Hey, Muffinbutt!

I’m an old guy — thirty-five, even! — but periodically, I go through one of those ‘second childhood’ phases. I think I’m on my eighth or ninth by now; it’s hard to keep track.

The latest phase involved trying out the music that the young whippersnappers are listening to these days. A few songs in, I found an intriguing trend — calling people out with food-related nicknames.

A case in point is this song: ‘Finding Out True Love Is Blind‘, by Louis XIV. In this one, the singer saves his gastronomical metaphors for the ladies. For instance, the song begins with:

‘Ah, chocolate girl…‘

We’re also treated to a couple of renditions of:

‘Hey, carrot juice…‘

See? ‘Carrot juice’ is a metaphor, cleverly referring to a redhead. And ‘chocolate girl’ means a black girl, probably. She’s even got a ‘vanilla friend, later in the verse’; maybe that one is white. Or blonde. Or albino — and what’s hotter than that? I ask you.

Either that, or this guy is picking up chicks in a cafeteria. How the hell should I know? I’m too old to be interpreting any of this crazy new music nonsense.

On the other hand, I do like to keep up with the hot new trends. And if this is how the kiddies are talking now, then I’m down. So, I bopped into work today to try out a phew phat phood-related greetings of my own. The phirst — I mean, first — person I ran into was the receptionist. Perfect.

Me: ‘Hey, Picklesocks!’

Her: ‘Hi, Cha– what did you just call me?’

Me: ‘Um… nothing. Never mind.’

Okay — rough start. Hey, I’m new at all this jive talking. I’ll get the hang of it. Next, I ran into my officemate.

Me: ”Sup, Yogurtnose?’

Him: ‘Excuse me?’

Me: ‘I said, uh… good morning. That’s all.’

Him: ‘You’re a dork. You know that, right?’

So — oh for two. Good thing the guys from the office down the hall walked by soon after. Practice makes perfect, right?

Me: ‘Yo, Cheddarballs! Tacobutt!’

Them: * shaking heads and walking away *

Me: ‘What? Come on! I expect that out of you, Tacobutt. But Cheddarballs, I thought we was tight, brother!’

Dammit. Apparently, practice makes preposterous. I’ve been grossly misinformed. But I had one last chance to get it right, when my boss stopped by to say hello.

Boss: ‘Hello, Charlie.’

Me: ‘Yo, Fudgypants. What’s shaking?’

Boss: ‘Did you just call me… ‘Fudgypants’?’

Me: ‘Er… no. No, not if you’re going to take that
attitude about it. How about ‘Cabbageface’?’

Boss: ‘Cabbageface? You sure about that?’

Me: Not any more, no. Pumpkinhead? Coffeebreath? Tunadrawers? Help me out here.’

Boss: ‘Charlie, tell me — do you enjoy working here?’

Me: ‘Well, sure. Up until about thirty seconds ago, anyway.’

It was pretty much downhill from there. Old ‘Tunadrawers’ called me into his office and read me the riot act. So, I’m still employed, but the foody names are on permanent hiatus. I guess I’ll never be one of the cool kids. Fiddlenuts.