Nicknames

Listen here, I’ve just had it up to here with this stupid nickname, and it has to stop. I know, I know, you guys think it’s funny, but no, no, it’s not, it really isn’t. From now on whenever one of you decides to call me by that incessant nickname, I’ll call you by a stupider nickname, isn’t that right Colonel Spicy Bottom? So if you see this vein a-poppin, Suzy, I don’t want you off daydreaming about that boy you met in the malt shop, getting your panties in a bunch, wondering, “does he? doesn’t he? does he? doesn’t he? does he? doesn’t he?” Well I can tell you, he doesn’t want to make pasty-Aryan-love to you. Instead, you should run, run like the little girl you are, Melinda.

If you choose to go on about how much easier it is to call me by that nickname, because there’s another Adam in our group, well, a good portion of my friends who call me by that nickname, don’t even know the other Adam, and you call me by that nickname when he’s not even around. For this, I mostly blame Stampy McSpillyPants, but she’s not the only one to blame. You all do it, in your casual acceptance of this nickname, Janine.

So, Slappy Bag, if you ever get the urge to call me something other than my name, well, I’m just going to have to go ahead, and re-heh-heally start calling you these nicknames. You got that, Trash Bag?

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