Sure we all giggle when someone's name suggests a part of the anatomy that is best left private. Sure we all chortle and guffaw when someone's name provides more than a bit of bathroom humor. But this week, Dick Poop (pictured at the left) has been the butt of such jokes more than any individual should have to endure.
I remember in the good ol' days of one-car garages, two-speed blenders, and three-channel televisions, my brother used to make prank phone calls from our rotary-dial house phone to the one Harry Butts listed in the annually published white pages. I swear he made multiple calls per day. He never let the man rest.
Some might argue that perhaps Mr. Butts brought this onslaught on himself, that he should have known better thanto list his name in the phonebook, that he should have had an unlisted telephone number. But was this really his fault -- just because he had oblivious, thoughtless, or just down-right cruel parents?
If parents are bent on giving their offspring inappropriate and/or unfortunate names (I once new a man by the name of Richard Seaman), should that person have to bear the brunt of ridicule brought on by boorish and insensitive nameholes (individuals who incessantly open fire with jokes in poor taste about another person's lamentable name)?
Such is the case of Dick Poop. His parents could have named him Bradford, Hoover, or Cedric. They could have called him Tucker, Finley, or Langston. They could have christened him one of a thousand and one different names. But they called him Dick.
Dick Poop has had to endure a lifetime of ridicule. Years of snickers. Decades of disdain.
Then, this week, when the President of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences was announcing the nominations for the Academy Awards, she erringly called cinematographer Dick Pope "Dick Poop," and the world had a good laugh. Social media went crazy. Late night comedians went hard.
And Dick Poop? Dick Poop sat at home -- alone -- in the dark -- and cried.