What's In A Name

Recently over at the Aurora (the home of my first blogging experience...and the first site to officially give me the boot! May it not be the last for why would I want to be a contributor at any blog that would have me as one!), they just reposted a story I wrote for their page about a year and a half ago. Well, as it turns out I was looking around the internet and saw a site that was taking humor submissions for cash. Being that I was online, and my conservative buddies made it fairly easy for me to copy and paste this particular yarn right into an email, I submitted and waited. Suffice it to say, the story isn't my best work but they said that it was great...except there weren't enough jokes worked into the story. Finding this a little confusing, I looked up their supposed web page and it is non-existent now. Presto, it's gone daddy gone. Worried that perhaps I got bamboozled into giving away a story so that it might just appear elsewhere for free, I will repost it again here. Perhaps this will discourage these louts from trying to sell it as their own. Perhaps I am just being paranoid and they really didn't like it. However to further my suspiscion, when I responded to them in an effort to find out what was going on with their website address, I got no reply. Until today, when they ignored my request and instead asked me for more submissions. Now I know, I may have a lolipop for a head but I ain't no sucker! So without further delay, ya wanna hear a story? Well, here it goes:

It just occured to me that, if I was a rock star and had a band, I'd rather have a hardcore name than just use my own name (i.e. Kenny Loggins, Phil Collins, or even Sting). Most bands have some type of story detailing the origin of their name. For example, Led Zeppelin's moniker supposedly arose from a discussion between band mates regarding specific names. It is said or rumored that drummer John Bonham replied that one specific name that came up during this conversation would go over like a led balloon which they all thought was right good fun. As a group, they tweaked Bonham's response and became Led Zeppelin. While this is a good name, I feel any band that I started would need more of a story and so I return to High School where fortunately or unfortunately a great deal of my most embarrassing moments lie. I just recently was speaking to a friend who reminded me of an event that I had long forgotten. It turns out that I had vandalized a friend's car while he was running a track meet and the implications while not altogether important gave birth to my currently fictional future band's name. Like all good stories, it was a dark and stormy night when I happened to be leaving another friend's house who lived nearby the track field where my friend Mike was running. So as I often did, I intended to stop by and hopefully catch a little bit of the action but when I arrived there was no parking. However I did see that Mike's car was parked along the street so I decided to leave him a note that I had been there and to call me later. When I arrived at the car it was open so I went to place the note inside and as I was doing so I noticed his track bag was lying on the seat of his car...Inside I found these contents: 3 pairs of tidy whities, 2 pairs of sneakers (presumably for sneaking), a jock strap (which I handled carefully with the pen I had brought to leave the note), & some T-shirts. Well, to me such a situation called for these items to be tossed haphazardly around the car leaving the jock strap to dangle off his rearview mirror. Now as it turns out Mike was not Jewish (not that there's anything wrong with that) but for some reason I thought it would be funnier to leave a threatening note than a boring "how do you do" type of greeting...and so I scribbled some hateful rhetoric telling him that I thought he and his kind should GET OUT. Though I had never drawn a swastika before, I thought that I ably captured the essence of it and left this note hanging off the pasenger seat visor and promptly ambled back to my car and sped off. Well, it seems that Mike had some rituals that I didn't even know about, one of which was to drive to and from track meets with his coach. After the meet they returned to the car and saw the door partially open and general disarray inside the car (I forgot to mention that he had quite a few bags of fastfood waste lying on the backseat floor which was carefully redeposited on the front seats)...They began to clean the car out and it was obvious to Mike that this was the work of someone who knew him and he tried to explain that it was just a goof...this is when his coach found the letter hanging off the visor. It turns out that I should have paid more attention to my first dabble in the field of Anti Semitism because apparently the swastika that I had drawn was inverted. Mike's coach only had one question and it was this, "who are you friends with Michael, dyslexic nazi's?"...And so my band name was born...I can barely strum a guitar but at least I know that if by some chance lighting strikes me and I am graced with the talent to actually play that thing that sits in my basement looking cool (and collecting dust)...Hey, I have a good hardcore band name -"Ladies & Gentlemen, may I introduce to you...The Dyslexic Nazis."


The Overfloater said...

Man, I wish I knew who you were talking about. Brocail didn't find those things, did he? Dyslexic Nazis is a good band name, but to have crossover appeal to non-white supremacists maybe you should tweak it to 'Sympathetic Nazis'.

Here's a story:

Guy walks into a bar with a couple of buddies, they are new to town and looking to get loaded. They sit down at a table and one of them walks up to the bar to order a round. As he approaches he notices a large glass jar on the bar filled with cash - $100's, $50's, $20's, $10's. He orders 3 beers and as the bartender is returning with the brew the man asks, "Hey, what is with this jar filled with money?"

The bartender says, "It'll cost you $10 to even find out." Feeling overwhelmed with curiosity, the guy forks over a crisp $10. The bartender folds the bill and inserts it into a slit cut into the top of the jar. "Oh, this jar has been here for as long as I have, 10 years. There are three challenges that must be met before someone can claim this here jar, there must be $15,000 in here."

"What are the three challenges?" the man asked.

The bartender replies, "One - you have to drink this entire gallon of tequila without stopping," and he pulls a large glass gallon of yellow tequila from underneath the bar.

"Two," the bartender continues, "you have to go out back and pull a snaggletooth from an old, nasty bull mastiff that guards the place."

"Three, the the peron who owns this bar is a 93-year-old woman that lives upstairs and has never experienced an orgasm. So if you think you can accomplish those three feats, this is your reward," and the bartender puts his hand on the money jar.

