What’s
in a Name?
There once was a family named Schmidt
who lived in New Jersey. One snowy day the Schmidt’s elder son, whose name was John
Jacob Fledermaus Rosengarten Bachundheimer, was driving his Volkswagen van across
the Bayonne Bridge when he swerved to avoid hitting a pariah mongrel that had
wandered onto the roadway. His car slewed through the guard rail and plunged
into the Kill Van Kull.
John Jacob Fledermaus
Rosengarten Bachundheimer’s younger brother, named Ed, who had been two cars
behind and who had not skidded, immediately reached for his cellphone and
dialed home. The Schmidt father, who was hard of hearing and who used a cheap, recycled
cellphone whose battery was low, answered.
“Pop, this is
Ed,” Ed said. “John Jacob Fledermaus Rosengarten Bachundheimer just fell in the
river.”
“Nell who?” Pop
said, because he was hard of hearing and also easily confused.
“John Jacob Fledermaus
Rosengarten Bachundheimer,” Ed said.
“So why are you
calling, John Jacob Fledermaus Rosengarten Bachundheimer?”
“No,” Ed said. “This
is not John Jacob Fledermaus Rosengarten Bachundheimer. This is Ed, the younger
brother of John Jacob Fledermaus Rosengarten Bachundheimer who fell in the
river. His van is bobbing up and down like a cork, and John Jacob Fledermaus Rosengarten
Bachundheimer is hanging onto the roof rack. He needs help.”
“John Jacob Fledermaus
Rosengarten Bachundheimer needs kelp? What is[JM1] [JM2]
John Jacob Fledermaus Rosengarten Bachundheimer going to do with kelp?”
“Never mind, Pop.
John Jacob Fledermaus Rosengarten Bachundheimer Schmidt is heading out to sea.”
Pop banged his
cellphone on the kitchen counter until its glass shattered. “Damn kids,” he
said. “Always trying to complicate matters.”
Lesson: If you really want to spread
confusion, go into Starbucks and order a tall vente in a grande cup.
