Staying Afloat: The Movement to Call Bowel Movements "Trumps"

It's no secret how much Donald Trump is either hated or loved. That can be easily realized by checking out Facebook, Twitter, and cable news, all of which are polarizing, emotional, leading, and very, very shouty. Your ears will be sore just from reading. Trump makes people real mad, whether it be against him or (for whatever reason) for him. The widespread Trump-hate or Trump-love boils down to a lot of big, serious issues which people take quite personally, one way or the other. These personal and heated issues and an examination of them are not what this article is about, though. The rest of this article and what unfolds in it is what this article is about.

Looking at some polls and election data, it is even less of a secret that Donald Trump is doing very, very poorly with just about 2 weeks left until election day (or 5 weeks left, depending on if you know when the election is or absolutely, undoubtedly is not--it absolutely, undoubtedly is not on November 28th, by the way). Recent polls show Hillary Clinton with a large lead in 6 of 11 "battleground states," states with tremendous electoral significance. From the perspective of being a lock on victory, these states combined with expectedly democratic states make for a shiny brass key: a key because the lock part is a lock on winning the election and the key secures the lock--get it? That combined key and the lock, that's the analogy. Look, this is election stuff, how creative and clever do you expect me to get? It's Friday and I don't even have any donuts for crying out loud.

A look at some trustworthy, non-Nate Silver or FiveThirtyEight polls further shows how poorly Donald Trump is doing. This is not to say that Nate Silver and FiveThirtyEight aren't trustworthy, credible, or smart--no, they certainly are--it is just to say that I avoid Nate Silver and FiveThirtyEight because jeeze, are they snooty and self-righteous. Those guys are even more wow-I'm-so-right-look-at-me than BuzzFeed or Tesla owners. Nate Silver and FiveThirtyEight seem like they were the kind of kid who answered every single question in class and told on everyone for anything they ever did wrong. Sure, those are good things to do, but man, are they try-hard. Nate Silver and FiveThirtyEight do a lot for stats, but let's be honest, take it easy, Nate Silver and FiveThirtyEight. They're just stats. They're not medical miracles or working with underprivileged children. Nate and FiveThirtyEight, I'm sure in your minds stats are equally contributing, changing, and important, but at the end of the day, they're not even close. You also seem like one of those parents who tells me how much better and smarter your kids (models) are than other kids, which is not at all the point of raising kids. The point of raising kids is teaching them how to be kind, how to be accepting, how to be loving, and how to throw perfect spirals.

Anyway, here are the polls:

Real Clear Politics

A lead is a lede, but even more convincing and significant is being closer to 50% than 40%, as "there’s more uncertainty the further a candidate is from 50 percent and the larger the number of undecided voters." Thus, looking at the numbers above, Trump seems to be really behind.

Finally, it's not just independent (cough, cough, that's me and my opinion) or liberal (you can put your hand down, Mr. Silver. We already see you sitting there in the front with your shiny apple and humongous calculator) analyses showing Donald Trump doing quite poorly. An email sent from the office of super PAC backing Pennsylvania Republican Sen. Pat Toomey to billionaire Chicago Cubs owner Joe Ricketts (no big deal but our said Cubbies are currently up 3 games to 2 on the Dodgers and my-fingers-crossed likely going to the World Series this year!) shows Republican worry of Trump's struggles and their larger impact. The email sent on Toomey's behalf reads, "Trump has taken a real hit this week and that could have an effect on down ballot races. [...] We need to keep spending parity with the Dems and focus on negative ads to give Sen. Toomey the victory [...] This is a very winnable race even with the presidential polls currently showing Trump down. Our internal poll that had Pat tied showed Trump down 10..."

Liberal public opinion declares Donald Trump sunk. Conservative public opinion declares Donald Trump maybe not-quite-yet sunk. Liberal analysts and politicians declare Donald Trump undoubtedly and statistically significantly sinking. Conservative analysts and politicians are either quiet, talking in private, or all over the place about Donald Trump. Nate Silver is writing an algorithm to prove both that I'm a moron and that he is, in fact, super cool and not a total try-hard. 

No matter how you look at it all, Donald Trump and his sinking struggles are certainly getting talked about, certainly getting attention, certainly getting traffic.

You know what isn't getting traffic? (click here and then please share with any and everyone you know)

*******

Sinking usually makes one think about ships, unless one is a plumber in which case sinking probably makes one think about one's job. When ships sink--which is not to say that this ship is sinking--they often create a sort of swirling, spiraling suction similar to a watery tornado that sucks things into it. While stuff is sucked into this spiral, following the ship (especially if the ship happens to sink near a whirlpool which indisputably will create an underwater suction), stuff swirls about the spiral.

What else swirls as it goes down a watery spiral?

A turd.

A turd in a toilet. A toilet which is plumbing. Plumbing which is part of a plumber's job. That's how a plumber is tied into this sinking bit here, OK? There's my cleverness and creativity applied to something political.

Politics is the practice of following money and power to wherever and whoever it leads (remember, a lead is a lede) in order to stay afloat. It wasn't created as such, but that's what politics has evolved to be.

Although I have never been on either the Donald Trump or Hillary Clinton ships--no, I am a man on an island who abhors both--this is politics, so in order to stay afloat, I am not above throwing something into the whirlpool to see it swirl around as it sinks. 

Thus, here is my movement: Donald Trump is a turd. He stinks, he's rotten, and he makes people's noses cringe in a way that was before only possible by smelling something truly horrible. He angers, he frustrates, and he backs people up, just like any other turd will do when it's as huge as Donald Trump.  As Donald Trump sinks down the toilet toward defeat and no longer having the attention and traffic he does, let's start calling bowel movements "Trumps".

Bowel movements already have many hilarious names, like dropping a load, laying a log, watching a Cleveland Browns game, and taking a dump. Dump and Trump not only sound the same, they go hand in hand. So, let's start calling bowel movements "Trumps." Whenever you go number two, don't just think about how Trump's going to finish the election as number two. Call your bowel movement "taking a Trump."

There's not much time left until this election is over, so let's have some fun with it as opposed to just being as mean and mad about it as most of us have this entire election cycle. No, I do not at all support Hillary Clinton--I have no money or power and so I seek to gain nothing from her status quo presidency--but I also still think Donald Trump is just the hugest turd. Spread some happiness and don't take yourself so seriously by calling bowel movements "Trumps." Share the message with your friends, have some laughs, and let's all see people for people again, in turn keeping each other afloat. Just because Donald Trump is sinking and Hillary Clinton runs a pirate ship does not mean we as a people need to sink. 

And remember, this whole movement started for fun right here. Because if this funny, creative, honest, and non-partisan movement won't get traffic, nothing will.

Like The 2016 Election, This Video is Very Important

One of the biggest issues with politics, culture, and the larger contemporary umbrella that covers the two known as "the internet" is the idea that people's opinions are in fact facts. If your opinion--I mean fact, sorry--differs from someone else's fact that is fine, just know that you are a terrible person and probably evil if said differing fact is outside the "majority," a majority that we all agree is definitive, correct, and we're totally a part of. It's not actually that your fact is wrong and that you are a bad person, it's just that that's exactly what it is, according to everyone on the internet ever. We throw around terms like "smart" and "brave" while simultaneously fearing new ideas and the very thought of having to think about something, anything at all. That's why this Halloween will be the scariest Halloween ever: because the situation we find ourselves in resulting from all of this refusing to listen to anyone other than those who we already agree with is an election between two people who embody the rage, shock, and refusal to think we created by creating and living on the internet. It's scary because they both hate everything and by choosing between only the two of them we're choosing who we want to side with in siding against everyone outside our own majorities. The scariest part of it all is that Trump and Clinton are only increasing their and everyone else's anger day by day. Happy Halloween! PS no trick-or-treating or candy because both are dangerous and untrustworthy, just like every adult is.

