how to name a fish

[SPECIAL NOTE: For best results, read this post while listening to "Karn Evil 9: 1st Impression, Part 2" by Emerson, Lake, and Palmer. Preferably quite loud.]

We can't all be exceptional. The word "exceptional" means "rare, unusual, or extraordinary." You can't be extraordinary without the ordinary, rare without the common, unusual without the usual. The point is to attempt to be exceptional.
It's tricky to do in this day and age, I grant you. We've become a civilization that sympathizes with mediocrity rather than scorning it. We're content with the ordinary rather than the extraordinary. We accept banality if it'll make a little money, entertain us for a while, or both.
But you have to keep up the fight. You mustn't quit. Don't give up. Don't accept mediocrity. Expunge trendiness. Eschew popularity. Be extraordinary. Be unusual. Be weird. Get out on the fringes and dance. It doesn't take much. All it takes is the ability to think outside the box, the self-assurance to step over the ridicule, and a little imagination. That's the root cause of all this mediocrity anyway: lack of imagination. Nobody puts any thought or effort into anything anymore. That's why we have stuff like reality TV.
So put some effort into what you create. Think about it. Imagine first. Dream a little. And whatever you do, dream big. Perform those minute actions which defy conformity, banality. Undermine 'em. Knock 'em back into next week.
How, you ask? Simple.

The first step would be to NOT name your dog "Buddy."

Have you any notion of how many dogs in the history of the Universe have been named "Buddy"? Probably enough to fill up Qualcomm Stadium. Five dogs deep. To demonstrate, my father has owned about seven English Springer Spaniels in his adult lifetime. All of them were regulation liver-and-white. And all of them were named "Buddy." I'll admit that Pop was mighty fond of that first "Buddy." But even among working men, nostalgia has its limits. I look around. I watch dog-training shows. I visit friends' houses. And I invariably encounter a pack of dogs with trite monikers. Too many Buddies. Too many Spikes. Too many Princesses, Dukes, Butches, Wolves (Wolfs?), Astros, Rovers and Zekes. It's only the blue-ribbon competitions where unique dog names really get to shine. Unfortunately, hardly any of us can name our mutts "McBryde's Big Bottle of Irish Sunshine" or "Her Ladyship's Southern Tuscany Escapade." My opinion of people would be greatly heightened, however, if they'd get out there and dream up some new and better dog names. And when I say "new and better" I'm not talking about inventing new ones, like "Kronor" or "Thaksoonf" or "Margagchstha." I'm sure that you think you're being creative way down deep inside, but the rest of us think you're a flake of granola. Or worse, a Trekkie.

I merely mean to suggest that you employ "unusual" appellations to your pets. Names that are familiar and pronounceable, but uncommonly seen. Names found in a neglected corner of the Name Universe, if you will.

Me, I'm gonna name my dog "Remington." "Remy" for short. (That's so he doesn't break the ironclad Two-Syllable-Maximum Rule of Canine Appellations.) Yeah, Remington. That's if he's a German shepherd or some other large working breed. A border collie might sustain the name "Winchester" better (Winch for short). If he's a basset hound—which is a distinct possibility—I reckon "Browning" would be fitting.

Now, if I have two dogs, my choices become somewhat more limited, but not completely. "Smith" and "Wesson" would be good names for a couple of beagles (Ruger if there's just the one). Be they a pair of elkhounds, perhaps "Heckler" and "Koch" would suit. Any set of otterhounds or collies could merit the labels of "Parker" and "Hale." "Mossberg" would do for a Alaskan malamute. A husky, though, would have to be "Colt." Martin, Grumman, Curtiss, Lockheed, Boeing, Northrop, Vultee, Vought, Gloster, Blackburn, Hawker, and Bristol might be pretty good dog names too.

Concerning the cats... I'm not a cat guy. At least, I never used to be. That was before Mom went and picked up the cutest darn little gray tabby kitten from the pound a few years ago. Now he's the cutest darn gray tabby cat you'll ever see. I mean, everything: nice and sleek, soft fur, big green eyes, black lips, white paws, and what's more, he's useful. Archie actually works for his keep, too. Any kangaroo rat or finch that strays inside the garage—or within eight inches of the garage door—is destined for a hideous death. By the next morning they've been reduced to severed tails, a few forlorn feathers, and one distasteful internal organ, piled neatly on the garage door rug in humble sacrifice. But even beyond that, Archie's nice. Always runs up to you, meows gently, rubs up against your leg. The only payment he demands is a good scratchin'.
So maybe two dogs and two or three cats would do the trick. But what to name the cats? What's original anymore? "Muffin" has been used way, way too much. And it's a stereotypical cat-lady name anyhow. Paws, Mitsy, Fluffy, Boots (first name Puss-in), and Pooty-pie are all cliché.
I shall dub the first cat Igor, after Igor Sikorsky, the inventor of the practical helicopter. I shall label the second J.R., after J.R. Oppenheimer, the inventor of the practical atomic bomb. I shall christen the third Maurice, after Maurice Vermersch, the inventor of the practical Belgian waffle. Or maybe I'll call him the Lorax. He speaks for the trees. Oh wait, that's taken. Shazbot.

What does that leave? Birds? Nah, I'll pass. My brother had a cockatiel in high school named Oliver. I taught him to speak. I always used to greet him when I came in the door: "Hey, bird!" Soon, Oliver had copied my inflection and even some of my enunciation, almost perfectly. There was just one problem. He doubled the volume. Tripled it sometimes. "Hey, bird!" I'd say. "HEY, BIRD!" Oliver would scream. That got old REAL fast. So did Oliver's habit of shrieking whenever his beloved master was out of sight. And humping my socks.

Snakes? Nah. Snakes have no love. They can't look into your eyes with that simple, unconditional adulation that dogs have mastered. They can't shake your hand, either. Rats? Maybe. Trouble is, the name "Templeton" is already taken, too. Tarantulas? Hmmm. Cute? Check. Fuzzy? Check. Interesting? Indeed. Vivifying to be around? Not really. This being California, I'm not allowed to have hedgehogs or ferrets. More's the pity.
So that pretty much leaves fish. The tradition in my family has always been to give the fish a name that's longer than the fish itself. My first was named "Wakefield." There followed a kingly line, a royal succession of icthyoid sovereignty. All were assassinated by my brother's fish. (He gave them the plague.) I can't remember any of their names, except for Mergatroid. I miss Mergatroid. He was cool.

I reckon there's only one way I can go as far as fish names are concerned. If I have one fish, I'll call him Jethro Tull. If I have two fish, I'll call 'em Simon and Garfunkel. If I have three fish, I'll call them— (Oh, surely you know what's coming, don't you?) —Emerson, Lake, and Palmer.

Joke's on you, pal.