Somewhere in the 8 month period between my father’s most successful premature ejaculation and my premature birth, my parents decided that it would be an idea to name me Kyle. Not necessarily a good idea, and I’m pretty sure there was minimal creative energy or conscious thought put into that decision-making process—probably one absent-minded “eh okay, yeah” and that was that on that. Which is essentially how all Kyles are named: from the inattentive minds of apathetic parents who are willing to have their child but not necessarily out of excitement or priority or free will.
“How about Kyle?” is the choosing-a-baby-name equivalent to “How about Little Caesars?” or “How about that Ford Taurus from Craigslist?” or “How about a long weekend in Atlantic City?” or “How about that new Kevin Hart movie?” or “How about that escape room that just opened up in Toledo?” or “How about a quick hand job before the kids come inside?” or “How about cancer treatment from the top-rated hospital in West Virginia?” or-
Originally, we were the Great Value brand Tylers and Diet Kevins; the physical embodiments of “whatever” and the sentient white t-shirts from the Old Navy discount rack. We were the generic products of grit and tough love. We weren’t coddled or babied like the Joshes and Brandons of the world. We weren’t pridefully named after our admirable fathers or grandfathers like the Johns and Davids and Michaels. We just were.
As a result, we withdrew from society and learned to survive and advance on our own. The Kyle way. But by the time adolescence rolled around, our lack of emotional relationships and personal connections caught up to us. We had enough. Bottling up our anger and frustration wasn’t working anymore. And bottles of Mountain Dew weren’t strong enough anymore. So we improvised and adapted. After all, that’s what Kyles do best.
We went from putting up emotional walls to fucking up literal walls. We went from battling psychological monsters to crushing caffeinated Monsters.
As we advanced into adulthood, we only became angrier and more tired. Our tolerances for inanimate assault victims and extreme taurine juice were increasing at an astronomical rate. Some Kyles started getting their release from ruining other types of walls (facebook, vaginal, etc.). Whatever it was, our hands were persistently bloody or sore, and we were always exhausted and sleep-deprived.
For some of the more evolved Kyles, picking up an 8 pack from the Walmart up the hill turned into picking up an 8 ball from the Wall Street bro in Murray Hill.
But even with Sheetrock dust all over their clothes and cheap rock dust all over their nose, the only thing Kyles were guilty of was fighting their inner demons whenever they arose. For years and years, we struggled and dealt with our problems in solitude. No one cared about our pain or acknowledged our existence. We were the almighty afterthoughts and forgotten foes of the human race. The Delawares of male millennials. Some Kyles even rebranded as pseudonyms and initials, but no one even noticed because it was such a boring and unmentioned name. Until now.
Quicker than the average Kyle can lose a security deposit after a night out at The Gem Saloon, the entire internet went from completely disregarding the name to launching a full-blown military attack on it. We became the laughing stock of the first world; a mockery to millions. They killed our reputation and danced on our grave.
They parodied our problems and homophobically rubbed it in our faces.
Bouncers started scoffing when they examined my ID, and girls started bouncing when they found out my name.
Embarrassed and confused, I took to Twitter to address this oddly aggressive onslaught in the most pleasant and reasonable Kyle manner possible. But that only made things worse.
Even the biggest and wokest advocates for mental health awareness on Twitter were joining in to harass the way that Kyles cope with their deeply-rooted emotional issues. But things only continued to get worse and more hypocritical.
I quickly realized that there was absolutely no hope for me and my fellow Kyles. We were past the point of no return. When Gunnars, Kanyens, and fucking Lacans start gaining the confidence to make fun of someone else’s name, you know things are very bad for the havers of that name.
But I was still confused. How did it get to the point where gentrified landform typos were surpassing Kyle on the first name food chain? There had to be more to this phenomenon, right?
So I did some research…and came to a horrifying conclusion.
Was it merely a coincidence that the most famous, powerful, and successful Kyles in the world were either black or extremely against racism? It couldn’t be. This was a calculated attack motivated by prejudice and hate. I was sickened.
As I researched further, I only started connecting more dots. The name Kyle didn’t even exist until after Brown v. Board of Education. Do you know any Kyles over the age of 55? Of course not. Because parents didn’t even think of that name until after they heard Martin Luther King Jr. make his “I Have A Dream” speech. This whole time, the notorious name was actually a symbol of hope and equality….but mongrels decided to tarnish it.
I’m not going to sit here and demand an apology or beg for forgiveness, but the next time you go to tweet out one of your little Kyle jokes, just remember that there are people out there with names like Dahltyn.
And if you want to make a stereotypical meme out of an entire name group, maybe think about going after Hunters.
I refuse to hate on anyone else’s name because I know how it feels to be the helpless victim of such bullying, but look at these absolute fucking dick heads named Hunter. Holy shit. Every single one of those guys can infinitely fuck off into a black hole with those faces and haircuts. How did they last so long without getting memed into smithereens?
While that collection of the the most punchable and detestable faces on the planet walk free and avoid scrutiny, these are the faces that the internet has decided to berate and shame:
Kind of pathetic if you asked me.