However, unlike most internet opinions alleged to be facts, this internet opinion is more than an opinion--it is a fact. The above video is very, very important. Watch the video. Watch it twice. Watch it a third time. Watch it again, and again, and again, and again. Watch it until you stop laughing. Then watch it some more. When the laughter comes back to you, watch the video a few dozen more times. Here, just watch it on repeat. Cancel all of your plans tonight which you would have done anyway because you have the internet and you do nothing anymore because why would you you have the internet and you can just watch videos like this over and over and over again, just like you are doing now and will do until forever, just as this and every other video is meant to be watched.

There's just so much very important stuff in this very important video and all of it is so very important:

The joy in this boy's heart as he slam dunks the basketball, joy just like we all feel in our cubicles as we watch this video and take an important break from something or another involving data entry, which is all that any of our very important jobs involve.

The primeval release of excitement as the boy pounds his chest and yells, a chest pounding and yelling just like we should all let loose from the mountain tops as we hold our laptops or tablets or phones above our heads, playing this video as loud as his yell and as enthusiastically as his chest pound.

The sobering reality check as the hoop falls onto the boy's head like a tree falls on a lumberjack, which reminds us that physics and science rule us all, a sobering reality check just like that that we will all experience tomorrow morning when we look at the clock and realize we didn't even sleep last night and must return to our very important data entry jobs.

The brilliantly edited music and video sequence that follows the boy's accident which is all overlapped by Illuminati triangles, a brilliantly edited music and video sequence just like the very same edited sequence of music and video that has become all of our lives following the horrific accident akin to the Big Bang that is the internet's creation, an accident we have all been engulfed in and possessed by that is overlapped by Illuminati triangles, Illuminati triangles which remind us that this is all out of our control and all preplanned by the Illuminati, the same Illuminati who have brought Donald Trump, Hillary Clinton, and the Mars candy company to the forefront of American consciousness while eliminating any other possibility, any other possibility just like how there is no other possibility other than the Illuminati but not the delicious deep dish pizza place, that's Lou Malnati's.

The White Stripes' "Seven Nation Army," White Strips just like the band The White Stripes that has a lot of really great music but for some reason Jack White and Meg White said they were brother and sister but they were not brother and sister and actually they were married but then they got divorced but then the band stayed together because they were able to work through their problems and just keep making really great music.

Yes, this video is very important and there's so much important stuff in it, but don't think too much about The White Stripes part and how they were able to sort through their problems and stay together working toward a common goal because that's not what this is all about or something we as a country can possibly do despite this election and the internet and our vehemently disagreeing about deep dish pizza. No, that is not important at all. The boy and the basketball hoop and the boy's slam dunk and the hoop falls on the boy's head and the Illuminati and everyone is mad at each other and everyone is afraid to think about anything new and everyone has to assign these super self-important, indisputable values to empty discourse and the Illuminati and we all have to stay on the internet because there's no way we can just easily get off it and see people for people again and the Mars candy company and the Illuminati and we're all so outraged all the time is what this is about because all that angry stuff, not The White Stripes getting along part, is what is very important.

Finally, I should very importantly note that although this video is very important, its importance is just my fact, so don't take it as an opinion because I too am very "brave" with my internet discourse, discourse which absolutely doesn't lack the listening side of debate and which totally isn't completely contrived like most of these other facts on the internet.

Most very important very importantly of all, though, and this is very important to make a very important note about: don't you dare just watch this video and have a laugh because this video is simply funny. It is very important to note that this isn't just a funny video.

A Letter to Me in my Undies

Dear Me-still-in-my-undies,

Hey man. This is you. I'm pretty much the exact same you as you are now as you read this. Except I've made a huge mistake. A mistake that at one point was a decision I made. I have regretted that decision ever since I made it. So, I'm writing you to tell you not to make the same mistake I did. I don't know if your avoiding this mistake will change the future that I presently live in because we aren't one of these nerd adults who talks about time continuums and all that crap. That's probably because our dad took us outside a lot when we were kids so we turned out pretty damn cool. As a matter of fact, I'd say we turned out great. It's hard to find anything to complain about here. Oh, except for that mistake I was telling you about:

Me-still-in-my-undies: don't put on pants.

It's that simple. It might sound crazy, and crazy is what society would tell you it is, but listen to me. Listen to you. Don't put on pants. No pants, not even a sweet one-legged pair that a version of us from both of our past invented. 'The Pant,' as we call it. You don't need any version of pants. Just stay in just your undies.

Think about it. What do you do when you're the most comfortable? The most relaxed, the most at ease, the most yourself? Easy peasy. You don't wear pants. Whether it be watching a great football game, lying in bed, driving the car (by the way, we still haven't fixed the air conditioner), or paddling the canoe, you're not wearing pants. Sometimes you're wearing a swimsuit, but that counts as underwear. You're doing the right thing when you're not wearing pants. You're happy, you're free, and you're not so damn hot that no one can touch any part of your back ever.

Me-still-in-my-undies, don't worry about what your peers, what your parents, what your houseguests tell you. You can't worry about pleasing other people. You can't change who you are. You can't put on pants. When you wear pants, you're a grouch. Your nards are all mashed up or to the side and your stomach is all constricted, forcing you to eat less. Sure, the pockets are nice, but don't forget that's why they made cup holders in the first place. By the way, that's a good reminder of something else I wanted to tell you--don't forget to put a cup holder in the canoe this weekend. That's yet another great idea you had. Just like this one I'm telling you about. Don't wear pants.

Pants draw attention to your failures. Everyone says to embrace your failures, but that's just because they're failures trying to make themselves feel better. Failures wear pants because pants are failures. 

You aren't a failure. You're a winner. Winners never let go of what makes them great, never let go of what their identity is at its core. For you, that core is underwear. You wear underwear at--or rather, over--your core. Underwear is your fundamentals. Underwear is your bounce pass. Stick to underwear.

Yes, your underwear will get holes in them. They will rip. They will lose elasticity. Their fabric will fade. Your underwear will eventually get to the point wear the crotch is just completely blown out so that they are entirely useless. Still, even then, they are your underwear, and therefore they matter. Underwear is all that matters. Keep wearing them. Keep being you.

Me-still-in-my-undies, the world will change a lot in the future. It also won't change at all, because people really overthink stuff. You yourself will change, you yourself will grow, but that doesn't mean you need to let go. Don't let go. Don't let go of who you really are. Keep not wearing pants. Embrace other people for their failures, but don't yourself become one. Worst case scenario, and I'm talking absolute worst case, must-wear-pants scenario, just wear those awesome camouflage overalls you have. They're technically pants, so take that, Aunt Tiffany. It's not even my wedding! So just deal with it, OK?

I hope this letter finds you before it's too late. The day I put on pants was the day I put one foot in the grave. What does everyone get buried in? A nice suit. What's half of a nice suit? A pair of pants. Only failures wear pants, and dead people are the ultimate failures.

Good stuff, my man. Good stuff. 

