By K. Daniel Glover

One of the lamer storylines to emerge from the ongoing “Joe The Plumber” media feeding frenzy is the accusation that his name isn’t even Joe.

Newsflash folks: My name isn’t really Danny Glover, either. Danny is my — wait for it — nickname. And like Joe Wurzelbacher, who is actually named Samuel Joseph Wurzelbacher, the name I answer to is based on my middle name (Daniel), not my first name (Keith).

Ahhhhhhhh, that felt great! I’ve been keeping that secret for years. Now it’s out there and I don’t have to worry about liberal bloggers and their parrots in the mainstream media unleashing their hounds after “Danny The Enlightened Redneck.”

I have so many aliases and bylines that I can’t remember them all. When we adopted our children, I was nervous that we would be denied a family if I didn’t list every name I had ever used on the paperwork for the background checks.

It was only a matter of time before some enterprising journalist exposed me. I’ve had visions of being grilled before a congressional inquisition and having to answer question after question about my names in Alberto Gonzales-like fashion: I don’t remember … I don’t recall … I have no recollection.

Stop the badgering! My name is Danny!

Thanks to Joe The Plumber, I don’t have to live that nightmare any longer. He has inspired me to tell the whole sordid story of my many names, so here goes:

It all started in a West Virginia hospital room more than 40 years ago. Barbara Glover (if that’s her real name — I’ve heard people call her Barb and Bobbi) gave birth to a blonde-haired, blue-eyed, rednecked, all-American boy. He was the second child born to Barbara and Jack. (Or is his name actually John, like JFK. The world may never know.)

The boy was a screamer from the get-go. He was always cryin’ about something. So his parents decided to torture him by naming him Keith Daniel but calling him Danny.

They didn’t want to ruin his life with a name like Sue (even though that was his mother’s middle name) or hinder his presidential ambitions by tossing Hussein into the naming equation. They just wanted to mess with the boy’s head as he grew older and louder.

Dad and Mom, a shady pair in their own right considering they now answer to the names Mamaw and Papaw, certainly messed with my head.

I don’t recall exactly when I learned my first name was Keith, but I do remember wanting to change it. I never understood why my parents named me Keith Daniel instead of Daniel Keith, and more than once I wished out loud for them to legally swap the order. They never did, and boy do I have some stories to tell as a result.

The first is from those formative middle-school years. Every boy in Paden City, W.Va. — OK, maybe it was just me — feared middle school. It was Mr. Haggerty’s domain.

Teachers still beat rotten kids into submission with “the board” back then, and Mr. Haggerty loved to wield his. I wasn’t the worst kid in my class, but I was ornery. My backside was destined to meet Mr. Haggerty’s handcrafted, inch-thick weapon of pubescent terror some day.

I did everything possible to delay the inevitable, though, including changing my name for half a year. I didn’t actually change it. I just didn’t correct Mr. Haggerty when he called roll that first day (or any day) based on the official record, so Keith stuck with me until winter.

I was thrilled when my uncle bought me a sweatshirt with my name on it for Christmas that year. I wore it out and by the time I did get the board from Mr. Haggerty — for an alleged tackle-football crime that I didn’t commit — he was calling me Danny.

My different names didn’t become an issue again until I went to West Virginia University. I didn’t feel like correcting professors in classes of up to 200 people when they called the roll and figured they wouldn’t remember anyway, so I became Keith again.

Then something weird happened. I don’t remember why, but when I jumped into the journalism world, I decided to embrace my inner Keith. I adopted “Keith Glover” as my byline when I wrote my first piece for The Tampa Tribune in 1988 and kept it for years.

People at work called me Keith, and I introduced myself to sources by that name. My two younger brothers were baffled when they visited the newsroom in Morgantown, W.Va., one day and heard everyone using my first name.

My decision to be Keith at work and Danny at home was ironic because a few months earlier, when the first “Lethal Weapon” hit theaters, the actor who shares my moniker had made “Danny Glover” a household name. I was a fan of the movies but wasn’t motivated to change my byline.

Until 1994, that is. I was a reporter for Congressional Quarterly at the time and had a come-to-Danny moment in my career. When I was forced to change jobs within the company, I also changed both my byline and the name I used at work.

The switch to “K. Daniel Glover” as my byline — the one I still use — was relatively smooth. But getting colleagues who had called me Keith for years to start calling me Danny took some effort — and an admittedly bizarre company-wide memo.

Some co-workers never did adapt. My boss just said “Hey guy” when he passed me in the halls or wanted to get my attention. A few years ago, the man who hired me at CQ joined the staff at National Journal while I was there. He called me Keith almost every time he saw me.

These days, I’m Keith only to caller ID systems, bankers, doctors and other people who know me on paper, not in person. But my nickname haunts me because of a certain actor.

I get Danny Glover’s hate mail when he consorts with dictators. My favorite was the one that began, “You, sir, are a piece of trash.” Then there was the guy who scolded me for using my own name in what he saw as an attempt to deceive people.

So whatever happens, Joe, don’t change your name. It doesn’t matter whether you answer to Joe, Joseph, Sam or Samuel. When the media want to play “gotcha,” they’re gonna getcha one way or another. Just be the Wurzelbacher you’ve always been.