The Wicked Wind of the West
A Rose by Any Other Name Would Smell Just as Sweet, of Hoppers Crossing writes:
Dear Westie: I have a colleague at work (we’ll call him “Mr Nicknames” Ed.) who likes to give people nicknames. He does so in jest and he thinks he’s pretty funny – he often is. Recently, I accidentally let rip with a trouser cough in the lunchroom and ever since he’s been riffing on that, calling me Trumpet Trousers, Fartenstein’s Monster, The Scented Scream, The Wicked Wind of the West and worse. He also started singing: “You are the wind beneath my wings” every time I walk past his desk.
I don’t mind the farty nicknames, but ever since he started singing the Bette Midler song, one older colleague has started calling me “The Divine Miss M”, which then led to others calling me “Divine” after the drag star of the same name. Upon hearing of this, Mr Nicknames swapped the Midler song for the Divine tune “You Think You’re a Man”…
This has been going on for weeks now. It seems I’ve become a game. I don’t mind a nickname, in fact I’d love one, as long as it’s not too awful; I just want this non-stop name game to stop. What do I do?
Well, ARBAONWSJAS, you’re in a bit of a pickle aren’t you? I understand your desire for stability, but the nickname, given to us by others as a token of affection, or forced upon us by those with less favourable intentions, is one of the more difficult things for a person to control. We might seek to influence the nature of any nickname destined to come our way via our behaviour, ways of speaking and our looks, but there is no guarantee this will work. Nor can we give ourselves a nickname as evidenced by George Costanza’s pathetic attempt to have himself referred to as “T-Bone” (Seinfeld, S9.E19 Ed.).
Far better for you to simply smile as this endless stream of nicknames rolls over you. It will stop. One day. The best you can hope for is that when it does stop, the name they settle on is one you can live with. In order to facilitate that best-of-all-possible-worlds ending, it is critical that you do not react to any of the names that irritate you. Remain calm at all times, if you can, Moaning Myrtle, sorry, Farty McFly. Oops must stop that. Very unprofessional. Did someone cut the cheese?
From last edition
In last’s month’s Dear Westie, we addressed the problem of the permissive society as it relates to offspring that still live with their parents, the endless parade of one-night-stand-Air-BnB-type-online-dating-pals they bring home with them, and the lengthy and loud horizontal operatic performance-type behaviour they engage in (That’s the longest sentence ever printed in The Westsider, Ed.). Barry White of Taylors Lakes accused us of being overtly salacious, an accusation our editorial team strongly refutes – a bit – after looking up the word. Ian from Ian’s Instant Insulation and Soundproofing of Kings Park, offered us a quote, not in relation to cost, but from a satisfied customer of his, which read: “He came quickly and on very short notice, leaving everything spick and span. It was over and done in an instant! We were very satisfied.” If only we could say the same about those who visit our poor reader’s son each night.
If anything in this column has raised issues for you, or if there’s anything you’d like to get off your chest, write to Dear Westie via editor@thewestsider.com.au
