As some of you may know, Julia Roberts recently defied God, Mother Nature and Father Time and plopped two human larvae out of her 63-year-old cooter. (I'm actually going to check on that age later — I could have overshot it a bit.) In true celebrity fashion, she named both her children in the most retarded manner possible: Meet little Phinnaeus and Hazel.
I'm actually unsure as to what the proper simile would be to adequately convey the utter retardedness of her choices. I was initially leaning toward likening her choices to those of an idiot woman-child incestualized by her idiot man-child brother and raised her children in her some remote hermitage of fanciful idiocy, but now I think I favor new age retro hippie letting his drunk, stoned helper monkey randomly press the “go” button on a machine labeled “stupid name machine.”
Oh, Julia. What the fuck is wrong with you? What was going through your gums?
The sad part is that little Phinnaeus and Hazel will be in good company. I cringe at the thought of celebrity idiot daycare, wherein Robert’s pups can frolic — and later, commiserate — with Gwynneth Paltrow’s daughter Apple, Courtney Cox and David Arquette’s baby Coco, Will Ferrel’s son Magnus and Conan O’Brien’s daughter Neve. I fear for the son born this summer to Jon Stewart. That kid, likely destined to join this neo-Brat Pack, will likely be mocked for his name, the outstandingly normal “Nathan.”
A recent Washington Post column discussed this trend and brought even more celebrity naming fuck-ups to my attention.
For example, for the fuck told Shannyn Sossaman she was famous enough to name her son “Audio Science”?
Why isn't Child Protective Services prosecuting Jermaine Jackson for naming his son “Jermajesty”?
Was Erykah Badu thinking about running gear or sleek jungle cats when she named her daughter “Puma”?
What was Jason Lee smoking when he named his son “Pilot Inspektor”? (And seriously — do you know where I could get some?)
Why do I so readily believe that, as rumors state, Posh and Becks will name their third whelp “San Miguel,” who will join “Brooklyn” and “Romeo”?
And can we summon the ghost of Michael Hutchence and yell at it for naming his daughter “Heavenly Hiranni Tigerlily”?
At least Frank Zappa had an excuse for naming his children Moon Unit, Dweezil, Ahmet and Diva: “Hey man, it was the seventies.” Nowadays, it’s one thing to do a lot of drugs; it’s another to just name you kids in the manner of someone on drugs.
I worry for little Phinnaeus and Hazel — or Phinny and the Hazz, as I’ve taken to calling them. If having paparazzi sneaking into their house to steal their mother’s stool sample wasn’t going to fuck them up enough, they also must cope with the notoriety of having a ridiculous name that draws superfluous publicity. And the viewing public will just have to hear those stupid names every time those kids get arrested, divorced or put on “Oprah” to discuss their new book about how being Julia Roberts’ kid ruined their lives.
I say you get to name your kids something stupid if you’re a nobody — say, a hermit or some truckstop waitress in Buttonwillow or something. No one cares about you. No one puts your name in the news.
Take me, for example. My name is Drew. I don’t have a common name, but I also don’t have a name that would cause people to recoil in shock and pity. I think my parents treat the line between boring and freakish rather well. Had my parents been famous actors, however, I shudder to think of what they might have tried to name me. Gumball Jesus Mxxxxx. Liger Tiglion Mxxxxx. Original Flavor Wheat Thins Mxxxxx. Fifi Trixabelle Mxxxxx.
Really, I’m shuddering. Watch me shudder.
Clearly, celebrities are out of control. Blame us or blame them, but please agree that they must be stopped before they breed again and name their offspring something retarded. I’m not saying that celebrity chemical castration is a must, per se… I’m just saying, “Hey. Think about it.”
Hey. Think about it. Okay?
Signing off from the Cereal Box for today, I’m Liger Tiglion Mxxxxx.