Call me Cletus. My legal counsel and I went out to dinner Friday night at a restaurant called "Bugaboo Creek." The restaurant is decorated to give it a log-cabin (not log-cabin republican) look and feel. There are pictures of the backwoods on the walls, snowshoes hanging, lanterns, and the icing on the cake are the faux mounted animal heads on the wall that jibber-jabber things like, "Hey, pal, welcome to Bugaboo Creek." Okay, I don't know what they actually say, but you get the point.
In trying to recreate that "Deliverance" ambience, we (my legal counsel, not me) noted that they even went one step further. Our server told us that her name was "Dottie." And then my counsel pointed out that there were two servers with "Anne" after their first name. Then she noticed a server with "Festus" on his nametag. So at the end of our meal, I asked the server if her name was really "Dottie." No, she said, her name is actually "Rooby," but they have to wear fake nametags.
Why couldn't we have had fake tags at the Ground Round? Not that it would've mattered since I didn't get one until after I had been working there for two months. But if I had, and I could choose a name for myself, I'd have been Cletus. Or Jimbo. Or even better, Clete-bo, or Jimbus.