I never cared much about homework when I was a kid. There were so many other things I would have rather been doing. I quickly realized that almost anything was fun compared to algebra. As a seventh grader, completing my homework wasn’t my strongest suit.
There are so few to choose from, but one of my most memorable homework assignments came from Mrs. Green in English class. Each student was to look up the origin and meaning of their first name. I was intrigued. I had never given any thought to where the name “Ryan” might have originated or had any idea as to what it may have meant.
Back then, the assignment was pretty straightforward and not nearly as complicated as it might be in today’s classroom. By today’s standards, the students’ names in my classroom were rather bland. We had a Billy, two annoying girls named Melissa, a Sally, a Ronnie, three Davids, and a Michael or two. In the early 70s, the name Ryan was one of the more unusual.
That was then. Parents have become much more creative in naming their children, especially celebrities. I am curious how much background information Bronx Mowgli (Ashlee Simpson’s son) or Jermajesty Jackson (Jermaine’s son) will find on their Google search. I imagine there would be limited information for Bob Geldof’s daughter, Fifi Trixibelle, or Frank Zappa’s daughter, Diva Thin Muffin. Even less so for Rob Morrow’s child, Tu, who seems doomed to a life of procrastination. “Not today, Tu Morrow.” Poor thing.
Unimpressed with anything this world could offer, Steven Spielberg invented a word, naming his daughter Destry. Like it or not, it does, however, work in The Name Game, so who are we to judge? (You’re singing it right now, aren’t you? )
Celebrities are not alone in condemning their children to years of adolescent schoolyard banter. Proof of some parents’ cruel sense of humor can be found within recent birth registries, which document the increased popularity of names like Tesla, Fanta, Baretta, and ESPN. Maybe it’s me, but any parent who names their child ESPN should have the word ASSHOLE stamped on their driver’s license.
In contrast, a medal of some sort should be bestowed upon the dad who stepped up and delivered his own child when his wife went into labor and was forced to give birth on the L.A. expressway in the back seat of their Mazda. The result was a healthy baby boy named Carson. True story.
The school bell rang, and another English class with Ms. Green ended. After class that day, I did something very unusual, something most students today cannot comprehend—I went to a library. Not only that, I utilized the archaic Dewey Decimal system to track down the information I needed. This was 1983 BG (Before Google). Today, I’d pay good money to watch a Millennial get tossed into a public library and forced to find a book’s Dewey call number.
#escaperoom-library.
It wasn’t long before my research confirmed what I had felt all my life: I was royalty.
There it was in black and white: “Ryan is a male name of Irish origin and means, ‘little king.'” My first thought was, “Duh.” Royalty was my destiny, considering this “little king” would mature into a big queen in only a few short years.
I always felt superior to those two Melissa cunts, and to that kid who sat in the back and smelled like sausage, and now I had proof!
Sadly, few people were as impressed with my ‘Highness’ as I was. Especially my family. I pulled the “little king” card on my father once:
“In this kingdom, he who brings home the gold makes the rules.” he said, “I bring home the gold. How about you?”, he asked before ending the discussion with, “No gold? No rules.”
But what if I WERE King?
In preparation for writing this article, I’m wearing an ermine jock strap from Temu and feeling rather grand. I’m also four beers into a six-pack and feeling no pain, so let’s run with it.
Here are 10 laws I would immediately impose on my subjects if I were King…
1. Every grocery store will have a designated “I have my shit together” checkout lane. That means I’m not on my phone or in conversation; my wallet is out, music isn’t playing through my headphones, I’m listening to the cashier, I’m anticipating the total cost, and I am conscious that at some point, I will have to pay for my items and carry them out of the establishment. If you’re one of those idiots who stare into space until all of your items are bagged before you realize that you have to pay, you will be fined a “Dipshit Tax”. But not before you are escorted by security back to the end of the line, where you will wait again and have time to gather your thoughts and get your shit together.
