Base and Baldfaced Baby Branding

Let’s see, the New Orleans Saints are 3-2 and third in the NFC South. That’s a drop-off from my complaint about them in February, when the Saints had achieved professional football’s highest pinnacle and were making noises as if they’d cured polio, famine and cars without cup holders on the strength of one good game. Now, with the season underway, both offense and defense playing anemically, and their bye still four or five weeks off, what’s the critical issue of the day? Yes, sports fans, we get to help name the Brees’ second baby. On Twitter.

Don’t get me wrong, every man is proud of his children and their arrival is an occasion to be looked forward to and celebrated when it arrives. And I understand that sometimes when brain trusts or corporations want to improve their products, they ask the public to chip in with ideas. But crowdsourcing a kid’s name? Have you paid any attention to the (un)intelligent things most football fans say? The guidelines from the Brees family: “We are looking for boy names starting with a “b” that are uncommon. Not in most baby name books. Thanks to all for any ideas #fb”

Here are some of the suggestions that is gathering to pass along to the Brees family, who no doubt will be thrilled to receive them. Some of the poor ideas are very football and/or very New Orleans:

    Billy Bob
    Big Easy

Any child of Drew Brees is eventually going to be called have one of these nicknames anyway, right? Okay, so some people want the birth certificate to read it from the start. Maybe that even plays in Louisiana. And then … there were the even poorer ideas:

    Balthazar. I’m pretty sure that was one of the Wise Men, wasn’t it?
    Bhric. I’d like to buy a vowel, Pat.
    Bienville. “Good town,” I believe it translates. I’m thinking any kid with that name gets very fat.
    Blaise. Sure, if you want him to get the crap kicked out of him on the playground. Too close to “blouse.” Or maybe it’s supposed to be like “Blaze.” Either way — fail.
    Bacchus. On second thought, maybe this one belonged on the New Orleans list. You’re not leaving this kid home alone until he’s 35.
    Bowzer. Really? King Koopa from Super Mario Brothers?
    Borscht. This is my son. He smells like cold beet soup.
    Bullwinkle. “Hey, Drew. Watch me pull a baby out of this here … um, hat.”
    Buttascotch. There are too many retorts to this for me to choose just one.
    Bourbon. Again, probably belonged on the New Orleans list. He’ll forever be trying to convince his girlfriends that they should embrace their drinking problem.
    Bilbo Baggins. I don’t even know what to say to this one, except that whatever I say, it will be on an anonymous call to Child Protective Services.

What does everything on these lists have in common? They are unhelpful. And trust me, I didn’t have time to go through nearly all of them. But when you farm out your child’s name as if you just got a puppy, I suppose that’s to be expected. So here’s my suggestion, one to appeal to the athlete in any father: Balls. As in, “Drew, have you given Balls a bath yet?” or “Oh my, Drew. Your little Balls is getting so big.” At least with a name like that, even if your kid doesn’t have any friends, he won’t mind playing with himself.

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