Best,

The-same-you-just-in-pants

Dear Luke: My Girlfriend Can't Stop Watching Chicken Run

The following is a reader letter I recently received:

"Dere Loop,

My name is Herb. First off, thank ewe four your website, The Daily Luke. I like reading it even thow it looks like one of the original websites from when the Internet first started back in the 1940s. Actually, now that eye think about it, that is pretty impressive. It must have been hard to make a website back then considering like the war and typewriters and stuff. 

I'm having a bit of relationship troubles. I have been dating my girlfriend, Melony, for about six mornths now. She is very nice, smart, pretty, kind, and totally real. For as good as things are going, we've been having some fiscal intimacy issues.

You sea, we just aren't fiscal... not fiscal at all. I would like to be fiscal with Melony, but I just can't seem to get here interest, fiscally. We've never kissed, hugged, or even held hands.

I think part of the issue is that sometimes it seems like Melony doesn't even know I'm here. In fact, Melony might nefer know I'm here. This is because all she ever wants to do is watch the movie "Chicken Run."

Everyday, Melony comes home from work, walks in our house (we bought a lovely little two bedroom home about five months ago), kicks off her moon boots by the door, walks right into the living room, and pops in the "Chicken Run" DVD. She then goes about watching the movie "Chicken Run" from start to finish. When the movie ends, she yells "CHICKEN RUN!" She then runs into the kitchen, makes some scrambled eggs, puts a bag of popcorn in the microwave, and squeezes some fresh lemonade, all while ritually chanting "CHICKEN RUN, CHICKEN RUN, CHICKEN RUN" while clapping her hands directly over head and throwing eggshells all over the kitchen. When the popcorn is done, which is also when the eggs are hardly cooked at all, she takes it out of the microwave and simply dumps the runny, semi-raw eggs on the entire bag. One dozen eggs per one bag of popcorn. The lemons come from a lemon tree in our backyard, in case that helps.

After making her snack, she bolts back into the living room, restarts "Chicken Run," then watches it again. She does this three or four times, depending on when she gets back from work, until it's time for bed. Then, she yells one final "CHICKEN RUN," goes upstairs, and collapses onto the bed, competely exhausted.

I'm not talking just tired, I mean dead tired. Literally. She lies there all crumpled, right on top of the comforter. She has no pulse, no breath, and her eyes are wide open. The first time this happened I panicked, screaming and crying. My audible terror awoke my sleeping beauty, seemingly from the dead, then she went back to bed, or dead, more like it. Her body shuts down when she's not watching "Chicken Run" and only starts back up the next morning when she gets won more view of the film in.

We've gone through dozens and dozens of copies of "Chicken Run," about $1000 worth of eggs and popcorn, and yet we've still never had any fiscal contract with each other. The lemon tree always produces, though, if that helps. I could watch her "Chicken Run" everyday routine for the rest of my life because I love her so, so much, but I would also like a little touch, too.

What do I do?  How do I tayke our relationaship two the next level?

Sincerely,

Herb"

* * *

Herb,

Good to hear from you. I appreciate your reaching out.

Let me start by pointing out that my name is Luke. I could maybe see how you could misconstrue it and think it's "Loop," but only if you were hearing it. Being as you're a reader, I don't really know what to say about that. This site is called The Daily Luke, which you yourself brought up in your also-written letter. Herb, you've read my name. Sometimes in grade school kids would think my name was "Look," "Lou," or even "Blue" (Midwestern accents can produce strange audio effects even at a very young age). Those instances were understandable. Yours is not, honestly. Still, I appreciate your coming to the site and being a fan. So I'll let it go and try my best to keep you in the loop. 

My initial reaction was that you are already quite fiscally intimate with Melony. After all, you two bought a house together after dating for only a month. A house is arguably the biggest purchase one can make, so you two are as close as can be in that regard. 

Realizing that you actually mean you wish to become physically intimate with your girlfriend, this makes the situation a little more complicated. I've never seen "Chicken Run," but I know almost everyone loved it. It has a 97% on Rotten Tomatoes and Roger Ebert gave it 3.5 out of 4 stars, calling it "not only funny and wicked, clever and visually inventive, but . . . kind and sweet." These are strong words of praise.

Herb, if I know one thing about movies, it's that they often change how people look at the entire world. When people hate a movie, they kill it. When they love a movie, they immortalize it. By being so well-loved, it seems that "Chicken Run" did become immortal. By so well-loving "Chicken Run," Melony too seems to have become immortal, in a very unique, strange, kind-of-also-dead way.

Melony clearly really cares about "Chicken Run." She loves it. It's a part of her. It's her entire being. It's her life-source. 

Herb, do you really care about Melony as much as you say you do? If so, then you must embrace how much this movie means to her, embrace how much she needs it. You can't change people. You can only change yourself. If you want to make this relationship work, Herb, to make it last, to take it to the next level, you will have to learn to love not Melony's watching "Chicken Run," but "Chicken Run" itself. Only then will you be able to be fully compatible with Melony. Only then will you two be able to really understand each other. Only then will your soul be able to leave your body in sacrifice to the splendor that is "Chicken Run" and unite with Melony's soul.

That's what love is: when two souls come together as one.

Best,

Luke

Yesterday I Almost Drowned. All I Could Think About Was Aaron Rodgers.

It was Sunday, August 14th, 2016. I was sailing on a beautiful lake in Northern Wisconsin. After a bit of afternoon rain the day before, this day was 75 degrees and partially cloudy. They were those big, round, Toy Story looking clouds that grace the skies of the northern Midwest in late summer. It was a wonderful day in the state of Wisconsin--as is every day in such a blessed state of woods, fields, rivers, lakes, and dairy.

I was all alone out in my boat, captaining my prestigious 11-foot Kool brand cigarettes promotional styrofoam sailboat with the kind of koolness known only by seasoned veterans. It's a boat I am more than familiar with, as it is my boat and why wouldn't I be familiar with my own boat? Now, I am not the best sailor in the world, but I can still snake my way through the wind similar to how I imagine a lot of my Norse ancestors did back when the world was still wild and the winds were untamed. However, no matter how good I am at harnessing raw, powerful nature to make myself move across the Six or Seven Seas, there was almost no wind, so my sailing session was more of a sitting session.

I was deep in thought out there on the water. The world might now be tamed, but my mind is not. I was reflecting on many things, as one will do from time to time on such a fine summer day. Where I am; where I want to be; what I am doing; what I want to do, who I want to be; what I want my mark on time to be; what I want my empire to be; you know, all that sort of sweet, smart, existential crap. 

I looked up. Though my brain was moving, my 45 square foot sail was not. It was stiller than a barn. Barns do not move. Or they shouldn't, at least. Tornadoes are very dangerous. Anyway, as I looked at my saggy, windless sail, slightly annoyed with my Scandinavian forefathers for cursing me with the devilish looks of a viking and the love of the sea, as well as an expertise in fishing and merriment, not to mention eventually coming to America so that I could be born and raised here and also my great jawline and contagious love of life, I realized that there is more to the world than just me and my excellence. I am just one man, out in one little boat, sitting below the heavens on one lake, here in the greatest country in the world. A country founded on hope, opportunity, hard-work, love, an appreciation of the past, and an eagerness for the future. One whole bunch of amazing things, all to describe one amazing country.

The United States of America.

