Stanley, called Stan, was registered at birth as Joseph Stanley Smith, but never known as such, except in the phone book where it read Smith, Joseph S. To cut a long story short, it meant, basically, that no one ever phoned him because they couldn’t find his damn phone number in the White Pages. Everyone looked for S. Smith, not knowing that his real name was Joseph. His parents should’ve been lined up against a wall and shot for creating this horrid anomaly in his life.
He had a sister, whose name was pronounced Teresa but spelt Tiresa. And the Smith bit was Smythe. No one wrote down her name correctly — ever. And even though her parents were lovely people, they should’ve been lined up against a wall and shot for creating this horrid anomaly in her life.
To sum up, Æjöiklanwtlmtr Ø. Tšimaqtlbargh-Yanþinlftrêinh and his wife Myrtle should’ve been lined up against a wall and shot for giving their kids such difficult fucking names.