I am one of those people who never really liked my name. I would have preferred Myra or my middle
name, Temma. Something more exotic. Something that congers up a picture in your
mind of someone exciting and sophisticated.
Well, let me tell you, after hearing the name of a guy who
died at age 137, I will never complain again.
A Chippewa Indian, this fellow’s name, Ga-Be-Nah-Gewn_Wonce is
translated as…are you ready for this?....WRINKLED MEAT. I kid you not!
If I had such a name, I’d “Gotta-Be-Now-Goin”, not Once, but twice
or as many times as it took to avoid the name calling. “Hey Wrinkled…how’s your meat?” And whereas I have had to endure nicknames for
6 decades, this poor guy had 137 years of: Dear “Mr.
Meat” or Dear “Wrinkled”. What was his
mother thinking? Mother: “Hey honey,
what shall we call our son? How about
Robert, or John, or David, or Tiny Penis or Wrinkled Meat?” Father
“I like Tiny Penis but I’m afraid his
friends will make fun of him so let’s go with Wrinkled Meat”. I didn’t
see where Wrinkled had any siblings, but I can just imagine a sister named “Dried
Prune” or “Sun Ripened Tomato”.
Now that I think of it, if I ever decide to be a stripper, I’ll
certainly consider “Wrinkled Meat” as my stage name. And as I walk out, everyone will nod their heads
and say “Yeah, that makes sense”.
