An open letter to the other Mickey ____s

To whom it may concern, specifically those persons misappropriating my good name:

When my name, first and last, is typed into Google, I am rather alarmed and deeply disturbed that there seem to be other persons walking the planet and making themselves overtly Googleable using my name. What gives? Sure, I understand that there may be a few folks who, given the limitations of a 26-letter alphabet and the traditionally inherited nature of names, may legitimately end up with my exact name. My point of contention is that not a single one of you is an astronaut or porn star or ice sculptor or trapeze artist or any other respectable avocation that would legitimately warrant any one of you from being listed ahead of me by Google.

Case in point #1: It would seem that the greatest accomplishment anyone with my name has ever achieved is becoming a two-time All-American member of the women’s archery team at a large university in the American southwest during the mid-1980s. Congratulations on that, Mickey, and also on nabbing two of the first three spots on Google. You, now in your 40s, are still an avid archer as evidenced by the various awards and mentions you’ve received in archery publications over the years. But tell me this, and maybe I just don’t understand the nuances of competitive archery: Have you hit the target yet? If so, isn’t it time to try a different sport? Maybe ice sculpting?

Case in point #2: I never really considered Mickey an androgynous name. Turns out it’s not. It’s apparently pretty solidly female, dammit, as evidenced yet again by Me #2, although you have tacked on a hyphen followed by a Japanese surname. People with hyphenated last names are bad enough, but you just make it worse. You own your own organic soap and lotion-making business in which goat’s milk is the primary ingredient. That would be fine, admirable even, except that it would seem your second favorite ingredient is patchouli, which…makes…you…a…DIRTY HIPPIE! I’ve said it before: I might actually be a hippie if it weren’t for their unique combination of ridiculous barefoot dancing and the acrid, nauseating scent of patchouli and body odor.

Case in point #3: A dead English footballer. You may have made up for the fact that the first two are female, given the macho nature of British soccer players, except you had to go and die last year. You’re no help to me now. Actually I rank higher than you anyway, but you still left me hanging with the whole dying thing. Now it’s up to me to do battle with the middle-aged archer and the hippie soap-maker for Google supremacy.

Thus far, my grandest Google achievement has been competing in the CrossKnox 15K. The race results now appear in the number five slot on Google. At number six is my unexpected recent appearance in the text version of a television news story as described in my previous post. From there on out, it would appear that all I’ve done with my life is sign the summit logs for a couple of mountains on a web site called Peakware. Weak, I know, but you pretenders have been put on notice: It’s my name and I’m certainly not going to let any smelly hippies hijack it. Or dead guys. And archery? Come on. That’s like bowling, except maybe a little cooler because it could actually kill someone.

Sincerely,

Mickey ____
(the real one)