The situation: in a standard game of stripes-and-solids, he had just the eightball left, while I still had four balls out on the table. As they might say in O Brother, I was in a tight spot. Naturally, I responded to my brother's trash-talk not by quietly accepting my fate, but rather by making a boast of my own --- I would sink the next four balls, and then the eightball if I did this, he would have to refer to me as "Mr. Spectacular" for the rest of our lives. Chuckling, he accepted the bet.
And then I PROCEEDED TO DO IT.
Now, folks, your old pal Mark is not a top-class pool player. The only thing that Minnesota Fats and I have in common is our shared morbid obesity. Still, on this day, I was a veritable Fast Eddie Felson, draining five balls in succession from all over the table. My brother could just stand there like a slack-jawed yokel in amazement that I somehow went from 0 to 100 in the span of a minute.
The downside? Not once has my brother ever, EVER referred to me as Mr. Spectacular. Not a single damn time, even as a joke. He didn't even use the name directly in the wake of our game, as I believe his response to my five-ball streak was just to swear and demand another game.
This welching dog owes me over 20 years of nicknames. And really, had me used the nickname all these years, naturally someone would've asked about it, and then it might've caught on. My life would've clearly been at least 7.5% better if I'd been colloquially known as "Mr. Spectacular." That's a brand name unto itself. I could've even gotten it tattooed across my shoulderblades, since I presume in this new reality I would've had the confidence to get over my fear of needles.
To make a long story short, if anyone wants to start calling me Mr. Spectacular, I'm just saying I'd be open to it. If you also have a goofy nickname you're trying to give yourself a la George "T-Bone" Costanza, I'm willing to play ball. A billiard ball, if you will.