A bald eagle soared around overhead, far above me, far beyond the tip of my sail beam, or mast as other sailors call it. Boy, that bird was something else. That bird was beautiful. I call it beautiful, but that's just because no words can truly capture the aesthetic splendor of such a being, because words are a people thing and I don't know what birds use but to properly label said eagle splendor one should probably use bird words or whatever birds call them. Something something squawk-caw, I bet. 

That bald eagle and all bald eagles are the national bird of the United States of America. How fricken sweet is that? The greatest bird in the world is the spirit of the greatest country in the world. Bald eagles are amazing. They can go anywhere they want, do anything they want, love anyone they want, and be anyone they want, like a firefighter or a doctor or a professional baseball player or the President. Bald eagles are like American citizens, except birds. We're all kind of bald eagles, if you think about it.

As I marveled at that marvelous American hero floating around up in the sky, I began to get frustrated, as my incredible ancestors also blessed me with a short temper and a constant need to be doing something. Why does he get to fly around up in the sky even though there's no wind? I thought. Is it something to do with thermoclines? I think it has to do with thermoclines. Wait, are thermoclines in the sky or in the water? Are they both? Man, why can't I push my Kool sailboat with a little thermocline, I thought. I bet Knut and Tormund and Magnus and whatever other names my great, great, great-grandfathers had never had to deal with this lack of wind. They were such mighty men that they could muster up a gust and push an entire fleet. I bet they'd be proud of how tight of a spiral I can throw, though, I thought.

Meanwhile, that bald eagle just eagled on up in the sky, as eagles are known to do. Eagles really are awesome. Ben Franklin wanted our national bird to be a turkey. How dumb is that? It's a good thing the rest of those revolutionaries shut him up on that one. Ben Franklin probably couldn't throw a very tight spiral.

In the flash of a QB sneak, a huge gust blew across the lake. The bald eagle cruised out of sight, right past the top of my sail beam.

Or so it appeared.

My sail beam actually was just rotating away from the sky, toward the center of the earth. That big wind filled my sail so quickly, so fully, so surprisingly that it flipped my boat. 

I reached across the Kool brand cigarette sailboat to try and shift my weight and right the ship. However, I was too late, even though I have amazing reflexes and great control of my finely tuned body, just like those Nordic-turned-American beautiful bastards before me. 

"Jesus Christ!" I shouted as I catapulted into the sea (lake).

Those were the last two words I would ever say.*

My world went from sunny, warm, floating American greatness to underwater, wet, not-floating American greatness. My feet searched for the lake bottom as my hands reached for anything on the surface. Both were left empty-handed and empty-footed. Water enveloped my entire body like an envelope envelopes a paper letter. I was sinking. I was drowning. It was 4th and long with 0:01 left to play, and I couldn't pull a Hail Mary. I was dying.

* * * * * * * * * *

There's a certain calmness found at the depths of the sea (lake) that is only paralleled by that which belongs to bald eagles up in the sky. It is quiet, still, and completely encompassing. Only fish live in this calmness, except they are not calm because they are constantly being eaten by each other. However, in that moment, as I was drowning, I too lived in that calmness. It was nice. It was... quiet, still, and completely encompassing. Did I mention that already? My bad. You see, it becomes hard to remember the details as one is drowning, because the oxygen is depleting from one's brain, leading to death. I may have been living in that calmness, but I was also dying in that calmness.

Whereas above the water my mind was racing, thinking about all kinds of impressive stuff, here, below the water, my mind was slow. That's a lot because of said depleting oxygen and consequential diminished mental abilities, but also because of the calmness. Underwater, in my watery grave, the same watery grave where a lot of other great and dead men drowned, my mind was slow. I only had one thought.

It's bad for Wisconsin that Aaron Rodgers doesn't eat dairy.

This was my thought. This was my dying thought. This was my drowning thought. This is how I died.

* * * * * * * * * *

A strong hand grabbed my hand. Now, before one gets all worried and screams "zombie!" or "possessed free-roaming hand!", know it was attached to a strong, handsome arm. That arm belonged to my friend Cecil. It still does to this very day. 

Cecil pulled me to the surface, saving my life.

I was not dead. Actually, it turns out I might not have even been that close to dead, but I was certainly underwater for a while, living down there amongst the fishes and the ghosts of my drowned ancestors. My ancestors are all dead, and perhaps, so am I, in my own unique way. "What is dead may never die" is the saying of the Drowned God, religion of the Iron Islands in Game of Thrones. Isn't that a cool saying that supports what I just said about me maybe actually being kind of dead? You know what, let's just agree that I did drown and came back to life but am also dead.

"Thanks for saving my life. You are a great friend and a true hero. We are both very strong and inspirational people," I didn't say to Cecil but man would it have been cool if I said that. 

Our other strong, brave, and fun friend Ben also swam out and helped save me. I didn't say anything to Ben about how thankful I am and how very strong and inspirational we are, but he knows. He knows!

As a trio, we swam my Kool brand cigarettes promotional styrofoam sailboat in to shore. We rolled it upright, drained the water, and pulled out the sail and sail beam. Neither the boat nor sail were dead, nor were they broken. Just like me, just like how I am dead but may never die. 

By the way, I wasn't quite alone on the water the whole time. Cecil and Ben were just sailing in a different boat. But they weren't that close to me and also their boat wasn't a kickass styrofoam one!

* * * * * * * * * *

But all of this is not the point. My might, my perseverance, my strength; the good-lookingness of my friends, the closeness of our friendship, and the inspiration of our actions is not the point of this story.  The super fun day we continued to have is not the point. The bald eagle is not the point, although he is a very good part of the story. Arguably my favorite part.

The point of this story is my drowning, dying thought.

The point of this story is that it's bad for Wisconsin that Aaron Rodgers doesn't eat dairy.

Aaron Rodgers is a great quarterback. He seems like a great guy and he plays for a great team. Wisconsin loves the Green Bay Packers and Wisconsin loves Aaron Rodgers. He is our guy. He is the face of our franchise. 

However, much like how the bald eagle--not Aaron Rodgers--is the face of the franchise (dynasty) that is America, Aaron Rodgers is not the face of the franchise (dynasty) that is Wisconsin.

Dairy is the face of the franchise that is Wisconsin.

Wisconsin is America's Dairyland. Milk, yogurt, cheese: all the good stuff. Especially cheese. Wisconsin makes a lot of cheese. Over 600 types of cheese produced in 127 cheese plants. On top of that, 90% of Wisconsin's milk is made into cheese. Need even more proof of how important cheese is to the state? See: mascot and identity of the Green Bay Packers.

Wisconsin likes cheese. Wisconsin loves cheese. Wisconsin is cheese.

Everyone in the land of cheese knows that Aaron Rodgers made a huge, controversial, shocking decision this offseason. In an effort "get healthier," Aaron cut dairy out of his diet. He has switched from dairy to "more of a vegan diet." In doing so and in hopes of extending his playing careers, he's dropped down to about 218 pounds.

But at what cost? 

Dairy is a $43.4 billion part of Wisconsin's economy, about half of the state's entire agricultural sector. It provides 40% of the 420,000 agricultural jobs in Wisconsin and pumps about $80,000 a minute into the state economy. Dairy is huge. And tasty.

Select pop-nutritionists can say what they will about dairy, but here's a quick fact that speaks to the health benefits of eating dairy: nine out of ten American Olympians grew up eating dairy.

Aaron Rodgers is the best quarterback in the world, but he isn't an Olympian.

