Two of my most favorite things on the planet are babies and trashy reality television (not always in that order). Occasionally the stars align and those two interests converge, and I am barely able to contain my horrified glee. Last weekend, Kim Zolciak, star of Bravo’s Real Housewives of Atlanta and the artist responsible for the resplendent work of musical genius that is Tardy for the Party, gave birth to her second child with husband, Atlanta Falcons defensive end Kroy Biermann. What moniker, you may ask, could possibly befit this crowned prince of basic cable? Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, Kash Kade Biermann. Oy.
Perhaps it was optimistic of me to believe we’d already sunk as low as we could go on the celebrity baby-naming front. (I mean come on, Mariah Carey….Moroccan and Monroe?! Inevitably, someday, these children will be forced to sit through Glitter – isn’t that psychologically damaging enough?) Apparently we had much, much further to fall. Kash Kade. Oh, the humanity. Now I know what you may be thinking, the father’s name is Kroy. Perhaps they’re simply trying to continue a proud tradition of names that are simply nonsensical noises? You can tell by her watermelon-sized implants and penchant for bedazzled denim that they’re a family of steadfast traditionalists. I’m certain Tiffany & Co. has already been commissioned to design the finest teething-grill reality TV money can buy.
Please know that when I embarked upon this rant, it was with full awareness that my own choice in baby-names may not be everyone’s favorite flavor. I recently read a blog post asserting that naming a child after a dead jazz musician immediately outs you as a pretentious hipster douche – yikes! But we thought Miles sounded nice. And hey, at least we didn’t name him Thelonius. But here’s my issue with their choice of forename: there will never be a doctor named Kash Kade. They have effectively sealed his fate. Although, one could argue fates were sealed the moment a reality television star decided to procreate with someone whose primary job duty is being bashed in the head. But they didn’t even give the little guy a chance.
So let us reset our expectations for the wee baby Biermann. Perhaps someday when his entrance to Mensa is unjustly denied for having a name that sounds like a scratch-off lottery ticket or a disinherited Kardashian, he’ll discover the wealth of opportunity available to a grown man named Kash Kade. After all, the world will always need nightclub promoters – those Monday night 18+ Foam Parties aren’t going to fill themselves with sexually confused college freshmen. So in the interest of not being labeled a party-pooper, I raise my glass to baby Kash Kade. And to reality TV in general, for even with their baby names they always manage to keep it klassy. K-cheers!