“My name is spelled “Richart,” she said. “I bet you can’t pronounce it.”

Me, Mr. International Guy. Me, who can speak in a great French accent, even though I can’t speak any French, except to say Il y a un monde dans le balcon, which means “the balcony is full.” According to my friend, this is how the French say a woman is boobish.

Easy, I huffed. German, I thought. Rye-cart, I gambled.

“No, it’s like Richard, but with a t, she corrected, without actually calling me dumb. “Everyone always makes it too hard.” Great, now I’m Wrong Like Everyone Else. Then she told me about a friend who was trying to come up with a baby name that no one would make fun of. “Oh, please—” I replied eagerly, “tell me what she has come up with so far.” None of her suggestions took longer than .03 seconds to mock.

I grew up with Rusty Beavers. We didn’t make much of his name because, well, his mom just handed it to us. It wasn’t any fun. High school mates called me Chicken Noodle, which wasn’t funny either because, well, duh. Same with Dusty Rhodes. I swear, every town with more than ten people in it has a Dusty Rhodes. What we need is fewer Dusty Rhodes and more Wendy Butz.

Richart-With-A-T said she knew a Bambi Faun. Note: try not to give give your daughter a porn name.

“I’m going to change my name to something more obvious,” Richart vowed. “Like ‘Rattlesnake.'”

That’s more obvious?

“Okay,” I replied, “but then tell them it’s pronounced “Rott-la-snok-ee.”         ❦