Prince Harry. Deborah Harry. Harry Houdini. Harry Caray. Of all the Harrys in the world, I get to work with one Harry Johnson. Hi, I’m Harry. It’s me, Harry. My friends call me Harry. Harry “King Kong Schlong Dong Show Me Your Thong I Use It to Play Ping Pong” Johnson.
What would possess a 50-something balding man named Harold to eschew his proper name for Harry — especially when his last name is what it is? Does he do it for those moments when co-workers like me walk past his cube, read his nameplate and shudder at the image that comes to mind? Or does he still get a kick out of those times when he calls Pizza Hut and gets to hear the dude say “Two medium stuffed crusts and an order of cheesey bread for a Harry Johnson.”