Adventures in the Harry S. Butt Auditorium

So I used to be a dancer. And I often performed (with friends!) at the local community college theater. Needless to say, the first time my dance teacher told me to report to the Harry S. Butt Auditorium, I thought it was some kind of practical joke.

It was not. Over the years, I got so used to it that I'd casually drop the name while telling other friends where to catch my latest show. Led to conversations like:
Me: So, I'm in a show this weekend.
Friend: Cool, where's it at? I might come.
Me: MC. The Harry S. Butt Auditorium.
Friend: (awkward pause)
Me: What?

For years, I thought Harry was the unexpected tenth child in a very Catholic family, or the result of 72 hours of excruciating labor, or the child of a crack addict. Anything that would warrant inflicting punishment like that on a child. But a friend of mine suggested a far more likely scenario: perhaps Harry really was a joke.

She asked me: If, in years to come, you made millions of dollars and lost all touch with reality, wouldn't you consider donating money for an auditorium at your local community college?
Me: Sure.
Her: And wouldn't you, out of perversity and meanness, be tempted to call it the Crystal Chanda Lear Auditorium, or the Uranus Auditorium, or even the Harry S. Butt Auditorium?
Me: Theoretically, won't I be more mature by then?
Her: (awkward pause) Even so.

So perhaps there is no Harry S. Butt. Perhaps he's the vindictive dream of a wealthy madman with a penchant for potty humor. Strangely, I don't know which is worse: a world in which this kind of man exists, or a world in which parents would inflict such a name on an innocent child.