OK back from getting married, sorry ladies but that there is the awful truth, you may as well dry your tears and start trawling the meth clinics or like Wal-Marts for a new crush. The wedding was good — my grandma got drunk and I think the first dance I had with the wife was to “Mama Said Knock You Out.” I’m thinking tonight we’ll go out and get Italian because I bet their prices are all slashed thanks to Atkins. This is how a married man operates.

So I get back to work yesterday and learn that there’s another guy working here with my name. I’m talking same first name, same last name, the whole deal. Already there’s a guy here with my dad’s name, which causes me enough grief, but now I’ve got some shitty doppelganger to deal with? There’ve already been some high-lair HR mixups. Supposedly this fellow is only here temporarily, but I can’t have him diluting the brand. Breaking the copy machine or being known for farting and somehow it all gets pinned on me. Or worse he becomes Hottt and/or Office-Popular and people are all: “Oh man did you really bang Celeste in Payroll because I heard you did and that means you got the goods for reals!” And I’m forced to correct their error or maybe not now that I think about it.

The good news is that because of the confusion people have finally started calling me Bonecrusher, my self-appointed nickname which — like all self-appointed nicknames — never really took off. And as much as I hate to cede my name to this interloping temp, “Bonecrusher” or “Bone” or “BC” are all viable alternatives.