Three Simple Rules for Naming a Child

Today I encountered someone by the name of RaRa (please insert heavy pain filled sigh here). My meeting with RaRa should not have occurred, in the same way that George W. Bush's presidency and Hammer pants should not have occurred. There should be no one on God's green Earth named RaRa. Parenting privileges and duties should be revoked for that injustice thrust upon that child! But, alas, I met someone with the name of RaRa, which made me think that people should be forced to think of names for their children while keeping three rules in mind. If this is done, the world should be devoid of new RaRa's from this point forward.

1) My Child MAY NOT Grow Up To Be A Celebrity - We all know that celebrities can get away with all sorts of nonsense that us mere mortals simply cannot get away with outside of Californialand and CelebrityWorld, such as running around in pink leotards when we're over fifty (I'm talking to you Madonna!), and of course naming our children ridiculous names like Apple, Coco, and Blu Ivy. But when you're the daughter of Jay-Z and Beyoncé - Blu Ivy may very well turn out to be ok for you when you're older. When you're the son or daughter of Joe and Bitsy Mason from Lycoming County, Pennsylvania - naming your son or daughter something a little more sensible may be in order. Parents must accept that their son or daughter may grow up to be the security guard at the local DMV. Does it make sense for that person to be named Sage Moonblood? I think not. So, parents, lets take time to accept that your son may not grow up to play a stripper in a Hollywood blockbuster like Magic Mike. So, no Channing Tatum's, and lets accept that your child is more likely to be a worker at the local Piggly Wiggly then to be stripping on screen for the women of America - and that's ok! Just name him accordingly - something like John Smith - restock in Aisle Ten! The old lady bumped into the V8 Splash with her walker again. It sounds sensible over the public address system.

A friend of mine should appreciate this!

2) Your Child MAY Aspire to be President of the United States - This is the great ole United States, where men AND women can do anything...including becoming the President. So, with that in mind, no one should be named Piper, Ocean, Rocco, Rock, Beam or Solange Knowles (I am picking on the Knowles-Carter clan today). I'd prefer not to see a Solanagé on the ballot. We've had a lot of George's, William's, and John's - not many Barack's. To that end, think about #44 on the Presidential List. Barack can get a pass since he can't help those Kenyan roots, but imagine the grief he would have been spared if his mother would have gazed deep within a crystal ball, saw the future, and named him Ronald.

3)  Because NO PARENT Dreams of a Porn Star or Stripper for a Daughter -  For the sexist segment of the blog, I am going to single out the ladies! Porn has it's place in the world and you can still name your daughter a nice, simple sweet name like Jenna only for her become a Jenna Jamison, so be a good person in life because karma is a bitch. But since this post is not about karma, I am convinced that  excessive "I" and "E" use in names adds to the propensity of ass clapping and pole sliding for females later in life Although the ass aerobics of stripping that takes a certain talent that one cannot deny. I mean can you clap your ass like a certified stripper? Anyway, Aimee's, Laci's, and Traci's  - absolutely terrible. Didn't these parents learn about the magical letter "Y."  Trixie - terrible.  Leelee - kill me.  Excessive "I" and "E" use is setting them up for careers as dollar bill collectors - with g-strings serving as their wallets and purses (this really conflicts with Rule # 2).  And back to Leelee, it really is a terrible name and only works because Leelee's parents beat the odds in regards to Rule # 1. Of course, rules were meant to be broken and this does not apply to all names with excessive "I's" and "E's." But as everyone knows a hoe when they see one - everyone knows a porn star/stripper name when they see it on a roster. Think about that. Think about it.

And back to inspiration for this post, I am sure RaRa is a lovely woman.

Double Digit Daddy

I am a Property Manager of a large complex in New York City and during the course of my day, I interact with an array of people, complete and utter characters! From my staff,  to the tenants, vendors, tenants of the commercial spaces, city officials, etc - my days are never boring and I have become convinced with each passing day, that people are generally half-crazed and grasping onto the cliff called sanity for dear life. Some days I am forced to put on my Invisibility Cloak, which consists of closing my office door, pumping up the volume on the Ipod, and acting as if I am not present in order to ignore all the ridiculousness. My actual cloak is currently on back order. Some days I literally just don't have the strength and cannot be bothered. But today I had my door opened and my assistant was having a discussion with a gentleman that does business for our property on a regular basis. It turns out that congratulations were in order, this person, who we will call Papa Bear, was going to be father again - for the eleventh time! Eleventh time! Eleven children?! Who has eleven children in the 21st Century? I mean, do we plan on providing workers to the local farm? What am I talking about this is MANHATTAN and everyone believes that food grows in grocery stores! There are no such things as farms and, therefore, no need for a tribes worth of children. I mean, there are no laws against this? Dude, I know what we pay you, you cannot possibly afford to raise eleven children. It was in this moment that I thought of the one great gift of being a homo that my father never bitched about - not knocking up any oversexed Britney Spears wannabe in High School. Anyway, I digress. Clearly, the generosity and compassion of the great state of New York will be contributing to the raising of the village this man has created, and by generosity and compassion of New York - I mean my hard earned goddamn tax dollars! Contrary to what Mitt Romney may believe, I am part of the 53% of voters who pay Income Tax. Despite this, I still wouldn't vote for him even if I knew I were going to be punished by being forced to shove my hand in a bee house for a week. Anyway, while I sometimes like to hide from ridiculousness, this was too good for me to pass up. To protect the names of the innocent, and the guilty, we will do some name changing at this time. Our father of eleven, and New York's very own Johnny Appleseed, will be called PAPA BEAR. My poor unassuming assistant, who is always looking to help her fellow man - even if the real solution in this case is clearly castration, will aptly be called ASSISTANT. And I, the one who could not help but insert himself into madness, will be called POOR UNFORTUNATE SOUL. I guess this will be my online version of Masterpiece Theatre...

