide comments.

If they need ideas, I will be happy to oblige.

Spike Ratchette. Good lord.

Prickles Dill-Wad


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