Chris Writing Anything

We all have nicknames…some are not very flattering. If you were to think of degrading nicknames, you couldn’t get much worse than Skuzz. That’s what my father used to call me, and he did it all the time. Okay, my baby sister had it worse. Since she had a good deal of baby fat, at least as a young child, she was known as ‘Chub-a-dubs’, or, worse yet, ‘porker’. But, I’m getting off track (sorry Laurie). Anyways, today, in this brief Friday post, I’ll tell you how I earned the nickname ‘Skuzzeruti.’

Today, no one calls me that. Yet, if someone were to yell, “Hey Skuzz,” I know I’d look towards whoever spoke those words. Why would someone call their son Skuzz? Well, this is the story my parents tell me.

When I was younger, I was a reckless, chaotic mess. My mother often tells me, with a regretful chuckle, that it was hazarous to leave me in any room alone. Jumping off the sofa, and doing it head first, was part of my daily regimen.

So a friend of theirs, who realized I was always bearing bruises and scrapes, and thought I looked rather skuzzy, would affectionately call me ‘Skuzzerutti’. It stuck. My father, depending on his creative mood, would modify it. One variation, because the man was also fond of saying, “That’s good for your gizzard!” would be ‘Skyzzard’.

So yeah, I relish the fact that he called me something derogatory. Now, when some jerk tries to be mean, calling something he thinks will bother me, well, it doesn’t sting that bad. And that’s because my father called me worse.

Have an Excellent Day!