After consuming at least one glass of over hyped Pinot Noir or rot gut chardonnay from the sale bin at BevMo, a smattering of folks will go around in a circle rattling off their stripper names with the confidence of a mid-level manager at T.J. Maxx, the one with the stay press slacks and the Hoola Hoop size key chain that yells, “I can kill you with my inside voice and my unfulfilled expectations!”
The loudest and proudest person in the circle of confusion is always the dude with short sleeves, cargo shorts and opened toe sandals who chugs his Bed Light Lime in a can and mouth farts, “My name would be Fluffy Cherry!” Everyone awkwardly laughs and then secretly wishes he would combust into a huge gas cloud. Then the homely woman standing next to him looks down at her scuffed, Nine West wedges and blurts out “Rusty Walnut.” Again, the laughter commences but the group seems to genuinely appreciate her testicle implied nickname, instead of wishing her ill. Then the newest employee, the woman to her left, a woman with a schizophrenic’s facial tick and stringy hair worthy of a box of super plus tampons quietly chirps, “Puddles Pine”.
The silence if deafening as her delivery kills what potential humor her name could have elicited. No one in this collection of onion blossom eating happy hour patrons cares to imagine her peeing on anyone. They just move on. Three more dolts rattle off their monikers like the clever and fabulous C+ averages they have always been. But unfortunately, Paula’s “Whiskers Rose”, Jenna’s “Misty Maple”, and Brett’s “Bashful Woodlawn” get no love from anyone, falling flat like a sorority girl with a grain alcohol drip and date rape experience.
Finally, the last man standing calmly shares his stripper nickname with this gaggle of census takers. Eldridge, the assistant director of sales and marketing, the dude who always wears Mephisto walking shoes with a complimentary, matching tote and thrice weekly leaves uncovered tuna salad in the employee fridge, finishes the game with “Blacky Washington.” Seeing that Eldridge is the color of expensive coffee grinds and dons only orange clothing, most employees assume he is a newly minted Hari Krishna raised by white, Midwestern Unitarians with bad feet and an un-paralleled love of rolled, mystery meats. As Blacky Washington guffaws over his ironic title, the office pool, too confused and politically correct to laugh, quickly disperses without a word, leaving Eldridge standing there with a plastic cup of lukewarm, white wine spritzer and the sudden inspiration to log on to Monster.com before falling asleep in his overpriced, under decorated condo a few hours later.
Mine is Missy Park. Blah.