Reparations For The Awkwardly Surnamed

I would like to propose reparations for the awkwardly-surnamed, and I hope every Lipschitz, Kuntz, Pecker and Lickdyke will join me. We deserve to be compensated for the pain and suffering we have suffered since birth at the hands of mean-spirited schoolchildren, restaurant hostesses and Directory Assistance personnel.
For years we’ve had to endure the slings and arrows of outrageous surnames. Every Booger and Nimrod knows exactly why they’re being asked to repeat their name when making a reservation. Every Ho and Fuykschot is well aware they’re the source of entertainment at roll call. There’s not a Dickgraber or Dumfart who hasn’t been hung up on at least once.
We’ve endured long enough. We didn’t choose these names. These names chose us. When people like great-grandfather Krapp stood in line at Ellis Island, they had no idea that they’d be responsible for generations of schoolyard taunting and grief. The poor bastard just wanted to make a better life, but wound up making life difficult. That sucks. Just ask Mr. Suck.
I know full well the immigration officials weren’t smiling to welcome our great-grandfathers. They were smiling because Mr. Skummy and Ms. Nimrod were hilariously named. They were smiling because they knew their children — the Smiths, the Nelsons, the Washingtons — would have fun at the expense of the Gaylords, Loners and Fuks who were entering the country under their watch.
Oh sure, they’d change Tomaszewski to Thomas. But a Rumplick stayed a Rumplick.
So now it’s time to pay up.
We’ve been left behind. Disenfranchised. Afraid of nametags. Making reservations under our first names. And always explaining, apologizing and self-deprecating every time someone raises an eyebrow. It’s from Latvia, we’ll say. It’s from Cambodia. Russia. India. Nigeria. It’s from somewhere else. Somewhere where it’s okay to be a Ditz. A Dong. A Fartash.
Certainly, there are the unfortunately-named who have gone on to do well. There’s Gay Construction Company. Perhaps they use Dykes Lumber. And when they build a nice house and need a great real estate agent, they need look no further than Mycock.
We may eventually have a gay president, but I assure you he’ll be no Fagg.
Enough is enough. I demand that every Jones, Stevens and Wilson dig deep into their pockets and hand every Beaver a pile of cash. Now. I mean it.
Trust me. You don’t want to see a Prik get pissed off.