Well, It's a Joke Name, Sir
or
I Have a Vewy Gweat Fwiend in Wome

Gather around, children, and I shall tell you a tale of the Infamous W. (for new readers, this is a particularly goofy acquaintance of mine) and her profound credulity. Today's story has to do with the woman across the street from me. She's moving away today, after living here for a year or two. She wasn't terribly friendly, and I never met her or learned her name. She was obviously an avid horsewoman, judging by the trailers and getup, and either naturally or from the exercise of riding she was a noticeably shapely lady.

The Infamous W. was avidly curious about her, as she is about everything. You should know that the Infamous is also very credulous—she'll gladly believe any crazy story, as long as it makes someone look foolish or hypocritical. The Infamous often makes up crazy stories herself, based loosely on things you tell her. She's always telling me funhouse-mirror versions of things I said, and I'm always saying, "I didn't say anything like that."

Anyway, for some reason she mentioned the neighbor one time and I decided, mentally picturing the neighbor's well-sculpted hindquarters, to have some fun with the Infamous.

"Oh, by the way," I said, "I found out her name."
"Yeah? What is it? Tell me! Tell me!"
"It's kind of an unusual name," I said.
"Well, what is it?"
"It's 'Glutea.'"
The Infamous shrieked in delight. "Glu-tea? Really?"
"No. of course not, you idiot," I explained helpfully. "Nobody is named 'Glutea.' It's a joke name."

I had occasion to remind the Infamous of this just yesterday. She suggested that I shut up. And now I'd like to present one of the funniest riffs ever on the idea of Roman-sounding joke names. The title of this post appears around 2:10.