Tongji
Smash Journeyman
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The Origin of My Name
By: Ben Kozloski
Ben, the word rolls off of the lips like a lyric in a song. Almost like the song of a bird. Who might have such a wonderfully, surreptitiously good looking name? Well in short--me. Yes me, and all of my wonderful qualities can be summed up in three letters or, if you prefer, eight--Benjamin. The name derives from the Hebrew dialect, and can be found in the Bible as well. John had twelve sons, the oldest of which is you guessed it, Ben. In Hebrew, Ben means “son of the South” or “the Right hand”(kabaklations.com). Now, I’m not the type of person to try and understand or explain what the Hebrew’s were thinking when they added that definition to my name. The name has served me well through paucity, fantasy, dragon slaying, uprising, bar fights, and, of course, everyday life.
Choosing my name was not a mere chance of fate, oh no. This name was destined for me from the nanosecond I was conceived. God knew and therefore, the whole earth knew what and who I was going to be. So this name was not chosen, no my friend, it was luxuriously presented. It was only by a stroke of pure divine luck that my less-than glorious mother assigned me such a name. When I questioned her over dinner (another one of her “good meals” which, if one would like to know what this consists of, or if you wouldn’t deem this interesting just continue on, what goes on my palate is usually something healthy. String beans, artichoke hearts, and other vegetables and fruits that my poor English dialect has a hard time pronouncing) however, I digress from my digression; she responded to me with a fork still in her mouth and a bit of cabbage hanging out as well.
“Well Ben I chose your name because I think that it’s strong. A president’s name (she could not be more correct) like George and also I wanted something that would fit together like a puzzle with your surname Jon. Which is your grandfathers name.” Nodding my head in compliance and stabbing another artichoke with my fork I carried on eating.
Now after eating, I usually go do some world-changing feat or go cure something. Monday it was cancer and the night after that I spoke to Elvis and Bob Marley. However this particular night I felt like doing something more mundane so I walked across the street to my friend’s house. After traveling across a river, fighting off cockatiels with a spoon, eating a tablespoon of cinnamon and delivering a baby I arrived at my predestined location. Slightly battered but no worse for ware, I knocked thrice, and soon enough out came my two closest companions, Mike and Greg Rettler. We have been friends for many years and our list of nick names for each other would probably take more paper that all of Americas bureaucratic offices combined. This however is not the point. Everyone of course is more interested in me and my nickname; Human Benome Genome Project. Now how does such a wonderful person come up with such a wonderful name you might add? Well that answer is wonderful friends.
The thought of changing my name has never crossed my mind. I could never bring myself to change the name that was given to me. What other name could be more apt for a person of my aptitudes? Ben sounds heroic, mighty in stature, gracious, vengeful, tough, stout, and all manner of other words that could describe me. No other name could or would ever do to fit my heroic stature.
Not only must a name be strong, so must the signature! Many people do not take this to heart, even the most respected. Doctors as every knows are a rare breed of people. They are highly respected, intelligent, and yet their signatures are dismal at best. How can a man wielding a scalpel with the power to save lives have a signature that looks more like a monkeys attempt at algebra? Or a two year olds dabble in finger paint? Not I however, with each chance to sign something I relish the thrill of the kill. When I was younger I used to sign everything, and not just sign it with a pen, but a permanent marker. I loved wielding the pen as if it were a sword. Defining every single line, curve, and arc. This is problematic however when your name is only three letters long, and thus I must admit to my one and only weakness, a short name.
My name is that for the ages all names that have and will come forth will pale in comparison to mine. While I do feel a little bit of sorrow and compassion for the many people that were not as lucky as I, it is merely a fleeting feeling. to be blessed with such a name, it was fate, and fate has chosen me to carry on the name of royalty. I must be the light in the darkness, the single candle in a black room, and with that my dear reader I will leave you with a happy thought. Ben rocks.
The Origin of My Name
By: Ben Kozloski
Ben, the word rolls off of the lips like a lyric in a song. Almost like the song of a bird. Who might have such a wonderfully, surreptitiously good looking name? Well in short--me. Yes me, and all of my wonderful qualities can be summed up in three letters or, if you prefer, eight--Benjamin. The name derives from the Hebrew dialect, and can be found in the Bible as well. John had twelve sons, the oldest of which is you guessed it, Ben. In Hebrew, Ben means “son of the South” or “the Right hand”(kabaklations.com). Now, I’m not the type of person to try and understand or explain what the Hebrew’s were thinking when they added that definition to my name. The name has served me well through paucity, fantasy, dragon slaying, uprising, bar fights, and, of course, everyday life.
Choosing my name was not a mere chance of fate, oh no. This name was destined for me from the nanosecond I was conceived. God knew and therefore, the whole earth knew what and who I was going to be. So this name was not chosen, no my friend, it was luxuriously presented. It was only by a stroke of pure divine luck that my less-than glorious mother assigned me such a name. When I questioned her over dinner (another one of her “good meals” which, if one would like to know what this consists of, or if you wouldn’t deem this interesting just continue on, what goes on my palate is usually something healthy. String beans, artichoke hearts, and other vegetables and fruits that my poor English dialect has a hard time pronouncing) however, I digress from my digression; she responded to me with a fork still in her mouth and a bit of cabbage hanging out as well.
“Well Ben I chose your name because I think that it’s strong. A president’s name (she could not be more correct) like George and also I wanted something that would fit together like a puzzle with your surname Jon. Which is your grandfathers name.” Nodding my head in compliance and stabbing another artichoke with my fork I carried on eating.
Now after eating, I usually go do some world-changing feat or go cure something. Monday it was cancer and the night after that I spoke to Elvis and Bob Marley. However this particular night I felt like doing something more mundane so I walked across the street to my friend’s house. After traveling across a river, fighting off cockatiels with a spoon, eating a tablespoon of cinnamon and delivering a baby I arrived at my predestined location. Slightly battered but no worse for ware, I knocked thrice, and soon enough out came my two closest companions, Mike and Greg Rettler. We have been friends for many years and our list of nick names for each other would probably take more paper that all of Americas bureaucratic offices combined. This however is not the point. Everyone of course is more interested in me and my nickname; Human Benome Genome Project. Now how does such a wonderful person come up with such a wonderful name you might add? Well that answer is wonderful friends.
The thought of changing my name has never crossed my mind. I could never bring myself to change the name that was given to me. What other name could be more apt for a person of my aptitudes? Ben sounds heroic, mighty in stature, gracious, vengeful, tough, stout, and all manner of other words that could describe me. No other name could or would ever do to fit my heroic stature.
Not only must a name be strong, so must the signature! Many people do not take this to heart, even the most respected. Doctors as every knows are a rare breed of people. They are highly respected, intelligent, and yet their signatures are dismal at best. How can a man wielding a scalpel with the power to save lives have a signature that looks more like a monkeys attempt at algebra? Or a two year olds dabble in finger paint? Not I however, with each chance to sign something I relish the thrill of the kill. When I was younger I used to sign everything, and not just sign it with a pen, but a permanent marker. I loved wielding the pen as if it were a sword. Defining every single line, curve, and arc. This is problematic however when your name is only three letters long, and thus I must admit to my one and only weakness, a short name.
My name is that for the ages all names that have and will come forth will pale in comparison to mine. While I do feel a little bit of sorrow and compassion for the many people that were not as lucky as I, it is merely a fleeting feeling. to be blessed with such a name, it was fate, and fate has chosen me to carry on the name of royalty. I must be the light in the darkness, the single candle in a black room, and with that my dear reader I will leave you with a happy thought. Ben rocks.
