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Lowcountry Riffs: The name game revisited
Published Wednesday, May 19, 2010 2:24 PM
By Jim Tatum
The Gazette

You just have to love the Social Security Administration.

In these times of vociferous, vituperative complaining about government waste – and I am right there with those who want to throw all the bums out – along comes the SSA’s annual “Most Popular Baby Names in America” list.

I suppose this is not a complete waste of time and money in that it does clearly indicate that there are a lot of folks who have no business whatsoever reproducing.

On the other hand, we already knew that. Anyone who would name their kid after a soap opera character needs to wear radioactive shorts for the next six months starting NOW.

I’m not going to get into the list here; if you’re that interested go to the SSA website and read all about it. Suffice it say that William is the most popular boys name in South Carolina and Isabella is queen’s choice for newborn Carolina girls this year. Those seem pretty normal, so congratulations to Palmetto State parents for not saddling their newborn urchins with monikers that will guarantee a punch in the nose on the playground in about six years or so.

Nationwide, most of them aren’t so bad – you really don’t see many Kia Sephias or Merita Nehis that much anymore. Of course, there absolutely never was a child named Lemonjello, Orangejello, Female, or any of the other favorites of persisting urban legends – at least not until someone decided to name a kid such after hearing one of those stories.

And yet …

What about people we know? We’ve all met folks who have been saddled with terrible monikers. Somewhere out there, there really is a Harry Butz, Semour Heinie, Ima Hooker and Amanda Hugginkiss … and these people undoubtedly exist beyond those lists you used to turn into a substitute teacher in grade school just to see if she’d actually call the roll out loud.

A friend of mine swears she went out with a guy named – and I swear I’m not making this up – Ben Waugh.

Then there are those dreaded monikers we all somehow earn. For instance, before I was the handsome, stalwart, rock and roller/scribbler whose words you know and admire now, I was a skinny kid with a face that hadn’t grown into my nose. Soon, I became “Beak.”

Later, possibly to my uncanny propensity for breaking fins off surfboards in any swell condition, I became known as “Fin Boy.” But that’s another column.

I’ve noticed, too, that generally, the farther in country you go, the weirder the nicknames get. I’ve known a “Donk,” a “Splinter”, a couple of “Cooters”, a brace of “Rabbits”, a wall full of “Studs”, a pick-up truck load of “Bubbas”, and at least one “Ayatollah.” That was my cousin, whose elementary school students universally referred to her as “The Ayatollah Iola,” although probably not to her face.

Then there was “Scatterbrain,” a legendary old reprobate, long dead now, who once owned a gas station up in the Carolina foothills. He was famous for, among other things, constantly wearing a .45 caliber revolver on his hip. As the station also served as the local bar, many great stories came from its musty depths.

One night, according to legend, Scatterbrain suddenly snatched his pistol from his holster and blew the television to smithereens, causing the local landed gentry to hit the floor cussing, beer bottles, moonshine jars, and tiny pieces of Zenith black and white cathode tubes raining down like some surreal alcoholic barrage.

As it turned out, the group had been watching “Gunsmoke” on TV, and Scatter had always wanted to know if he could out-draw Matt Dillon.

He could.


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