* * * * * * * * * *

Wisconsin is a great state with a great football team that has a great quarterback. Wisconsin is also a great state with a great history and culture that has some great food products. Milk. Cheese. Dairy. Delicious.

Aaron Rodgers shouldn't get kicked out of the state or anything crazy like that for choosing not to eat dairy. He's still Wisconsin's quarterback. His non-dairy decision simply serves as a reminder. A reminder to make your own decisions for yourself. A reminder to do what's best for you. A reminder that sports are just one part of life. A reminder that every great leader has flaws. A reminder that football is a very tough sport but dairy is a very good food. 

It may be bad or at least look bad for Wisconsin that Aaron Rodgers doesn't eat dairy, but it's not the end of the Wisconsin world. Wisconsin is still doing great and will keep doing great, is still making and will keep making a lot of cheese.

* * * * * * * * * *

Somewhere, up in the sky above Wisconsin, up beyond a sweet sail beam and next to some big, round Toy Story clouds, a bald eagle soars around. That bald eagle lives up in the sky, up in the airy calmness. It is a different calmness than that below the water where fishes live, but it is similar. That bald eagle can be whatever it wants to be, can go wherever it wants to go. Yet this bald eagle is flying above Wisconsin. He is flying above all those woods, all those fields, all those rivers, all those lakes, and all that dairy.

* "Jesus Christ" were not the last two words I would ever say. I wrote all of these words and probably will write some more. I might even write some bird words, if I ever learn them. However, perhaps someday, those will be the last words that I ever say. Because someday, I will actually die.**

** But then again, "what is dead may never die," so I will never truly have any last words, for I will never truly die.***

*** I bet my ancestors are proud of the tight spiral I throw and I bet Aaron Rodgers' ancestors are proud of the tight spiral he throws, too, but I know my ancestors are proud of me for eating dairy.

Chicagoans Are Petitioning to Rename a Park after Cincinnati Gorilla Harambe. It's Time We Let Harambe Rest.

WGN "CHICAGO —  A park in Chicago’s Humboldt Park neighborhood may be renamed to honor a fallen Cincinnati Zoo gorilla if petitioners get their way. The Change.org petition, already signed by nearly 700 people, is asking Alderman Roberto Maldonado to legally change the name of the park to “Harambe Park.” The petition seeks to rename the park, not the neighborhood. “Harambe” is the gorilla at the Cincinnati Zoo that had to be killed when a little boy fell into his enclosure. The petitioners say, Harambe’s death was unwarranted, and naming a park for him would give him some small measure of justice."

Ever since Pete Rose has been wrongfully kept out of the Baseball Hall of Fame, it is clear that the higher powers that be have it out for Cincinnati. That's why Marvin Lewis can't win a playoff but also can't lose his job. The Marvin Lewis Catch 22. Cincinnati is the city that America weeps for. They are our mistreated, helpless little brother, but we can't get home to take them out for ice cream and cheer them up because we're too busy crushing our middle-management job at a logistics firm out in some awesome suburb. 

However, just because it seems that God has it out for Cincinnati doesn't mean He does. In fact, God sees how unfair it is that baseball's greatest hitter is hated by his own kind. He sees how heartbreaking it is that Pittsburgh always gets to decide when the Bengals' season ends, playing God themselves, which angers but also flatters God. God sees all this injustice and thus took one Cincinnati's finest to join Him in heaven.

Yes, God took Harambe the gorilla to live a better life. A life full of heaven bananas and heaven trees and heaven Arnold Palmers. It's a little known fact, but gorillas love Arnold Palmers. Why wouldn't they? It's the perfect drink.

Cincinnati, I'm sorry Harambe is no longer with us. I'm sorry that parents are bad and children are sneaky and zoos are just slaughterhouses for the innocent. I'm sorry Harambe's kind smile and witty comebacks no longer can grace the monkeyhouse. I'm sorry Harambe doesn't get to finish that computer program he was working on where no matter what you type in it makes bananas dance across the screen. I'm sorry Harambe doesn't get to do sign language with Koko, that one other gorilla with the kitten, over Facetime. I'm sorry that man and ape can't coexist despite everything the movie series Planet of the Apes taught us. I'm sorry we all have these ridiculous men's haircuts now. 

But maybe Harambe is still with us. Maybe Harambe has his loving hand on your shoulder as you take the train home from work. His big, kind, monkey fingers guide your own as you throw Pokeballs at Drowzees. I don't need any more God damned Drowzees, you think. But then you feel a calming presence. A presence that seems to say to you: No, you don't need them. But you get them. Because life is a blessing. Life is a gift, a gift worth cherishing, the presence seems to say. You're right, Presence, you think in response. You're welcome, guy, says the presence. Also, why don't you get off at the next stop and buy a some delicious bananas, says the presence. What? you say. Bananas, says the presence. Go buy like two or three dozen bananas. Buy all of the bananas. Go bananas on bananas, says the presence. BANANAS!

That presence, is Harambe. You know, that dead gorilla. Harambe wants you to be happy. He wants you to eat a bunch of bananas. 

Cincinnati, you are not alone. You are shitty, but not forgotten. We are all here for you and we are sorry for your loss. But what you have to realize, Cincinnati, is this is Chicago. There is zero reason in the entire world why we would ever name one of our parks after one of your gorillas. A gorilla that was truthfully never even yours, anyway.

That's because Harambe is all of our gorilla.

We shouldn't name our parks or our zoos or our children or anything else after Harambe, because to do so would suggest he is gone.

Harambe isn't gone. He is just in heaven, playing hopscotch with Abraham Lincoln. Giving swirlies to Albert Einstein, that friggen' nerd. Stealing bananas from Jesus Christ in the Garden of Eden. Watching that scene on the train with the gorilla and the guy in the gorilla suit at the end of Trading Places over and over and over and over and over and over again.

Harambe is happy now. So let him be happy. Let him rest. Eat about a billion bananas.

Let it be.

Let Harambe be.

**********

Also, let's petition to rename a park after Pete Rose if they're not gonna let him in the Hall of Fame. It's the least we can do for an American hero. 

And the least we can do for such a sad, shitty city.

Cafes: Install Power Flush Toilets

This post does not reek of privilege. It reeks of logic. It reeks of knowledge. It reeks of practicality. Any and all things reek--even Ramsay Bolton--are far better than a cafe bathroom that reeks of poorly flushed bowel movements.

First off, yes, all cafes are going to have issues with crap, because they are themselves inherently crap. They are a place where fancy people go for fancy coffee to talk about their fancy ideas and work on their fancy websites from fancy computers while having fancy tattoos in fancy cities: all crap. Just crap. I wish I weren't writing this at a cafe, but I am, because I am unfortunately in a city. Being in a city means there's only about three places to go. Since it's noon, that rules out being at a bar, leaving only bus and cafe, which brings me to this house of crap otherwise known as a cafe.

Cafes are dung but they serve sweet, sweet caffeine-containing coffee, which is wonderful. If people were cars, our gasoline and oil--the vital life sources of a car--would be water and coffee, respectively. And what is water, really, other than part of coffee, meaning our gasoline and oil are really just coffee and coffee components. The driver of our car is also coffee, so coffee is everything to us as cars. Coffee moves us; it gives us wheels. That means coffee is also the wheels of the people car. Coffee makes us fart, so that's the horn, and coffee makes beams of light shoot out of our eyeballs, so coffee is also our headlights. Coffee is really our everything.

