Speaking of names, would you name your son John?

There are thousands of names in the world.

Names with history. Names with swagger. Names that sound like the kid might grow up to start a company, write a novel, climb Everest, or at least have an interesting LinkedIn profile.

And then there’s John.

Not Sean — great name by the way. Not Jon.

John. With the H.

John is less a name and more a factory default.

John is what the hospital types into the birth certificate when the parents say, “Eh, surprise us.”

You carried this child for nine months. You debated paint colors, researched strollers, bought a $900 car seat, and spent three weeks arguing over whether the nursery should be “warm white” or “soft ivory.”

Then the baby arrives and you look into his tiny, perfect face and say:

“John.”

That’s it?

John sounds like a man who already has a Costco membership at birth.

A newborn John doesn’t cry. He clears his throat and asks where you keep the tax documents.

There are no mysterious Johns.

Nobody has ever said, “You’ll never believe what John did last night,” and had the story end somewhere glamorous.

John owns khakis.

John has strong opinions about lawn fertilizer.

John calls the waiter “chief.”

John’s favorite restaurant is whichever one has easy parking.

And let's discuss the spelling.

J-O-H-N.

At some point, humanity collectively decided that the word “Jon” needed a completely silent H inserted into the middle of it for absolutely no reason.

Why?

Nobody knows.

It’s just been there for centuries, quietly freeloading.

That H is the most interesting thing about John.

To be fair, plenty of great men have been named John. Presidents. Artists. Athletes. Entrepreneurs. Saints.

But that's because roughly 38% of all men born before 1975 were legally required to be named John.

You couldn’t swing a briefcase in 1962 without hitting three Johns.

And maybe that’s John’s greatest strength.

John is safe.

John is dependable.

John will never embarrass you.

Nobody hears “John” and says, “Whoa, the parents really went for it.”

Nope.

John is the beige Toyota Camry of male names.

Reliable. Respectable. Starts every morning.

But exciting?

Come on.

You get one chance to name a human being.

One.

And you chose the name they use when they don’t know the guy’s identity.

John Doe.

Even the legal system heard “John” and said, “Perfect. This could literally be anybody.”

So, speaking of names, would I name my son John?

John is a fine name.

A historic name.

An honorable name.

A name carried by countless accomplished men.

But if I spent nine months preparing for the arrival of a brand-new human being and somebody handed me a list containing every name ever created…

I’m just saying.

I’d probably keep scrolling.