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A name is meaningless, isn’:t it?
(American pronunciation of Z is required)
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WHAT’S IN A NAME
What’s in a name?
Well, that depends on your point of view,
doesn’t it?
I’m Bart.
Nineteen years old.
Unemployed.
Dad said I’d have a devil of a time finding
work and he was right, of course.
Dad’s a bit of a cuckoo, if you know what I
mean?
He lays his eggs in other men’s nests, but he
only ever picks the most pious women.
It’s his sense of humour.
My mother? Jennifer Bubb nee Watkins.
Regular churchgoer she was. Read the bible like most
people read the funny pages in the papers.
Dad just couldn’t resist her red hair, pale
skin and freckles… and, of course, her knockout
figure. He said it wasn’t easy, but then things
worth anything never are, are they? He flirted,
chased her, teased her, brought her gifts and
promised his undying love for her, as he had to the
other hundreds of women that he’s seduced over
the years.
She kept on refusing, but he persisted and
eventually… well, you know… I was
conceived. Nine months later I was born, named and
then Dad just up and left.
Jenny’s husband stood by her for quite a while.
I gotta say he was tough, but when the whispering and
the pointing got too much, he took his own life -
spraying his brains all over the insides of the barn.
I was about ten when he did that.
My mother took to the booze.
She had a lot more boyfriends then, too.
She stopped going to church.
Spent a lot of time on her knees, but never stopped
praying.
In the end she also gave up, overdose, you know.
By that time, I was old enough, and ugly enough, to
look after myself.
Except for the job-hunting thing.
I’d get to the interview and things would go
well until the penny finally dropped on the
interviewer.
They’d ask me about my name.
I’m kinda sensitive about it, you know, and
when they start laughing, I just get madder and
madder until the horns appear.
Then the interviewer gets serious and apologises,
but… it’s too late! I’m already
pissed at them.
So I give them what they least want.
For him it’ll be a small, almost non-existent
penis; warts; big, blotchy birthmarks, the kinda
thing that turns women (and men) off.
For her it’ll be a flat chest, a big, fat
mountain of an ass, cellulite thighs, or something
else that she finds equally repugnant.
How can I do this?
I am my father’s son.
I’m Bartholomew Leviticus Zachariah Bubb.
Yeah, you’ve got it.
B. L. Z. Bubb - Dad’s a funny guy, huh?
Got any work?
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