Brittanys, Britneys, & Brittnees

I know that nobody named Brittany or any of the other variations of the name will ever read this. Well, maybe. I should never say never. That’s a James Bond film, right? Never Say Never. It sounds like it. Or a lousy band at the very least. They’d open up for Avenged Sevenfold or another band that I see t-shirts of and don’t know any songs by. Like the Misfits. Are they a band or a company that creates t-shirts to sell to pot heads?

(Misfits t-shirts, how to spot a drug dealer)

Brittany is an unusual name. I don’t think I will ever speak to someone with that name. I’ve known several people whose owners (parents) have named them that. They all have one thing in common. Everybody named Brittany is either ditzy, thin, and fashionable or they’re a big mean lesbian. They are the two extremes of human beings. Dainty little daddy’s girls and tough Mohawk clad dykes.

I associate the name more with the preppy girls than I do with the angry lesbians that dawn the surname. The first Brittany I ever met was Korean. We had a project for school which involved gluing goldfish crackers onto construction paper. Korean Brittany thought it would be a good idea to peel off the goldfish crackers and eat them. This was in second grade and I haven’t heard about her since. My guess, she became a mean lesbian.

Brittany isn’t a name I would ever give my child. The double B’s that she’d have in her name would severely taunt her if she was flat-chested. I know I’d make fun of her for it. Still, that’s not the main reason for never naming a child Brittany. I wouldn’t want her fate to be determined. I know that I would never raise a daughter to be spoiled like half of Brittanys are. I would automatically be setting up my daughter to be a foul-mouthed homosexual with girl biceps. I believe in freewill. Naming your child Brittany would be a form of slavery.