2. Umbrellas. Owning an umbrella will require mandatory course training and will be sold according to one’s height and body mass index. Those under 5 feet do not need golf umbrellas to terrorize streets with. Training in umbrella etiquette is necessary to prevent the unnecessary swinging, twirling, shaking, and haphazard flailing of pointy spikes, which are poised perfectly to gouge the eyes out of anyone above 5’10”
3. By law, between the ages of 18 and 21, every citizen must serve at least one year working in the service industry. Anyone who’s worked as a server, bartender, hotel concierge, etc., can tell you that the general public is not rational. By and large, people are jerks. Suppose everyone had the experience of having to wait or serve versions of themselves. In that case, there might be less snapping for the busboy and more respect for the person pouring their drink, accommodating their ridiculous substitutions, or sifting the sugar on their gluten-free waffles.
4. Within nightclubs, Fruit Flies (girls who insist on accompanying their gay friends out to gay clubs) must be tethered to their hosting Fruit by 2 a.m. We’ve all seen this scenario: It’s 3:30 in the morning, and some poor intoxicated girl, looking several moments past her glamor, has been abandoned by her “friends” and left to stumble through the establishment in search of her ride home. Meanwhile, her “bestie” is sucking off the D.J. or getting plowed in a bathroom stall, doing lines of coke on the toilet roll dispenser. Fruits, mind your Flies or be swatted from the guest list.
5. Substantial resources will be devoted to the research of a pill capable of dissolving the stick that is stuck up the asses of most gay men, causing those affected to exhibit extreme rudeness in support of an unsubstantiated ego. It’s an epidemic that needs to be eradicated. Men with the most severe cases cannot understand that sometimes a “Hello” is just a “Hello” and not a sexual invitation. Our ancestors and relics, like myself, call it friendly. But that concept requires a personality, which is usually lacking among the dicks with sticks.
6. Crocs and flip-flops are forbidden as casual daywear except within 100 feet of a swimming pool or other water used for recreational purposes. If your toes look like they could snatch salmon out of a stream, they belong locked away in a closed-toe shoe, not sticking out.
7. No more speakerphones for pedestrians. Speakerphone use will be limited to business meeting rooms and transit vehicle operators. On the street, broadcasting your life’s latest drama or family argument is of no interest to those of us standing in line at the movies or sitting on the train. Trust me, no one gives a flying fuck about your issue with FedEx.
8. Punishment for cruelty to animals consists of six months of mandatory jail time and the surrender of one year’s salary to a local animal shelter (per offense). Period.
I’m nearing the bottom of my royal fridge’s sixth and final beer. I’m feeling a bit boozy and can’t think of ten laws, so eight will have to do.
I’ve noticed that, as King, I am most concerned with improving my Kingdom’s consideration of others. I am baffled by our lack of respect for others. Most of us spend our lives in the trenches, under the thumb of The Man, forced to live in a society of miserable, self-serving curmudgeons. Ironically, with so much technology at our fingertips, we are losing touch with, well, being in touch. Advancements in A.I. are rapidly erasing the value of being human. It has undoubtedly tainted and diminished our interpersonal skills. It’s harder than ever for people to make friends because we don’t know how.
Humanity is regressing back to the age when grunts and gestures served as communication. Sometimes, I’ll notice students as they leave class and make their way down the street or watch the interaction of strangers at rush hour, and it’s appalling. When did it become cool to have no manners and act like an asshole?
As King, I would remind my Kingdom that we are all in this world together. We only have each other, and we will never experience this life in this way and with these people ever again. Why waste what little time we have only being concerned with ourselves? In a world where you can be anything you want, why be a dick?
Life is more fulfilling when it’s shared with others. To share, we have to connect; to connect, we have to take risks and perhaps feel vulnerable. So what? Tomorrow is promised to no one. Connect with people, be vulnerable, and find out what’s possible. You might be surprised to discover what amazing things can happen just by holding the door open for someone, practicing a random act of kindness, looking someone in the eye, or being sincere when you say “Thank you.” That’s how you connect with the universe and with each other.
If you’re reading this, welcome to my Kingdom, a safe haven that fosters connection and possibility. The gates are always open, and everyone is welcome.
