"His Parents Must Be Funny People", part one.

John Smith. It's a name everyone knows, because everyone's named John Smith, and because everyone thinks everyone's named John Smith, no one is really named John Smith. Those parents unlucky enough to be saddled with the surname "Smith" were generally benevolent enough to not stick whatever male offspring they may have produced with the first name "John". Unless they were, of course, Mr. and Mrs. J. Smith Sr., who saw no problems with bestowing this title on their firstandonlyborn. In Mr. Smith's words, it was "the most goddamn simple and goddamn American name you could give a boy, goddammit".

John Smith Jr. quite reasonably hated his parents. No matter how they spoiled him, J. Smith Jr. could never forgive Mr. and Mrs. J. Smith Sr. for the name. The name was vanilla ice cream with beige chunklets. The name was pain. The name was misery. The name was people only remembering it because whenever he introduced himself to someone that someone would turn to his buddies the second John left and say something about how crazy that guy's parents must have been to actually name a child fucking John Smith fucking junior fuck. The "junior" only added insult to his grotesque injury. Yes, he hated his parents, he hated the college, he hated his roommate who'd been his bestonly friend since sixth grade, he hated his ex girlfriend, who, in a twist of fate worthy of Rod Serling, broke up with him because he was too boring.

God was clearly out to fuck with John Smith Jr.