However, like cars, people have to poop, so naturally cafes--which are NOT people garages, OK? That's what houses are. Cafes are just a place where people cars go to refuel and also to poo-dee-poop. Follow this metaphor closely--have to deal with lots of human oil changes, or dookie, as we call it. Considering such and considering how fancy these cafes are, you'd think that cafes would all have failsafe power flushing toilets.

Think again.

Most cafes do NOT have wonderful, heavenly, reliable, friendly, safety-first power flush toilets. Most fancy cafes have un-fancy regular toilets. This means that as you are processing your coffee--your everything, that is--making it into defecate, you're probably going to have a hard time flushing it down, because cafe toilets are weak. Your home toilet, or garage toilet, as it is also called right now, can deal with normal home poo loads without needing to be a power flush toilet. That's because your garage toilet only has to eat a handful of thunder-loafs a day. A cafe toilet, on the other hand, has to take down hundreds if not hundreds of thousands of butt-nuggets a day. This workload of turdloads breaks down a traditional toilet and thus requires as much power as possible. 

Butt how do we do it, Luke? How do we make the dump jump to a brighter tomorrow in the land of silver flushes?

I'll tell you, cafes, you fancy houses of crap in the city:

Spend the extra few hundred dollars and get yourself one of these incredible power flush toilets. I recommend the one up top that has 0.8 HP of assistance. Trust me. Power flush toilets make your customers happier by giving them the confidence that they can flush ass-sured. They'll save you time by not having to send some one-sleeved, nose-pierced, pink-haired, valued employee in there with a plunger every five minutes. They'll save you money by using less water from two, three, and even four-flush doo-doo-rolls. They'll save you face by not having to talk to anyone about cloggages and tookus dookus.

Having power flush toilets will save the human race. Human race as in people-cars speed-competition.

We are incredible, butt not perfect. You know who else was incredible, butt not perfect? The Egyptians. The Romans. Buddy Holly. 

What did none of them have that we could easily have?

You already know the answer. It's a powerful flushing one.

What Should the New Las Vegas NHL Team be Called?

LAS VEGAS -- The NHL is coming to Vegas baby, Vegas. Commissioner Gary Bettman announced Wednesday in the ballroom of Encore at Wynn Las Vegas that the League has granted an expansion franchise to Las Vegas that will start playing as its 31st team in the 2017-18 season. The Las Vegas franchise was approved in a unanimous vote conducted during the Board of Governors meeting here Wednesday. (NHL)

As the common saying we are all familiar with and use all the time goes, "What's good for hockey is good for America, because we're really good at hockey and the more of it we can get, the better we are as both a hockey playing country and a country at large." The timeless saying's true once again, more hockey, great news for the old USA. From a purely statistical perspective, it's even more unlikely now that a Canadian team will win the Stanley Cup again, because there's now one more out of the total number of teams in the NHL that is American, not Canadian. As simple mathematical calculations based on such show, that's good for us. Or US, rather, as in USA. And even sweeter than all of this, this new NHL team is going to be in Vegas, or Washington DC Jr. as most of us call it, because it's the nation's second capital. And second capitol. Actually it's maybe number one for capital. Either way, Las Vegas is lucky to get an NHL team and we're lucky as a country too. Except it's not luck because luck isn't real and in this country we make opportunities for ourselves, which people in other bullcrap parts of the world call "luck." Remember, though, those parts of the world play soccer, so that makes a ton of sense that they'd believe in things like "luck" and "non-contact sports" and "socialism," all abstract lies that no matter how much history has proven don't work, young people keep trying to bring back with their Facebook statuses, petitions, and bicycles.

Now that the great news of a new NHL team in Las Vegas is official, the next step is naming the team. Only when it's named can the team get players and coaches and a stadium and a parking lot and good hot dogs and beers and a fun mascot, so they have to pick out a good name, because it's hockey, and hockey is good, and Las Vegas is good, and it's all real good so they have to have a good name. Here are some potential names for the NHL (insert team name here after it's decided from the following list):

1. The Las Vegas Good Boys. Lots of people are going to suggest that the name of the Las Vegas NHL team should be like the Gamblers or the High Rollers or the Poker Players or the Strippers or the Hangover 4 or something dumb like that just because it's Las Vegas and those are Vegas things. Well, the smart thing to do to combat any negative perceptions of Vegas would be to do the opposite of those things and call the team the Good Boys. Just think, who could ever be mad at the Good Boys? No one with a heart*, that's who.

*Yes, that does mean that soccer fans could still be mad at the Las Vegas NHL team.

2. The Las Vegas Bad Boys. Not to be contrarian, but the Bad Boys would also be a great team name. We're talking hockey here, not checkers or gym rummy or nonprofits. What better way to establish a team as a dominant team than call them the Bad Boys? Probably like have the guys all wear tinted visors on their helmets even though it's indoors and that would severely impair their visibility on the ice. Man, actually a hockey team with tinted visors would be so badass. That's just how the Bad Boys roll!

3. The Las Vegas Alien Killers. I don't believe in Aliens because I'm an alpha male and I don't need to have silly ideas like that. However, if I did believe in aliens, I would for sure want to let them know that I won't put up with their crap when they do--I mean IF they do come for us and our sweet sweet dairy products. Las Vegas is out in the desert, just like Roswell, New Mexico, the location of the popular Tony Hawk Pro Skater level. Thus, the Alien Killers would be a great choice for the name of a hockey team. Some people might get worried that that name is too harsh and potentially even offensive toward illegal immigrants, but don't worry, guys--Washington has a football team named the Redskins and no one's feelings have gotten hurt by that!

4. The Las Vegas Bees. Some people are super allergic to bees so that would be an intimidating mascot to them.

Also, Bees are a vital part of the plant lifecycle and deserve a little respect for once. They also make honey, and everyone loves honey. 

5. The Las Vegas Stumps. Trees are mighty, but trees fall. What's left when a tree falls? A stump. Have you ever tried to remove a stump? It's super hard. Even if you get the right tree expert to come get your stump, it's gonna take him a while and he's gotta use his fancy stump machine and it's kind of expensive. No one likes messing with stumps. Now imagine when stumps are on the ice!

6. The Las Vegas Lyndon B. Johnsons. Some people thought LBJ was a great president, and the rest think he killed JFK. Either way, people will find meaning in Lyndon B. Johnsons as a mascot. Especially the ghost of John F. Kennedy. 

7. The Las Vegas Buncha Goals! If you score a buncha goals!, you're probably going to win hockey games. Imagine how freaked out an opposing team would be if they knew that it's in the competitor's name that they're going to score a buncha goals!? You'll probably accordingly give up said buncha goals!, if not more buncha goals!. OR, reverse psychology factor, the Las Vegas Buncha Goals! are a defensive powerhouse and the other team doesn't see it coming and still loses. 

Also, can you imagine the marketing potential in a team called the Buncha Goals!? You can already see a team cereal on grocery store shelves everywhere, like the Many Goals! or something catchy and cerealy like that.

8. The Las Vegas First Degree Murderers. Murder is bad. There's third degree murder, then there's second degree murder, then there's first degree murder. It's the most murderous degree of murder, which makes it the murderest. No one would want to face the Las Vegas First Degree Murderers, because they would be afraid of getting murdered. If you're murdered, you're dead. It's hard to win when you're dead, so you probably wouldn't want to go against the Las Vegas First Degree Murderers because they'll make you dead.

