Like a preteen girl, I was up all night wondering what name I would give to my future son. I’m sure my wife would be the romantic one, saying things like, “What about a Native American name meaning good child?” And my response would be, “No, honey. I will not name my son Huhuewahehle.”

The first thing I would do is decide on his last name. Yes, a bit unusual, but while I’ve always enjoyed my last name and have often worked it to my advantage, I’m worried my son will be a wimp, and emotionally collapse from a lifetime association with a farm animal. I’m leaning towards a last name so iconic in American culture, like Simpson or Soprano, that upon hearing it, the only logical response is, “That is so awesome it leaks awesome juice.”

As for his first name, I’m reminded that Shiloh Jolie-Pitt has begun the trend of naming children after fictional household pets, and that is something I’m very eager to embrace. Maybe Beethoven?

And finally, for good measure, I’ll throw in a middle initial too, because that would make him one of the very few Asians who have one. The dignity connoted by it should get him so many chicks, he orders chicken feed by the bulk.

I got it. My son’s name shall be Garfield W. Jetson.

I only have bad memories of our family dog, Rover.

I suppose I can explain it by saying he bit my hand when I was four, but that would too conveniently dismiss that time when he stole my screenplay, sold it to Hollywood under his name, and then fail to acknowledge me in his Oscar acceptance speech.

I am a man of principles, beliefs so strong they do not falter under any circumstances. The strongest of these is my belief that if you love someone, you should let her go. If she comes back to you, she is yours. If she does not, it was never meant to be. I abide by that one even when, like last summer in Yosemite, the only way to prevent my girlfriend from plummeting off a cliff face was to hold on.

Given the choice, most people would want to have their own show on a channel like NBC or CBS, or HBO if they like to curse a lot, but not me. My show would only fit on CourtTV.

Preparation for the show will begin when my wife, having discovered my womanizing ways and uncontrollable gambling habits, realizes the only way she can keep the house and maintain a life of decency for our kids would be to dissolve me in a bathtub full of acid.

When I was a ninja, I kicked a lot of ass.

I would sneak up on people, deliver a kick to their bottoms, and then before they can turn around, disappear in a puff of smoke.