The following tale attests to the pervasive Disneyfication of our culture. It’s important for you to understand, before I tell you what I’m about to tell you, that we don’t let our children watch television. We limit their video intake to a handful of brands, mostly VeggieTales, Thomas the Tank Engine, and Mr. Rogers. We don’t take them to children’s movies. They’ve never been to Disneyworld, Disneyland, EuroDisney, or even the flipping Disney store in the mall.
No offense to Mr. Disney or Mr. Eisner, but we just aren’t interested. Granted, Caleb sleeps with a Mickey Mouse doll, but I thought that was the extent of the Disney knowledge in my home.
So explain this to me. My two-year old is sitting buck-naked on the floor after a bath. He’s hunched over, studying his little Wiener schnitzel very carefully.
“Whatcha got there, Eli?”
“Nemo.”
That’s what he’s named his Willy Wonka. Nemo.
Hold your derisive comments. He’s only two. If he’s still calling it that when he’s eighteen, we can see about some kind of lobotomy or corrective surgery or something. But for now, from a proportionality point of view, the kid’s perfectly normal, and on track for healthy development in that department. In fact, a Nemo to a two-year old is like Orca to you or me. So there.
Anyway, I’m thinking naming rights. If the kid’s gonna call his little pickle “Nemo,” it should at least pay for his college education. I’ve done some investigation, and best I can tell, this would be a first-of-its-kind deal.
Nemo. I guess it could have been worse. He could have named it Pocahontas.
