Name's Evan - don't wear it out

Imagine waking up one morning, putting on your bathrobe, making your coffee and then stepping outside to fetch the morning paper. You tuck the local periodical under your arm and head inside, toasted bagel awaiting you in the kitchen and plop down at the table to find out just what in the hell is going on out there. The headline grabs you instantly: HORRIFIC SERIAL KILLER CAPTURED IN WISCONSIN.

You read on.

MILWAUKEE, WI - Authorities in this Midwestern brewing capital are reporting the discovery of more than a dozen bodies in a downtown apartment on 23rd St. Police say that the disemboweled remains of several victims have been found - including seven human torsos in a 55-gallon drum filled with sulfuric acid, as well as multiple vital organs in the freezer and refrigeration unit - in the residence of Jeffery Dahmer, age 34.

You stop in horror, but not at the fact that the victims were disemboweled, nor at the revelation that decapitated and de-footed human remains were dipped in an industrial waste drum in hopes they would dissolve, nor at the fact that various bodily organs were found in the man's freezer. No, instead, there is a much graver horror.

Your name is also Jeffery Dahmer.

You've done nothing wrong. The last crime you committed was that joint you smoked at the beach last summer. You pay your taxes, you give at the office and your girlfriend loves you. Your parents named you a long time ago. But now, because some freakbag in brewtown with your name started eating people's livers and drilling holes in their skulls while they were still alive, your life will never be the same and there's not a damn thing you can do about it.

Okay, so there was a Seinfeld episode with a subplot (wait, I thought they had no plots on that show) in the same relative vein as the situation I've just described. And yet, untold numbers have had to endure this scenario throughout history, though surely it's gotten much worse during the media revolution; the name of Perp X gets funneled through the Internets faster than you can say Joel Rifkin. As time goes on, more movies, more TV shows and more infamous criminals beget more opportunities to defile a name. And it's not just full names either.

Is your first name Hannah? If it is, then a few hundred times during your life, someone has more than likely made a "Hannah and her Sisters" comment upon meeting you, never thinking for a moment that you'd like to grab a slab of razor fence and do some decapitating of your own, after hearing that for the 80 trillionth time. Anyone with the last name of Fokker is bumming right about now, more so than they already were.

What's the point of this, you may ask? Because I am about to know this same horror.

Coming to theaters June 23rd - because Bruce Almighty was such a comedic masterpiece and there just aren't enough sequels in Hollywood these days - please welcome Evan Almighty to a megaplex near you.

Perhaps it isn't quite as bad as sharing the same name as a cannibalistic homosexual necrophiliac, but I've got to be honest with you; I'm dreading this movie. Thing is, I like Steve Carell, I like Morgan Freeman and this is probably going to be a pretty funny film. And that's what scares me the most.

There is a very real possibility that this could be a the number one comedy of the summer, and for the better part of the next decade or so, everyone who hears my name - friends, family members, potential bosses, the girl who calls out the orders at Fuddruckers - will unconsciously insert the word "Almighty" to the end of my name. This may not seem like a bad thing - I mean, being associated with a very funny and respected comedian mixed with the powers of God could have it's benefits, and if anyone would know about that sort of thing already, it would be me - but there is no doubt that it will get old in a hurry.

"Hey there, I'm Jimmy, nice to meet you."

"Hi Jimmy, I'm Evan."

"Hey, Evan Almighty! Heh heh."

Ah jeez. It's coming, and I'm powerless to stop it. I had always assumed Evan was a rare enough name to avoid this type of thing. Maybe I should embrace it rather than try to skirt around it.

Take for instance the case of one Dick Lovejoy. I have a good friend whose uncle is actually named Dick Lovejoy, and when you meet Dick Lovejoy, you know you've met Dick Lovejoy. He grabs your hand with a grip strong enough to crush granite and says at about 50 decibels, "Hi! Dick Lovejoy! Pleasure to meet you".

There, that's the ticket. Say it loud, say it proud. I am Evan Almighty. Bow down before me, lest I wantonly smite you.

Evan Redmon is a manager of a public golf course in Washington, D.C. and writes a few things about stuff sometimes. Contact him at evanredmon@yahoo.com if you really want.