Most of us live in pointless hope of making a lasting impact on the world; in a universe with so few local delis left, none of us can even dream of managing to get a sandwich to our names. (And even then, it'll probably have Swiss on it, or sprouts.) Still, we have recently learned about one way you could finally make a name for yourself, just like your dad said you never would—provided it's less than 17 characters, and not of a commercial nature: RadioLab's new contest to name a quasi-moon, which will be officially registered with the International Astronomical Union.
If your brains are as poisoned by irony, the internet, and all-purpose existence as ours are, they probably generated the same question just now, too: What's the dumbest name we can get these space-nerds to plausibly accept? Now, we regret to inform you that the IAU does have some pretty stringent rules for what kinds of names they'll accept as submissions; tragically, the rules eliminate "names of a commercial nature," which presumably rules out most corporate-owned properties, comic book names, Muppets, etc. (Hey, did you know you have a gene in your body called sonic hedgehog? It's involved in natal development; doctors wisely abbreviate it to "SHH" when talking about what happens when it mis-fires.) The IAU naming rules also "discourage" pet names, which is an absolute bummer; the upshot is that you're either naming this thing after one of your family members—self-naming is apparently prohibited—or trying to find the most amusing possible mythological figure to try to get past the censors.
Could we humbly suggest, for example, the apocryphal Roman god "Crepitus," a god who either ruled over, or was, flatulence? Sure, he's probably an invention of French satirists from the 18th century (who loved a good fart joke), but he's still got a good mythological heft to him. (Plus, there is apparently a reference in Aristophanes to thunder being the flatulence of the gods, because Greek playwrights from the 4th century B.C. also loved a good fart joke.) Really, though, the sky's the limit, as long as its mythological, and not named after your poor dead cat. Submit away; just be ready to back up your pick with a 360-character citation explaining why your pick is the right one for the quasi-moon. (For instance: "The fictitious Roman god of flatulence simultaneously represents that which is most base and most divine about our natures; giggling at our own intestinal noises is as human as looking backwards at history—or reaching upward toward the stars, hoping to pull the finger of the gods. We live in hope that 21st century astronomers also love a good fart joke.")
Anyway, whatever we all pick will still be better than Boaty McBoatface. God, we loathe you, Boaty.