Scene One: A windowless office (the powers that be should really do something about that). POOR UNFORTUNATE SOUL should probably be reviewing some sort of financial statement, but is instead  thinking about how he wishes he could sing like Adele, at least in the shower. He'd settle for a good shower singing voice. POOR UNFORTUNATE SOUL overhears that the stork has arrived, once more, for PAPA BEAR and his Baby Mama.

ASSISTANT: Papa Bear! She's pregnant? Another woman?!

PAPA BEAR: I don't even know how this happened!

(POOR UNFORTUNATE SOUL pops up like a Meerkat - I mean, honestly, men and women are STILL using the "I don't know how this happened shtick?

POOR UNFORTUNATE SOUL: Papa Bear, you're having another kid?

(ASSISTANT AND PAPA BEAR ENTER POOR UNFORTUNATE SOUL's doorway)

PAPA BEAR: (Smiles) I know, right. Can you believe it?

POOR UNFORTUNATE SOUL: No, no. I can't. Well, I don't know whether to say congratulations or...well, yes. I don't know what to say. 

ASSISTANT: Papa Bear, you need to have a vasectomy. A number of my family members have had vasectomies. 

POOR UNFORTUNATE SOUL: Yeah, that sounds like a good idea!

PAPA BEAR: (Grimaces) Yuck! I don't want them shortening my dick.

(Dumbfounded Silence)

ASSISTANT: That's not how that works. Do you need some brochures? I can get you some brochures?

(Uncomfortable Silence)

POOR UNFORTUNATE SOUL: Yes, Papa Bear, that's not how that procedure works.

PAPA BEAR: Well I don't want anyone cutting off my nuts or nothin'.

ASSISTANT: Papa Bear you sound so uneducated!

PAPA BEAR: What? I don't!

POOR UNFORTUNATE SOUL: This is too much. They like clip...they cut...they clip the little chord. Ugh, this isn't what you think. You should look into this, for your sake (and the state!). 

ASSISTANT: (Flustered) Papa Bear, I am going to get you some brochures, yes I am, because this is ridiculous! I cannot be bothered - I'm going back to my desk.

PAPA BEAR: It's not like all the eleven weren't planned...just some.

Missed The Memo

And as ASSISTANT and PAPA BEAR left, so concluded our low down dirty shame version of Masterpiece Theatre. After having watched that display, I was more convinced then ever that permits and licensing should be required for parents to be and maybe sterilization of certain segments of the populace, against their will, was not so bad after all. There also should be some testing with questions like how many kids do you already have? If more than, I don't know - SIX, a giant pair of scissors should come out and castrate the person - immediately - for even thinking of fertilizing more eggs! What is the matter with people?! I say this all in jest while remaining in complete shock that this man has procreated for the eleventh time. Of course, the real moral of the story is that I should keep my office door closed at all times and pump up Adele to the highest decibel possible, at which point my ears can suffer through the pain of a wailing songstress as opposed to the pain of listening to stupidity. For the record, I love listening to Adele's wailing. I'm just majorly jealous that I don't get paid mega bucks to do that. 

11 Women Never Heard Of It 

WORD OF THE DAY: VASECTOMY!

I've Always Loved The Rock's Thighs...

I am in love. I have been fortunate enough to have found love with an amazing human being who, as cliche as it sounds, challenges, inspires me, and brings more joy to my life than I ever imagined. While my feeling of love is traditional, I suppose my falling in love and being engaged to another man is not so traditional. Despite this, my gayness is not new to anyone who has known me, family members, friends, past teachers, etc... everyone has known I have had a little sugar in my tank. I've known it since I was a young teenager and may have possibly touched myself in bad places while watching the Rock's carmel colored tree trunk thighs on WWE from time to time. (not confirming it happened, just saying it's a possibility). The point of this story is, despite the billboard of gayness I may have worn on my book bag through high school, college, and then adulthood...I suppose for a father who always dreamt that maybe his son would be The Rock instead of drooling over the Rock, having his fiancee over for Thanksgiving Dinner may be more than you can handle. Apparently, this was indeed true for my father who had no intention of breaking bread with my fiancee and passing the cranberry sauce into his eager hands on Turkey Day. Instead all of his disdain and anger and embarrassment over his son's decision to choose to be "gay" came roaring to the surface on the following days before the holiday. The anxiety of having his only son, in the presence with family, actually at the dinner table with his partner/male lover was just to much to ask. I felt like a teenager again seeking acceptance. It hurt, but I knew what I had to do. While he did not come right out and not invite us, it was clear that he did not want us there as a package deal. So, I did the only self-respecting thing I could do, I un-invited myself from that dinner and every other dinner for the foreseeable future. I was no longer seeking acceptance as I did as the scared 15 year old, as a grown man I was now demanding it. Everyone knew I loved the Rock's thighs, my gayness was old news, for everyone, including my father. From my father's perspective, the engagement part is what made it real. I am love and even more so after learning that my father has been trying to hide his disgust at the life I have built with another man. I also remain in lust with The Rock and those thighs. MMMM! Somethings simply will not change - everyone will have to accept it. Take it or leave it, family or no family.