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“My mother didn’t breast-feed me. She said she like me as a friend.”— Rodney Dangerfield

Perhaps the biggest decision a parent will make — outside of “No. You May Not Take The Six Merchant Marines To Your Winter Formal, Bruce” — is what to name their offspring.

I’ve heard of kids being named after porn stars, hound dogs and even cartoon characters. Yes. There are, actually, grown-ups wandering the planet named Donald and Daffy Duck.

The socialists of Sweden has made that all-the-more harder on one family to send future adults into therapy. In this Scandinavian country, the National Tax Board is in charge of okaying baby names.  According to my pals over at The Associated Press, the SNTB refused to stamp the birth certificate of Michael and Karolina Tomaro. The young couple wanted to name their now-six-month-old baby, “Metallica.” The agency said nope.

The reasons?

There were three of them and they were doozies:

A clerk sniffed the child would be:

1) named after the infamous rock band;

2) named partially after “metal;”

and, the best reason, the agent felt the name was

3) “ugly.”

And who said socialism is a bad thing?

It gets better. After a court basically head-butted the clerk and agency for their stepping in where they don’t belong, the Tax Board sniffed and did an end-around, taking the case to a higher court, just for the pleasure of denying the couple and their child a passport. Well. The parents could travel. They just couldn’t take their unnamed baby because Sweden’s tax agency wouldn’t give the kid a passport because it didn’t have a name.

Boy that makes me wince.

Not that I particularly like the name, “Metallica” for a name, especially a girl, because it sort of steers you on the course toward a future as a rock groupie. But it’s better than, oh, say, American Bashing Sleep-Around Dixie Chicks and it’s certainly better than Tiffany Amber Marie. Eesh. That sounds like a girl who lives in a condo with all-white carpeting with a Cruella deVille mom who is 9/10ths implants.

On the other hand, being a clerk in the Swedish National Tax Board’s Crack Brave New World Baby Naming Division would be a dream job for me.

A dewy eyed couple traipse in with their gurgling bundle of joy and shine their permanent smile over the counter.

“Ve’d like to name her Inga,” they say in unison.

That’s not exactly what they’d say because they’d probably be speaking Swedish. Alas, “Ve,” which means, “We,” in Swedish, is one of the few Swedish words I know.

As clerk, I’d stand behind the window, wearing tiny spectacles, a bowtie and pursed lips.

“No. I think not,” I’d say. “We’ll call her, ‘Bob.’ I had an Uncle

Bob who died in an ice fishing accident off one of the fjords

(another Swedish word I know). Fell asleep with a lit blowtorch in

his hand. It was a big blow torch and melted a 200-foot-thick ice

sheet. Bob drowned. I believe he was also credited with starting

global warming. No. No Inga. It’s ‘Bob.’ Let’s spell it ethnic, with two ‘O’s.’ with double umlauts.”

They flinch as I slam down the rubber stamp and yell: “Next!”

What a fun job, to wile away the hours.

Up step the next proud parents with a Lars they think they’re holding.  “No. We already have a Lars. We’re naming him Stone Cold Steve Austin because, frankly, it’s stone cold in Sweden and Steve Austin was my Uncle Bob’s business partner who died with Bob in the ice fishing mishap.”

I could be the Adam of Sweden, naming things for a shift.

There would be Red Light Open For Business Betty “because that’s the type of parental influences you two strike me as,” I’d accuse. How I’d fix Sweden’s wagon, with all those liberals over there. I’d name every other baby Barry Obama Floondergartintergarten.  Perhaps the Tomaro family would grow courageous with me being in the position I was and attempt to re-Christian the fruit of their joy to Metallica.

“Nahhh,” I’d say, pounding the paperwork with my foot-wide “REJECTED” stamp. “Who in their aging retro rock mind names a kid ‘Metallica’ any more?” I pretend to look through a stack of cards. “Besides. It’s taken. You may have ‘The Lennon Sisters Tomaro’ or ‘Dweezil Zappa Tomaro. All other music-related names are taken. Oh. Wait. There’s one offshoot of a Broadway play still available: ‘The Sun Will Come Out Tomaro.’ Want that? Don’t eyeball me. Just give me a yes or no answer or I’ll change YOUR names to both Larry, Moe & Curly Joe. The last couple through gave me some lip about their pale baby with the shock of dark hair and I named him ‘Death’ after the Ingmar Bergman character.”

With that kind of power, I’d find the original Swedish civil servant with all that gall who started this nonsense.

I’d rename that sniveling little bureaucrat, “Sven Donuthole,” although I might come up with another word for Donut...

 

(SCV author John Boston also writes The Time Ranger & SCV History for your SCV Beacon. He’s has earned more than 100 major awards for writing, including being named, several times, America’s best humor, and, best serious columnist. Don’t forget to check out his national humor, entertainment & swashbuckling commentary website, America’s Humorist — http://www.johnbostonchronicles.com/) — © 2017 by John Boston. All rights reserved.

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