Talk about Bad Karma, welcome to moi.

Look at my photo in my junior high school yearbook. I’m not McCarty but McCarthy. On another page, my elder brother, Daniel, came across victoriously as McCarty.

Throughout my life, people — even those reading my name — have thrown an “h” into my name, so that I’m a McCarthy.

I even looked up the two names, and McCarty — son of a cart maker — came first, with McCarthy being a bastardization.

Now, not only do people add an “h” to my last name, but often they will substitute “J” for “G” and call me Jerry.

Jerry McCarthy — my lifetime ghost and nemesis — go die and let me live as Gary McCarty, with a “G” and no “H” or “J.”