9. The Las Vegas Third Degree Burns. Burns aren't quite as bad as murder, unless they kill you--then they're arguably as bad as murder. Like with murder, there's third degree, then second degree, then there's first degree burns. But first degree burns are the least bad, so you'd actually want to be called the Third Degree Burns if you're a burn-themed hockey team, because that's how you light up the opponents. Uh oh, looks like I just wrote the team slogan, too!

10. The Las Vegas Bulldozers. Bulldozers are so tough and so cool and everyone admires shiny handsome bulldozers. The only people who don't like bulldozers are buildings. And hippies. But neither of those are even people so it doesn't matter. The Bulldozers wouldn't just be feared on the ice, they'd be respected. That's what hockey's all about, so perhaps the Bulldozer would be the ideal mascot in Las Vegas. That or...

11. The Las Vegas Gods. It's hard to beat one God, let alone a team of Gods. The only team up to that challenge would be the Chicago Blackhawks, who are going to kick the crap out of whatever they call the new Las Vegas NHL team.

What Is This Gift Horse Nonsense

The other day I heard someone say "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth." I was shocked. I thought I had gone back in time like 75 years or something like that, because who speaks in proverbs anymore. Most people just speak in amateur verbs. Then I realized I hadn't gone back in time, but was simply shocked because I was leaning against an electric fence. I got away from that voodoo magic electron wire then looked behind me. There stood a man and a boy. I assume the man said "don't look a gift" you know the rest of the quote to the boy, because that's a good assumption. Why would that boy say that to a man? Kids are dumb and don't say stuff like that. Although that is a dumb saying so a dumb kid could say it, but that's not the point. It's a fine assumption I made. I'm a fine man. An adult man. Anyway, next to the man and the boy stood a horse. A horse with a big red ribbon around its horse-middle, a ribbon like in one of those car commercials around Christmas time that they make to remind us poor people about how crappy our holidays are, which is to sell more beer and boxed wine and stuff. Scattered around the ribboned horse was a bunch of shredded wrapping paper. Bingo, I thought. Bingo would be a hilarious name for a horse, because it's usually a dog's name. The wrapping paper made me confident that this was a gift horse. The red ribbon was part one and the wrapping paper was part two in reaching this conclusion. Determining if something is a gift is a two part process, just like cutting a watermelon. First, you have to get the watermelon. Second, you have to get the knife. Third, you have to sharpen the knife. Fourth, you have to get some dumb kid to hold the watermelon. Fifth, you have to get some other dumb kid to cut the watermelon. Sixth, you have to make the dumb kids watch you eat the whole watermelon. A real adult eats entire watermelons. Only by doing so will dumb kids respect you. Failing to eat the entire watermelon will make dumb kids reject you. Not romantically you fricken' creep, I'm talking about are you cool or not. Are you? I am. I am cool. That's a two part process. Just like this horse, which was a gift horse, which gets me to my Maine point here: who gives someone a horse as a gift? I mean, I can speak for us all here on the world wide Chris Webber when I say we all love to look a horse in the mouth. That's where horse teeth are, and horse teeth are nothing to shake a stick at. Because if you do shake a stick at them, you'll offend the horse, and those very teeth will bite you, or even worse, that handsome stick you were shaking there. But gifting a horse? I just don't get it. Call me crazy, but that's not my name. A horse isn't a good gift. Horses don't lay eggs (usually), and as any real adult who's not a dumb kid knows, a real gift is a gift that keeps on giving. That's why I'm a chicken man. Not chicken as in scared sissy, guys, chicken as in balk-balk-balk-you're-a-major-league-baseball-pitcher-for-crying-out-loud-how-could-you-ever-false-motion-on-the-mound-at-this-point kind of guy. Sure, I can ride a horse, but that's about it. I'm not very good on a bicycle. Give me a chicken for a gift is all I'm saying!

Boy, it sure would be nice to have something else to say.

We Must Fight Back Against the Earth on Earth Day

We made up a holiday for Moms, we made up a holiday for Dads, we made up a holiday for February sex, and we even made up an online holiday for siblings, the byproduct of the previous three. But the holiday we made up for Planet Earth isn't enough for the watery sphere we call home. Planet Earth wants more from us. It hungers. It craves. And the only thing that can satiate its appetite is human sacrifice. 

Since excluding trading veteran players for draft picks no one sacrifices humans anymore, Earth just went ahead and tried to make a sacrifice for itself. That's the only logical explanation for a tornado coming out of nowhere. That or it was actually the Tasmanian Devil ripping through that schoolyard, probably working for this greedy bastard of a planet that just wants to see us all be killed. Let's not beat around the bush. We are at war with the Earth. No matter how much we try to win against it, from taming its rivers to harvesting its vital life source, the sun, for our own energy, it still keeps fighting the fight. It's playing dirty now, too, coming after our children.

So heed my warning: we must push forward on today, Earth Day, and take this fight to the next level. We cannot show our vulnerabilities and weaknesses to such a vicious, evil planet. If Earth is going to come after our children, then we must go after its children.

It's time we attack the moon. 

Dear Luke: I Think My Roommate Might be a Duck

The following is an excerpt from a reader letter I recently received:

"Deer Luke,

I am writing you for two reason. Won, I am a very big fan of your website, The Daily Luke. It is my favorite comedy website on the whole internet and my third-overall favorite website if we are including both on and offline web sights. Yes, the top-two web sights are big ass spiderwebs out in my barn. Don't take that as an offense, though. You should be proud to make the podium considering you only have two arms.

Number too, I am writing to get your advice on something. I think my roommate might be a duck. Yes, as mentioned, I do have a barn. But all of the animals that I own--chicken, pig, cow, hump-horse, and horn lawnmower--only live there, in the barn. They do not live in my house. They also do not speak any English, outside of chicken, who is always accusing baseball pitchers of improper stepping motions.

So, this is where my confusion is: my roommate lives in the house with me and also does talk a little. It's not much, but he occasionally brings up car horns, which is pretty hip nowadays, I suppose. Other than that, he's quiet. He's also admittedly a horrible roommate. He goes to the bathroom wherever he wants, whenever he wants. My roommate has weird territorial issues, too. He chases me out of the room a lot of the time. But he shares my love of breads and a good bath, so at the end of the day, we're all good.

Can you shed some light on what's going on? Is my roommate a duck?

Sincerely,

Kyle [redacted]"

***

Hello Mr. Redacted!

Thank you for your letter.

First off, I appreciate your praise. I aim to please, and worse case scenario, I miss the shot and just wound someone in a funny way. At the end of the day laughs are laughs, though, so I'll take that shot. Good to hear you were somewhat of a comedic bullseye instead!

Second, I believe the names of those two other animals in your barn are camel and goat. Not trying to overstep my boundaries as I know that's not your inquiry, but just thought I'd help! There is a chance that hump-horse might just be a very friendly, ambitious, let's say intimate regular horse, too.

Third, I see where you're coming from. There's an old saying, "If it looks like a duck and talks like a duck, it's probably a duck." I don't know if you're aware of this, but lots of old sayings suck. People think there's a lot of iron in spinach, but that's actually just a widely accepted mistake from another old thing. It was a misprint in an early encyclopedia where they carried a decimal wrong, making 4% iron 40%, which is a mistake that still lasts to this day. My point is don't trust something just because it's old. 

