Slippery Rock, PA

I enjoy a good road trip, especially one that can include nights in hotels with American television.

A few weeks ago I was on such a trip, this story picking up with me deep in the heart of Pennsylvania. I've got a surprising amount of Pennsylvania stories, but this one involves very little. Just me driving by a sign for a town named Slippery Rock.

Slippery Rock. What a name.

It amused me as I drove by, my mind filling with images of just how a town could get such a name.

I picture a young village being built, people excitedly moving into their homes as the villages founder sat at his desk, quill in hand and he scribbled out potential names for the town. He needed the perfect one, the kind of name that would inspire the villages' citizens to do great thing. The kind of name that would bring them pride. The kind of name that would see this village grow to one of America's largest cities.

He took his job seriously, sitting at that desk day after day as he burnt away the midnight oil at an alarming pace. It probably would've been smart not to burn the midnight oil during the day, but he had more important things on his mind, so burn it did.

Then one day he had come up with it! The perfect name, one that was classy, that demanded respect, one that captured the spirit of its citizens and the geography around them.

He called all the villagers together, dozens and dozens gathered down by the river. To address them all the village's founder stood up on a nearby rock and he began to speak to them.

"We gather on this momentous occasion to name this beotch of a burg."

Okay, this may not be a direct quote.

"And folks, I have thought long and hard," he continued, "and today I proclaim that our little town shall forever be known as..."

Now the rock that this man had stood upon, being so close to the rivers splashing waves was a little damp, and it was at this particularly inopportune moment that he decided to shift his weight, causing a foot to give way.

He began to loose his balance, on the verge of falling and embarrassing himself. Luckily a panicked flail of his arms had saved him this humility. But still he'd lost his balance and was not looking to graceful, so he begins to laugh it off.

"Slippery rock," he chuckled.

Suddenly the crowd began to cheer. Hats were thrown, a fiddler randomly starts a'fiddlin' and everyone begins celebrating.

Confused the village's founder stands upon the rock trying to understand what was going on.

Then slowly he realizes, he had just proclaimed the town to be forever known as Slippery Rock.

Desperate he tries to tell nearby revelers the real name he had carefully crafted but they are to busy celebrating.

That's how I imagined it went down, but a fact check on this story informs me that it is not the case.

Here's the story those Slippery Rockians would have you believe.

Natives went and attacked Fort Pitt, another unfortunate victim of bad naming. This attack sort of frustrated the folks living in the fort, so they decided to chase the natives. As they did they found themselves crossing a river. They were gaining ground on the group of natives, closing in. But the floor of the river was muddy. This didn't cause the natives any problems, but the Americans in hot pursuit began slipping and sliding in the river, giving the natives a perfect opportunity to get away.

So I guess as a slap in the face people living nearby said, "Oh wow! You soldiers sure are something! In fact to honour your amazing soldering we're going to rename our town after you!"

Missing the sarcasm one soldier probably asked, "really? Like 4th Battalion City or something like that?"

"Oh no, no, no. We were thinking Slippery Rock." And then the town laughed in their face.

Think about that, the soldiers screwed up and a town was renamed after their screw up.

What if your town was renamed after a particularly bad mistake you made?

I believe this is how Enterprise, Alabama got its name. You know, after a guy's girlfriend stumbled across his shockingly large collection of Star Trek Enterprise collectibles, and don't even get me started on the embarrassing incident that led to Spanish Fork, Utah.

I don't live in a small town myself, so I feel spared such a fate as thousands of embarrassing things happen every minute in this city I am sure. I did go to college in a small town though, and I can't help but imagine if a poor choice on my part had been immortalized by the locals.

I once had one to many Canadian Killer Kool-aids, a drink consisting of vodka, amaretto, melon liqueur and cranberry juice as it turns out. The problems included a 'drunk dial' that night, and then a sleeping in and missing the call time I had to be on set for a cooking show... I was directing.

The point of this story was supposed to be thank goodness they didn't rename the town Killer Kool-aid, Ontario but now that I think about it that actually sounds really cool.

Belleville, Ontario you may have this idea, you're welcome... but get on it before Jonestown, Guyana beats you to the punch.

Not So Sharp a Shooter

I had this job interview over at Fort York to be one of those army reenactors.

I did, I did. And as I was going in for the interview I realized just how big an idiot I was. I was wearing my glasses, hardly historically accurate. So I tuck them away in my pocket, I mean yes okay sure I am a little blind without them on. A little blind. I mean I can make out shapes.

So the woman calls me and I sit down, making sure to look straight ahead at the blurry shape asking me questions.

And I’m doing amazing, nailing questions left and right, left and right.

About fifteen minutes into the interview I realize the shape I’ve been staring at is the women’s breasts.

This now explain the five questions in a row she’s fired at me about sexual harassment.

I figure I’ve blown this one. But there’s still the second portion of the interview, where I am led out into the field to follow the woman’s commands to load and fire this reenactment musket.

I consider putting on the glasses, but I decide I don’t want the woman to think I was a pervert and a liar.

I start following the instructions, loading the gun. The woman yells for me to aim, I bring the gun up. The bayonet on the end of the weapon connects with a shape.

I pray it’s not the woman’s breasts.

So I’ve just stabbed a small maple tree, which is a bit of a relief to learn the wet stuff dripping off the gun is just sap.

Did you enjoy this column? Want to share it with someone?

Click to Email Column to Friends

And don't forget the easy way to ensure you don't miss the latest installment of Cidiot, just hit Subscribe