Something reminded me yesterday of this true story:
A bit of context: first, I'm a woman. Second, for reasons lost to the mists of time, my immediate family has called me "Otis" since I was a toddler. No one remembers why.
Fast forward to when I was a petite, kinda cute twenty-something with an impacted wisdom tooth, late last century.
Just after the anesthetist had administered nitrous to settle me before whatever they use to knock you out for the surgery, this huge, Barry White-looking guy with voice to match, and wearing floral scrubs, enters the room and purrs in a serious baritone: "Hello. I'll be your nurse today. My name is Otis."
I responded immediately with a slight slur "What a coincidence. So is mine."
He gazed at me for several seconds with an expression that was tinged with clear suspicion that I was mocking him, glanced at the clipboard in his hand, and then replied in his slow, deep tones, "Suuuuuure it is."
As my drug-fogged brain slowly caught up to the conversation, I distinctly remember thinking that I wasn't going to even try to explain myself while stoned, and just let it hang there, giggling helplessly under the laughing gas.
I never did see him after waking up.