Big Bad John

I'll bet you're wondering who I am. Well pish posh, sod and bother! I shall tell you. I am His Royal Highness, The Prince Alexander John Charles Albert "Johnny" of Wales! Mayhaps you have not heard of me. Sadly, I shan't be in the least surprised. I represent that rare sprig of the English throne; a male heir named "John." I also perished as a day-old infant, so do forgive my pretensions at appearing before you at a more advanced state of life. If you had any notion at all of how difficult it was to chase poon in the afterlife in the guise of a day-old infant, you'd understand. And Johns have it hard enough.
You see, we have a bit of the ole' curse upon us, it seems, with the appellation of "John." A nice enough name, but dreadfully rife with contentious overtones. Nobody seemed too terribly interested in using it until 1167, when the querulous infant who would become King John of England was born. His parents had already endured the birth and naming of three other sons, and settled upon "John" by way of a cop-out. No one REALLY believed he'd ever rule, but alas, these were dreadfully harsh times. He managed to live until 1216, without even once acquiring a desirable personality trait, it seems. He was lecherous and incestuous. He was a thief and a coward. He sired slews of bastards and kidnapped for his second wife, a child named Isabella (who incidentally, was due to marry someone else. Like I mentioned, hard times.) He had 5 children by Izzie, and then concentrated his full attention on undermining his seat of power by signing away Royal privileges in the form of the Magna Carta. By the time John's carcass was reverently shoved under an effigy at Worcester Cathedral, he'd acquired a few more nicknames, all of which seemed to direct an unreasonable amount of negative attention at the royal Trouser Trumpet. "Lackland." "Soft-Sword." And my personal favorite, "Bad." Clever, that.
So 'John' was quite the shitty name to saddle a young lord with for many a year. It was generally accepted that the name was no good and brought shame upon us all. But then, a few generations passed and people began to get a bit slack in maintaining the proper vigil of hatred for the name. Hence, my birth, to the most lovely Princess Alexandra of Denmark and Prince Edward Albert of England. I was to be the sixth and last of the litter.
But we Brits are a sturdy, stubborn lot. Not to pass up a good thing, my nephew, King George and his piece, Queen Mary saddled THEIR youngest boy with the name too! Alas, curse: 3, inbred royals: 0. "The Prince John" was buried right beside me. They congratulated themselves on this act of organization; "Our little Johnnies are together!" Bastards, the lot. Fuck 'em!

Gratuitous additional fact of the day:
For a brief period of time, Victor Fleming was simultaneously directing "The Wizard of Oz" and "Gone With the Wind." Can you imagine the mind-fuck? Hoop skirt-midget-Mammy-Tin Man-baby birthin'-more midget-burning of Atlanta-Poppppiiiieeessss!!!!
And that's not even getting to the Flying Monkeys.