Growing up, I used to kid my younger brother about the deliriously cheesy, unintentionally campy names he chose for his pets. To this day, he gets teased incessantly about the odd collection of monikers he assembled for his guinea pigs, goldfish, kitty cats, and dogs:
Last year, my sister-in-law broke down the list as such:
"Those aren't names for pets...they're names for strippers."
Now, that just makes me mad...at myself.
If I had only realized my brother was running a fuzzy pink brothel of sessy sexy times out of our family room, I could have made my brother's pre-teen life even more miserable.
"Hey Jason, Amber and Bambi have a couple of customers at the door...are Peaches and Pretty Boy done with their donkey show yet? Angel and Bimbo need to start a new round of antibiotics because Cassie's got the Clap with a side of Chlamydia."
Goddammit, did I miss out.