If I had a dog, I’d give it a distinctive name. Not a clichéd dog name like Rover, Fido or Gustav Klimt. Not a JK Rowling name like Harry, Ron or Cribbage. Not an old west name like Old Yeller, Ol’ Blue or Old Barren Toothless Hag Wrangler Jane.
Nope, none of those names for my dog. Nor would I choose a name I initially thought was clever but would come to regret soon after the cur got used to it. Names like Snoop, Hot or Sir Poops A Lot.
I’d name my dog something that was distinctive and reflected my sometimes immature sense of humor. I’d call my dog Kiss My Ass.
I can’t wait to walk it in a bucolic park and have all types of people come up to us and say, “Oh, what a cute dog. What’s its name?” All sorts of people—horny mothers with snotty young illegitimate children in tow, a flock of nuns hiding stolen hams under their nun dresses, and the so-called “President” of the United States—would get the same answer to “What’s its name?”
“Kiss My Ass,” I’d always answer—especially loudly to the so-called “President” (perhaps in an ALL CAPS tweet at 6 a.m.)—and then casually walk away as we head to an unregistered pet broker to purchase a cat.
I’ve got some really immature names in mind for a pussycat. LOL. OMG. ROFL. YMCA.