Hey There, My Name Is Delilah, And I’d Like To Make A Complaint
By: Simon Black
Tags: Pop Culture, Satire, Humor, Pop, Music

Hey There, My Name Is Delilah, And I’d Like To Make A Complaint

I’ve never even been to New York City.

Photo by Max Ilienerwise on Unsplash

Yeah, so, whenever I meet a guy and I introduce myself, the guy inevitably gets this bright look in his eyes and says, “Hey there, Delilah.”

And he’ll act like he’s the first person to make the connection between my name and that annoying song which even now, fifteen years later, seems to be playing on every radio every minute of every god damned day.

Do I sound bitter?

Well, I am bitter. I am tired. And I am sick.

Sometimes the guy, after opening with that incredibly unwitty witticism, will follow it up with, “What’s it like in New York City?”

Then he’ll look at me expectantly as if I’m supposed to give him a prize or something.

“Heh heh,” I will say, without smiling. And I hope that will be the end of it. But sometimes, it goes even farther into the land of banality, and this guy who thinks he’s so clever will top it off with:

“Oh, it’s what you do to me… oh, it’s what you do to me…”

Um, this is basically sexual harassment, am I right? I meet a guy, and three seconds later he’s singing this, which is basically saying out loud that I’m giving him a hard-on. And this happens over, and over, and over again.

Welcome to the hell that is my life.

And while I’m at it — fuck you, too, Tom Jones

When I meet old people, this is what they do, and in a way, it’s even worse. They sing, “My, my, my, Delilah.” That’s from this old song by this old guy called Tom Jones.

Yeah, that’s pretty stupid. And yet they think they are being so clever.

Um… old person, just sayin’, you’re like the thousandth person to do that, OK? Not the first!

Some people sing, “Why, why, why, Delila?” which is another line from the song, and which I hate even more because I feel like I have to give them an answer.

“Um… I don’t know. I’m sorry?”

That’s what I say, sometimes.

Other old people sing “Ay, ay, ay, Delila,” because they misremember the words. It’s not ay, ay ay, old people. I checked. It’s either my, my, my, or why, why, why.

But I would prefer that it be nothing. I wish that you wouldn’t sing anything.

Especially not the damn Bruce Springsteen lyric. That one really burns me up. But luckily, it’s kind of obscure, so I only get it when I meet a real genuine asshole.

“Hi, my name is Delilah,” I’ll say.

And the genuine asshole will look me right in the eye and say:

“Cause when we kiss… fire.”

That is worse than sexual harassment. It basically feels like being mauled. It makes me want to puke.

First of all, it’s eliding about five lines from the verse. Google it. The song goes like this:

“Well Romeo and Juliet

Sampson and Delilah

Baby, you can bet

They were burnin’ with desire

If I say split

Then I know that I’d be lying

’Cause when we kiss

Ooh… Fire”

But see, the genuine asshole just skipped from my name right to “fire.” How dumb!

Anyhow, I couldn’t take it anymore. I thought I would shorten my name.

“Hi, my name is Lila.”

I liked that — Lila.

It worked fine for a few weeks. But what I didn’t know is there is a song by a band called Oasis who I didn’t really even know and it is called “Lyla.” One day I met this guy and I said, “I’m Lila.” He got this shining eye look that I recognized right away. My heart sank. Oh no, I thought. And he broke into song.

“Hey, Lyla,” he said merrily. “The stars about to fall.”

“Huh?” I said.

“The world around us makes me feel so small, Lyla,” he said.

“No, it can’t be,” I exclaimed. “No!”

But he kept on.

“If you can’t hear me call, then I can’t say Lyla, heaven help you catch me if I fall.”

I turned and ran screaming like a lunatic. I went to YouTube and found the song. I didn’t like the song. I didn’t like the band.

“Arghhhhhh!”

Alright then, I thought. I’ll go with Del instead.

“Hi, my name’s Del,” I said to the next guy I met.

“Oh like the taco?” he replied, eyes shining, looking at me with that dumb smile.

“Yes,” I promptly replied. “Exactly like the taco.”

My life is a nightmare.

Speaking of which, last night I dreamed that somehow these four things combined into one hellish rejoinder. I told some guy in my dream that I was Delilah.

“Hey there Del Taco,” he said to me. “What’s it like being a Del Taco in New York City? Are your stars about to set Romeo and Juliet on fire? Because I saw the light on the night that I passed by your window, Miss Del Taco. Why, why, why, Del Taco?”

Anyhow, thanks, Mom. Thanks, Dad. Thanks for giving me such a great name. I really appreciate it…

…NOT!