On Todd

I must say, I can not understand all of this Todd non-sense. Firstly Stani, then Hugo's gushing, and now the enigmatic Miss Jones shows her head to pipe in her two cents, if I may mix my metaphors. Who in Heaven's name is Todd and why have we not heard of him until this point? From whence issues the allure of Todd, and why is there implicit here the notion that all of the auteurs here are of the same Todd's acquantance?
Having the ad-vantage of quite some years on the relatively Spring chickens about this coop, I may say with confidence that I have known many Todds in my days. For mercy's sake, if Mr. Nugington had shown more often up for lecture, he would have met three distinct Todds in my class-room alone: Todd Johnson, Todd Eyring, and Todd Flemeringson, to name their names. Behold! three distinct Todds with quite nothing in common other than a penchant for philosophy. I can not begin to calculate the astronomical proportions of the odds against these three weird-os knowing the one same Todd, but I estimate it to be roughly one-in-three-hundred-thousand.
I do hope this helps to put a stop to all of this silliness, because I grow rather weary of it.