I hated my last name when I was a youngster. From the time when Sister Mary Hillary called it out on my first day of kindergarten, it has elicted snickers and finger-pointing from my fellow humans. They came up with the obvious variations “Crabtree” and “Crabapple” and in later years, comparisons to the common louse.
Now that I am in my sixties, I have embraced my monicker. What better name for an old curmudgeon with a hunched back from arthritis and years of sitting at a drawing board? I imagine that the children who walk by my house mutter to each other, “That’s old man Crabb’s house. Stay off his lawn or he’ll grab you with his claws.” Plus, it seems a fitting title for a guy who sits on his porch and grumbles about the incompetence of city workers cleaning the gutters. (Back in MY day, we did things different!)
But my name is normal compared to the plethora of preposterous personas populating politics in 2012. If I were to go back to say, 1985, and tell someone that the President of the United States’ name was Barack Obama, I would get only blank stares or the question: What is a Barack Obama? It would get even worse when I mentioned the the guys who are battling to replace him are Mitt, Newt, and a fellow whose name sounds like sanitarium. It gets more ridiculous when I point out that Sanitarium’s main backer is Foster Freeze, who thinks that birth control can be achieved by holding an aspirin between one’s legs. Then there’s the head honcho of the RNC, Reince Priebus, which is either a disease or latin for something obscene.
But my hands-down all time favorite is dentist, lawyer and birther queen Orly Taitz. Ironically, she’s made a career out of trying to convince people that Barack Obama is not a real person. I was very disappointed when Orly announced that she would not challenge Dianne Feinstein for the California US Senate seat. That would have been fun.
As a consolation, I walk around the house repeating her name as my mantra. Orly Taitz…Orly Taitz…Orly Taitz. If you say it enough times, anything becomes plausible.
You are hilarious, Crabman! At least people can spell and pronounce your name – try having a Czech moniker like mine. I was either “shmell” or “camel” – but I soon realized that people would always pause when they got to my name on a list, so I could rush in to say it first!
The “other Bob Crabb” has embraced his name as well. And he was a high school teacher for 31 years! He and his son, Kyle Crabb, have crabb tattoos on their upper arms. They say “tres congrejos” for the Three Crabbs — Robert/Bob, Kyle and grandson Dylan. Twenty-one year old Dylan has so far declined to get the tattoo, however.
I don’t have any crab-inspired scarification on my bod, but people used to give me all kinds of crab stuff…crab ashtrays…t-shirts…hats…you name it. Most of it graces a landfill somewhere where us civilized folks don’t have to look at it anymore, or pay to store it. So please, if you ever decide to give me a gift, no crabs! (Money will do.)
Scoop: “Crabb no-shows at Crab Feed!”
I was looking forward to talking to you at the KOC Crab Feed, but you were not there…or you never came up to the bar.
I like your blog and the cartoons! Keep up the good work.
Yeah, I’m sorry we didn’t make it to the crab feed. The wife was too exhausted from Mardi Gras preparations so we gave our tickets away. At least now I won’t have to worry about some blogger accusing me of cannibalism.
That was my next joke! I will wait until next year to share some Crabb with you!
Made it here. Love it! Glad you have it. I’ll try to be a good gal and not crabb at you.