A name, sir, is much more than a string of letters you yell at hill folk when the pig slop runs cold. Tell me, if Coca-Cola were to instead be called “Fickle Tickle Water,” would you still guzzle it down with the same lower class veracity? I don’t think so, not by the slightest of your dirty margins. So when you speak my name, I expert you to call me “Robert Poopinmyunderwear,” not by the common, insulting “Bob Poopinmyunderwear.”

Do you own land? Is there some mound of worms you call your own? If so, you must have once gathered together four tires from your garbage pile, tied them to some sort of feral dog powered sled, and ridden your poverty-mobile to the courthouse, where you stood dripping dew and dust over the deed to that generic brand of land now yours. And when you signed whatever gutter sound of a name you were given, the officials considered it adequate. So when I tell you to call me Robert Poopinmyunderwear, not Bob Poopinmyunderwear, I can assume you grasp the concept.

I was named not for some donkey vomit known by Bob, but for the many Robert Poopinmyunderwear who have come before me. What do you imagine when you hear a name such as Bob? Certainly it is not that of the prize-winning racehorses or casual bubble baths of my day to day. Instead you conjure up thoughts of silverfish-filled sinks, newspaper dinner napkins, and citations for violating open container laws.

Bob is a name, nay, a primal utterance barely escaping the maw of man, created for the sole purpose of besmirching the Roberts of new and old. It carries with it the weight of failure, like a bride arriving to a shotgun wedding where crudeness is the father, vulgarity the priest, and instead of taking another’s last name, both parties agree to go by Bob, under death do them part.

This is not I. I am a Robert. Robert Poopinmyunderwear, and no other.

And how dare you, storming into the castle of my mind with a battering ram by the name of Bob. Perhaps you do not know, but the Poopinmyunderwear name still carries weight in this town, a still proud and powerful clan. I was named not for some donkey vomit known by Bob, but for the many Robert Poopinmyunderwear who have come before me.

My father, Robert Earl Poopinmyunderwear, was a man who brought corporation and prosperity to this town by way of brand. He knew the power of a name, and that is why Poopinmyunderwear Diapers are the top selling pants guards for feces-conscious adults.

My father’s father, Robert McQueen Poopinmyunderwear, was a behemoth of class, building the foundation for the Poopinmyunderwear Diaper empire of today. With his careful, calloused hands he both stacked the bricks of our diaper factories and painted the detailed Poopinmyunderwear crest upon the wall for the world to see. If he were a Bob, he would have only thrown stone at dirt until his heart exploded.

And my father’s father’s father, Robert Manuel Lamborghini, was known for pooping his pants. A true black sheep of the family, it was this rejection that led him to flee to America to start anew, where he was given the new last name “Poopinmyunderwear” at customs. There, they too tried to change his name to Bob, but upon seeing the content of his character, not just the contents of his pants, they left him a Robert.

And so will you.

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