Much to the dismay of Nick and my nephew Dan(ny), I helped my sister Jeannie Martini sign up on Facebook a few days ago. (and, obviously, helped her create a blog.)

Typically, one of the first things we did was check for her former high school classmates. One of the first names that appeared was "Doy Rube." (I changed the name. You'll see why in a minute.)

"Doy Rube?" I asked. "Who's Doy Rube?"

Already laughing, my sister said, "Not Doy Rube. Doy Rub-AY." I understood immediately, and I, too, began to giggle.

Flashback to some point in the mid-1970's. We were all in church, and someone had emitted the foulest, most soul-destroying stench known to man into the air. I think it simultaneously led half the congregation to fear God more strenuously, and the other half to lose faith altogether.

As we all look at each other, my two evil sisters spot poor, (likely) innocent Doy Rube sitting a few rows ahead of us, nudge each other and point. Yes, through (likely) no fault of his own, Doy Rube had been blamed for the toxic emittance.

But it didn't end that day. No, every time someone in my family had gas, someone would ask, "Who had a Doy Rube?" My mom would say to my father, "Rich, if you have to have a Doy Rube, could you please leave the room?" Or, when we passed the Cook County sewage treatment facility on the way to Auntie Julie's house, someone would inevitably say, "Doy Rube was here."

Clearly, I don't want this poor guy to Google his own name and find out how his name has been unfairly slandered through the decades.

Poor Doy Rube.