Alright, kids, joke time. A kid walks into a bar. The bartender says, “What are you doing here? You aren’t old enough to drink yet. Get out.” The kid says, “Okay,” and leaves.
I wish I had changed my name a long time ago. Maybe at three or four years old. Max is a nice name to choose for yourself. Max Maxson. Max son of Max. Or Felix. Who names their kid Max? Or Felix. Nobody, because women don’t get it about naming boys. They like to be named Max. What kid named Felix could be anything but the shit when he grows up? Nobody. No body.
A beautiful woman walks into a bar. The bartender says, “Not everyday we see beautiful girls like you in here.” Heeding this as a warning, the woman wisely takes her business elsewhere.
It makes less and less sense to change your name the older you get, because each lost moment- which is exactly what the present is: lost- is a moment lost as this new person. This Max or Felix. The blandness builds up.
A rabbi, a priest and an imam walk into a bar. Then, realizing that it would not become any in their professions to be seen at such a place, they swiftly exit.
I am going to change my name. I am going to be Puff Daddy from now on. No, I am not. One day, I will be. I will be better at being Puff Daddy than Puff Daddy ever was, even back when he was still Puff Daddy. But not today. I wait, I wait. I’m not ready for the responsibility of being the only Puff Daddy in this world. When I am, I will take up the heavy crown and place it on my own head like a certain famous French autocrat.
A fish walks into a bar. He asphyxiates.
