What’s in a name?

At my local pub, I know very few by their real name. Most everyone has a nickname that just sort of stuck, and their given ones long forgotten. When I go to the pub on my shenanigan Tuesdays, I find the same old regular crowd. At the end of the bar is Balls, who turns out to be some sort of second cousin of mine, or some shit. Two chairs down is Fuckhead Ed with his old lady Ing. Next to them is Father Harris, who is not a priest, but bares the last name of the former catholic priest in town from many years past—no relation. I find it ironic that he generally sits next to God. Next to him is Philthy, who’s usually accompanied by Dirty. A friend of mine that I catch a lift home with goes by the moniker Crazy Legs. And me? Well…
So there I was, about two years ago, shooting pool and sporting my favorite hat–the one with three or four feathers sticking out of it—when all of a sudden, from out of no where, this fella bursts through the door like he owned the joint and started bullshitting with Fuckhead, right in the midst of our game. He introduced himself to several others then turned to me and said, “So what do they call you, besides Chicken Plucker?” That was it. The entire bar—myself included—roared with laughter, and it stuck. I can’t walk down the aisle at the grocery store without someone yelling. “Hey, Chicken Plucker!”
You never get to choose your own nickname, that would be cheating. When you get a really funny one, it’s something to be appreciated, and revered. That’s when you know you’ve been accepted into the fray, and all is right with the world.



  1. […] What's in a name?. […]

    1. What libenatirg knowledge. Give me liberty or give me death.

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