So that maybe he'll stop searching on his own name, I thought I'd give Frank Frank his own post. Frank Frank is my ticket pimp, scoring me sweet seats at Mariners games, even back when anyone wanted them. More importantly to readers, Frank Frank is the sire of the Dorkette; he is none other than Mr. Dorkass. It's for that last capacity—taking Dorkass off the market—that all of mankind is forever indebted to him.
I will now, for the first time, reveal the origin of the nickname Frank Frank. I don't even know if he knows. I promise the story's not worth the time you'll spend reading it.
It's a few years ago, and Dorkass and I are both remorseless dating machines. It's a blur of faces and immediately forgotten names, a cornucopia of romantic futility. We're one another's dating buddies—the first person to whom the other reports the debacles from the night before. And then along comes Frank. Debacle-free Frank. Super-dainty Frank. And Dorkass has it bad. Frank Frank Frank! Isn't that cute. Frank Frank Frank! Okay. I'm happy you're happy. Frank Frank Frank! Give it a rest, now. Frank Frank Frank! Oh please, for the love of all that's holy, shut up! Frank Frank Frank! Finally I mock her through imitation, singing the Colonel Bogey March with "Frank" as the only lyric. Everyone now:
Frank Frank!
Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank!
Frank Frank!
Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank!
Frank Frank!
Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank!
Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank,
Frank Frank Frank,
Frank Frank!
(Frank Frank Frank)
repeat chorus
The worst part of this is I just spent a good half hour listening to some god-awful midi versions of the Frank Frank song, and now it's still ringing in my ears. Be a dear and hand me an icepick, would you?