What’s in a name? For some people, uninvited idiocy. 

I, like many people with half a brain, detest some of the names that are being given to newborns these days. Abcde (AB-SID-EE). Blayze. Zayde. Paylin. Olive (P. Mento?). Brodyn. Teiyairnyn. GIZZEL! But aside from the moronic parents burdened with the trouble of choosing a name suitable for a human life independent of their own who have no choice but to live it down for the next 80+ years, there are the rest of us with normal names who still must listen to Panera Bread cashiers butcher them for no logical reason.

For instance, today at Coral Ridge Mall, the girl ahead of me, who spelled her name for the cashier (S-E-R-E-N-A) was called out on the microphone as Syria—SYRIA!—the Middle Eastern country.

At the same location, I once spelled my name for the teenage cashier (“Lindy. L-I-N-D-Y.”) only to become known to the sandwich makers down the counter as Lingay. LINGAY! FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!

I will never understand.