Hey, you. In the hat. I just heard some dudes calling you Skeeter, and I saw you respond to them. That’s some bullshit. As soon and you and me are done here, you better go set them straight. ’Cause I’m Skeeter.
Seriously, ask anybody and they’ll tell you who the real Skeeter is. They’ll tell you it’s me. Then they’ll probably tell you some story about how I showed up at the party with a beer bong or a hilarious T-shirt and got things jumping. You? I never seen you around these parts. I don’t know any stories about you, and I seriously doubt you could get the party going.
There’s only one Skeeter here tonight, and it’s not you. I don’t care if your mother wrote it on your damn birth certificate—starting right now your name is no longer Skeeter.
Maybe you had no idea, so I’m gonna give you the benefit of the doubt. I’m no hard-ass. You don’t get a name like Skeeter being a hard-ass. No, I like things to be laid-back and easy. I’m a good-time guy. When people see me coming, they smile big before they say “Skeeter! My man!” But that doesn’t mean I’m going to sit back while some chump from nowhere walks around trying to get called Skeeter like that name’s not already taken.
Now you know, so you best get a new nickname or get gone, cause there’s only room for one Skeeter at this party, you hear? What about Wingnut? You could be Wingnut.
Look at you. You’re even trying to horn in on my style. I’m the guy with the flannel shirt, the baseball cap, and the old high-tops. That’s my trademark. You wouldn’t come to this party dressed in tires, would you? No, ’cause that’s the Michelin Man’s thing. What you’re wearing is my thing. At least turn the hat forward.
I knew there was gonna be trouble when I saw you open that beer with your teeth. That’s a Skeeter specialty. People need a beer opened, they holler over to me, and I crack it open with my teeth. Everyone laughs and says “Good job, Skeeter!” You heard me right. I said “Skeeter.”
Also, just to be clear, there’s only one guy that yells out “limbo time!” at the party, and then someone grabs a broom, and before you know it, everyone’s limboing. It’s part of the good times I bring to the table. Now, before you start, I know you yelled out “conga line,” but that’s still an exotic party dance, and that’s Skeeter’s turf.
Where do you get off calling yourself Skeeter, anyway? That kind of name doesn’t just happen. I’ve been Skeeter since I was a little kid. Everyone knew me as Skeeter. My friends called me Skeeter. My teachers called me Skeeter. Our priest called me Skeeter. You think I’m gonna give that up just because you come along with a 12-pack of Molson and some story about outrunning the police in an apple orchard? No way.
How long people been calling you Skeeter? Two, three months? I’m guessing four months tops. That makes it mine, Wingnut, no two ways about it.
This is your only warning. If I hear someone call you Skeeter, I’m going to put my boot up your ass. Same goes for Skeet, Skeets, the Skeet, Skeeteroonie, Skeeterectomy, or El Skeeterino. I’ve got very little tolerance for nonsense like that. And I’m watching you.
Seriously, find a new name or find the out door. If you stick around this party I don’t want to see you so much as cock your head next time somebody calls out my name. You got that?
Skeeter? That’s for me and me alone. I’m Skeeter. Me. Skeeter.
