When it came time for me and my wife to pick out names for our unborn children, we toiled over each one as any good parent should.  My rules were simply that the name couldn’t rhyme with something derogatory (Icky Ricky, Smelly Kelly, Flaccid… uh… Hermaccid, etc.), couldn’t also describe a body part (Dick, Peter, Vulva, etc.), and above all else couldn’t join with my phallic last name to create some type of uber locker-stuffing combination (Harry Johnson, Tanner Johnson, Sandy Johnson, etc.).

I almost let one slip past me as we had decided on the name Sawyer for my Son (yes, “Lost” was big at the time), and right at the last minute, I realized that this would make my Son “Saw Yer Johnson.”  Crisis narrowly averted.

I went to school in a very small town, and I saw what hell a poorly named child could be subjected to.  Don Keys was a laughing stock, Rusty Steele an outcast, and Dollar Bill Smith (we called him “Buck” for short) was often found huddled in a ball on the floor of the bathroom, letting his tears run down the floor drain.

(I only wish those names were fictitious, as do the kids involved.)

So instead we went with Sebastian for my Son, and a few years later we went with Lily for my Daughter.  Yes, “Silly Lily” is a possibility, but frankly I hope my Daughter is a little on the silly side, just like her old man.