"OK, thank you," the guy says and goes back to his friends. Well, after a while they've had a little too much to drink and the guy's friends egg him on to do it. Summoning his drunken courage, he walks up to the bar and announces to the bartender, "I'm in !"

The bartender rings a bell and all the locals stop the drinking, the jukebox stops playing, etc, etc. Bartender brings up the gallon and drops it on the bar. The guy unscrews the lid and just begins to try and drink the tequila. He is coughing and gagging as he is trying to chug, it is splattering everywhere, it runs down his chin, throat and shirt. He is practically puking it back up trying to swallow this gallon of tequila in one shot. He finally gets to the end of the gallon and he is a total mess, spit up tequila everywhere.

Bartender says, "OK, go out back for number Two."

The guy gets up and falls down immediately. He gets up and lumbers toward the back door. As soon as he opens it the bar is filled with savage barking and growling. Then they hear the guy screaming, crashing, banging, all hell sounds like it is breaking out back there. Five minutes later he stumbles in, torn to shreds, clothes hanging off him, bleeding everywhere, etc. He looks to the bar and he says, "OK, where is the old lady with the toothache?"

Anonymous said...

First, the story above is disgusting, that poor dog. (Obviously a joke but not the best one, I might add). Anyone of Unruly's stories (real life ones) would make a great book and/or blog. But better book. It could be about him overcoming past demons and becoming successful. And I think the Statute of limitations have run on all of his criminal acts.

Second, Mook's story is funny. However, realistically speaking, any bad name with the name "Nazis" in it will go nowhere. I wonder what my band name would be? "6th Grade Snot Runaway"?

unruly said...

Mookie McFly, I loved the story. I love how you randomly decided to be an anit-semite and the backward swasticka.

At any rate, as for Fakehead, dude what are you some kind of animal lover all of a sudden?

At any rate, Mooks, I love the music part of this blog. You are the pimpyiest of all time.

As for Overfloater, you are disgusting.

And as for all of you, I will never check my spelling just to spite you guys.

Mookie McFly said...

You conclude that people would be turned off by the Nazi thing which is fair but I think you are flat out giving people too much credit. People don't even know who their senator is or the vice president for that matter. Plus, it's kind of like a joke on the Nazi's and their symbol could be the backwards swastika. Your reasoning kills my backup band name too...the N-Word Lovers!

Did you know that The Band (of Bob Dylan & the Band - Cripple Creek, The Weight, etc.) were originally known as the Crackers. People didn't really get it so they just went with what everyone called them including Bob...The Band.

I think I am going to post more stories. I'm not doing anything with them so why not. Perhaps I'll just put them up over on the Ovary Floaters blog.

PS - Don't you hate it when athletes try to be rock stars and they have the gayest coordinated band names. The call themselves 4th & 1, the Hit Makers or some other crap. If athletes want to rock they should have to dress like Kiss with make up so no one knows their true identity.

Mookie McFly said...

Fakers been corrupted by his wife. He was never an animal lover before that I know of (sheep don't count dude!).

Pretty soon he'll be hugging trees & washing pelicans in his kitchen sink.

Well, I don't care what you say Fakerhead or should I say Petahead. I will not stop wearing my fur coat made of endangered animals nor will I stop clubbing baby seals. Water Buffalo would kill you if they had the chance so I just beat them to the punch...or should I say shotgun blast (goes boo ya straight through ya).

Just breaking your hagus FH. In fact I was once a twirly birded, skirt wearing liberal until my wife got her hands on me. Now, I vote for Republicans exclusively, have a fictional band with "Nazi" in the title, have a good friend in a band named "Ultra White", and pretty much want to build a wall around this country. Who do you think got me into baby seal clubbing? Mrs. Fly has made me a better man as I am sure Mrs.Head (that doesn't sound right) has made you a better man...albeit an animal lover!

McUnurly said...

Baby seal clubbing...you have to post more McFly.

YOu are killing me these days!

Anonymous said...

I only love cute animals. No, I'm kidding. I just feel bad for animals, because they don't know (at least the dumb ones don't). I hate the fact that people get their rocks off by torturing animals like dogs, cats, etc. Those things are innocent. Of course, so are cows, chickens, etc. and I have no problem eating meat, but it still makes me feel bad. That being said, I'll be the first to fire up the BBQ and have a precious cheeseburger. (At least hot dogs don't have much meat in them, ha ha).

I don't know, there is something about a dog in particular that makes me insane when I hear about people torturing them. They are so fucking trusting, for the most part (except for those that are raised to fight and kill, they are nuts - but it could be argued they are being treated cruelly as well, and they are) and it just sucks when people abuse them or leave them behind or not having the fucking sense to take the fucking dog with them when they fucking evacuate their shack in New Orleans. The only reason why I am like this is because my dog still has post-traumatic stress syndrome from whoever owned her before I did, so she is scared of almost everyone and every loud noise.

Anyway, I'm boring myself, I'm going to eat a veal cheesburger. (I'm kidding, I don't eat veal).

Oh, and I'm no liberal, trust me. I'm not even a Democrat. I'm independent, and will stay that way all the way to the Mayor's office in Florham Park. Don't worry, I will have a place for everyone when I get to the top. Of course, my past experience with whores and drugs will prevent me from being president, but who wants that job anyway?

Unruly said...

If you make mayor I want a job ok. Call it Chief of Police, and your the first one to go down! Then Mooks, then Figger. Then me. Smell ya later meat lovers.