Circus Giganticus

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Name That Tuna

November 30th, 2009 · 6 Comments · Wentworth and Wiggmann

Wentworth: What’s in a name, Wiggy?

Wentworth: Everything if it’s a feminine hygiene product. Helps the pharmacist no end.

Wentworth: Personal names, Wiggy. For example, I have never liked the names Frank or Peter. In fact, I’ve never gotten on with any Franks or Peters I have ever known.

Wiggmann: Well, in the name of Freudian psychology I gather it’s rather salutary to be Frank about your Peter. Earnest often enters the picture, usually unbidden.

Wentworth: And other names are simply beyond the pale. Can you picture yourself as a Norman, a Percy, or an Eggbert?

Wiggmann: Ish! I get your point. However these names are rather antiquated and would not be inflicted upon today’s carbon based units. No, today we have armies of Noahs and Tylers, Chloes and Madisons. They too shall yield the scorn of generations hence.

Wentworth: Recognize Wiggy, that given names often act as code that determine the rise one can make in our classless society. Jethro and Cletus are not passport cognomens to the Ivy League or Country Club links, now are they?

Wiggmann: And what of those annoying Meritocrats…over-educated academics who confer names unto their pets as advertisements for their discipline? Foucault for the philosopher manque…Copperfield for the English Lit personage.

Wentworth: If I had a dog I would abandon all pretense and give him a name as would the American Indian. I would simply say, “This is Dog.” Unless he ran away.

Wiggmann: If he ran away? What would you say if he ran away?

Wentworth:Doggone.

Wiggmann “Arf!” he cried, violently launching a can of Alpo at the head of the rank punster.

Wentworth: And somewhere…far off in the distance…a dog barked. Could have been a cow…maybe a lawnmower. Tough to name.

Wiggmann:You will not get the final word, you dog.

Wentworth: No, I can see that.

Wiggmann: Stop!
 
Wentworth: O.K.

Wiggmann: Uh, uh, uh….

Wentworth: Got it.

Wiggmann: Uhhhh…..

____

Wiggmann: I have had the great displeasure of having listened to the witless troika of Beck, Hannity, and Limbaugh. These buffoons can not even pass “the bar stool rule.”

Wentworth: The “bar stool rule?” Do tell, old bean.

Wiggmann: Well, the bar stool rule posits that: “One shall not speak from the bar stool unless one has something of merit to say.” You see Worthy, amidst the reek and clatter of the public drinking house, as Joyce would say, one must offer plausible conversation or shut up. One cannot simply spout off and expect to be given any respect. The spout-er wastes the drinker’s time and disrespects the forum accorded. Bad form for conversation and amateur night for drinkers. A lethal combination.

Wentworth:I see it now…Rush Limbaugh as Moby Dickhead. “It is the spouting whale that gets the harpoon!”

Wiggmann: “Mr. Beck, he’s dead.”

Wentworth: You’re mixing novels.

Wiggmann: “Isn’t it pretty to think so.”

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