So you head off to the courthouse to change it on your 18th birthday, family be damned. Bold them, please.
I could not live my life as a Roach. I don’t care if I’m Hal Roach III. I believe people are impressionistic, and I don’t want an uphill battle every time I introduce myself wherein I have to start by inserting a disgusting image into peoples’ minds and then winning them over.
Finger. Ever since middle school, I’ve known this to be a verb. A filthy, filthy, hilarious verb. I couldn’t live down the shame of being even something as innocuous as “Steve Finger” let alone a true howler like “Armand Finger” or “Harry Finger.” It’s worse for girl names.
There’s a Peed Plumbing near here, and there used to be a local sheriff named Carl Peed. I always felt a pang of sympathy for what it must have been like for him as a kid at roll call: “Carl Peed. Here.” The other kids probably snickered every day, “Ewww, right at his desk!” Maybe that’s why he went into law enforcement.
Reminds me of the aptronym of the proctologist called Anil Ram. I wouldn’t want to have the surname Ram even without that first name, even though at frist blush it seems strong and masculine.
Branstool, which seems to be a fairly common family name in Ohio. There are also a lot of people named Spittle around here. I’ll take a pass on both of those.