Self-appointed nickname ends up being self-insulting

I’ve gone and given myself a nickname that my family will not let me forget. I really need to think twice before I speak, or just not speak on days I haven’t had enough sleep.

I saw a rooster while we were out. I have killed and butchered chickens for food before. It’s a different running joke in our family that I do that.

Often, when we see chickens, that joke will come up. “Look, Mom. Dinner?” or “Did you bring your switchblade?”

I defended myself. “When the zombie apocalypse comes, you will be sorry you teased me.”

This kind of talk continued for a bit until I finally huffed, “I’m a predator, is what I am. Y’all should call me Big Pred. Big P for short.” In my mind, I saw heavy chains, gold-plated mouth caps, and respect spelled with a K, yo.

Sometimes, things don’t really translate from theory to reality. Claus and Olivia looked at me in disbelief as I said the words “Big P” and then smiled broadly as if I’d handed them the best insult about myself on a silver platter. Correction: BECAUSE I just handed them the best insult.

“Big P!” they chimed simultaneously and looked at each other. I knew this was not good. I regret opening my mouth.

“You need to say it with respek and deference like you’re intimidated by my mad skillz!” I insisted.

They just laughed more and condescendingly said, “OK, Big P. Sure, Big P. Do you need a bathroom now?”

So, I am now regularly “Big P,” even though I’ve tried to rescind the moniker. I’m kind of fighting it now, but I suppose one day they will wear me down and I’ll just give in and ask for a restroom.

The Big P is fierce.

The Big P is fierce.