Although your roommate talks like a duck and I'll assume looks like a duck (kudos to you for leaving a physical description of your roommate out of your letter, that's PC and PC of you--pretty cool and politically correct), it sounds like he's not actually a duck. You see, ducks don't talk about car horns, they talk about untrustworthy medical doctors. I know it's cool and sensitive in a 2016 sense to both not assume anything and not include a physical description of someone, but my assumption is pretty helpful here. You see, Mr. Redacted, we're not talking about a person at all, we're talking about waterfowl, so please, in the future, describe away. If you did, I'm sure it would be easy to discern that your roommate isn't a duck and looks like this:

https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/e/e6/Kanadagans_Branta_canadensis.jpg

Your roommate is a goose, not a duck.

Hope this helps and thanks for reading!

Best,

Luke

I Am Mrs. Lawan Peters

This is a picture of Cate Blanchett. Cate Blanchett is a very good actress and a nice lady. I do not know her. I have never met her. I am not from the same place as Cate Blanchett. I am not the same age as Cate Blanchett. I am not the same gender as Cate Blanchett. I do not know what I have in common with Cate Blanchett. However, I do know that I am not Cate Blanchett. I am not Cate Blanchett in the slightest. I'm not even 1/16th Cate Blanchett. I'm 0/16th Cate Blanchett. I am as much Cate Blanchett as I am any other person on this entire planet.

I am not someone else.

This isn't about how I am not the type of person someone is trying to make me out to be. This is about how I am not the actual person someone else is trying to make me out to be. 

This is about how I am just me.

In the last few weeks, I've received maybe a dozen calls asking for a Mrs. Lawan Peters. My name is Luke Peters. I am not Lawan Peters. I guess I am Mr. Luke Peters, technically, but I am certainly not Mr. Lawan Peters. I am also not Mrs. Luke Peters, though that would be kind of funny I guess because then I'd be my own wife. No, I am no combination of "Mrs." and/or "Lawan." I am simply Luke and/or Peters (Peters of course minus Lawan in any capacity).

So why in the name of all things dairy do so many people keep calling me as if I am Mrs. Lawan Peters? Am I supposed to know Mrs. Lawan Peters? Am I supposed to be in charge of Mrs. Lawan Peters? Do most people in the world who need to contact someone just check on the last name and the first letter of the first name of that person then start punching numbers into a phone willy nilly while looking straight into the sun expecting some magic to happen that gets them on the line with who they wish to speak with? 

All of these questions seem like easy "no's" to me. But maybe that's just the thing. Maybe what it all is to me isn't quite what I think it is. Maybe me isn't quite what I think it is. Maybe not being Mrs. Lawan Peters isn't as easy as I think it is. 

They say all kinds of stuff about the best things in life and I'm sure one of those is about how the best things in life aren't easy. Why not, ya know? I mean, we say all kinds of stuff about everything. Good for us. It's nice to pass the time. Let's do so here and go ahead and believe that the best things in life aren't easy.

So, considering this seemingly simple situation of me being Luke Peters, not Mrs. Lawan Peters, is apparently not that easy, that makes being Mrs. Lawan Peters difficult. By the aforementioned logic of how the best things in life come from difficulty, that means being Mrs. Lawan Peters is the best.

I want to be the best. It's all I've ever wanted. I am a red, white, and blue-blooded American, so I'll always do what it takes to be the best. Well, it's quite clear that being Mrs. Lawan Peters is the best. Therefore, from now on, I am not Luke Peters.

I am not Mr. Luke Peters.

I am not Mrs. Luke Peters, even though I still think that would be kind of funny. Not like laugh out loud funny, but funny enough. Like funny enough until I find something else to entertain my mind. You know, like funny enough to pass the time.

I am not even Lawan Peters.

************************************

I.

Am.

Mrs. Lawan Peters.

I am the best.

I am just me.

I am Mrs. Lawan Peters.

Let The Incredible "Wing" Rock The Rest of Your Day

And of course the game changer:

If you don't know Wing, you're wrong. She's unfortunately retired now, but so are all of the other all-time greats. Buddy Holly, Johnny Cash, Tupac Shakur, Ronald Reagan. Also like the other greats, I like to think that in time we'll see the return of Wing. Until then, we at least have an entire collection of her work to cherish, admire, and enjoy. When I say collection, I mean like a legitimate library's worth:

The Stones and Madonna didn't/can't even crank 'em out like Wing did/will someday do again.

Wing got pretty famous after being on South Park in season 9, but her wonder, might, and majesty was pretty established even before then:

"Wing Han Tsang (曾詠韓), the singer popularly known as Wing, in a few short years achieved worldwide fame and a cult following that transcends borders and languages. When Wing sings, you cannot miss her sincerity and the pure joy she has for singing. With her unique voice and determined spirit, she achieved what many singers can only dream of doing….

Getting started
Soon after immigrating to New Zealand from Hong Kong, Wing began singing for her own pleasure and subsequently began entertaining patients at nursing homes and hospitals in and around the city of Auckland where she lives. She was encouraged by the response to her singing to consider making a recording, and with a grant received from Manukau City Council she released a very successful debut CD titled MUSICAL MEMORIES OF Les Miserables and The Phantom Of The Opera, featuring the title song from the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical, along with a number of other popular songs.

Taking her music onto the web
A website was built to promote her CD, and sales took off. She soon achieved cult status, boosting demand for more CDs. Subsequent CD releases such as I Could Have Danced All Night, Wing Sings The Carpenters, The Sound of Music and The Prayer also sold out and helped to gain her an international audience. Her CDs were sold on CD Baby as well as in a number of CD stores internationally, with digital downloads available via CD Baby and iTunes.

Wing’s unique vocal stylings are sometimes compared with American Idol’s William Hung, 60′s star Mrs. Miller or opera singer Florence Foster Jenkins. She has garnered a huge fan base through her large volume of CD recordings (14 CDs to date). These include: “Wing Sings Elvis”, “Wing Sings AC/DC”, “Dancing Queen by Wing” (the ABBA songbook), “Beatles Classics”, and everyone’s favorite, “Wing Sings the Carpenters”." Wing's incredible website

All it really took was building a website to set her sales off. Sales that allowed the ship that is Wing to soar across the sea, all over the world, and right up into the sky, toward the heavens. What an unbelievable and truly inspirational story.

So enjoy Wing for the rest of your day and life. Let her give you the Wings that you deserve to fly up in the clouds with her. Up with all the other angels.

Matt Bowen Once Peed the Bed As A Packer and Now He and I Are Even

Former Green Bay Packers safety Matt Bowen published a story today about how he once peed the bed in a Packers hotel before a game against the Bears:

***

"The 3 a.m. wake-up call in a hotel outside of Champaign, Illinois, was unexpected. This was in 2002, back when I was playing for the Green Bay Packers, and we were on a road trip to play the Chicago Bears. Maybe I was a little nervous or over-excited or had too many Gatorades the night before. Whatever. That didn't matter at the time, because I had a new issue to deal with leading up to the Monday Night Football kickoff.

My sheets? Soaked. The shorts I was sleeping in? Drenched. The comforter? The same. I was 8 years old all over again, waking up in my own pee. I had wet the bed." ESPN

It's actually quite a funny and entertaining story, well worth the full read. The funniest and my favorite part:

"With no way in from the back of the hotel, I had to come clean and go in the front door. So, I walked around the front of the hotel, trying to stay out of sight from anyone driving along the road or coming in early to work at the joint.

Now, walking into a hotel at 3 a.m. is probably strange in these parts. But walking in with just a towel on? Man, that's ridiculous. And it got even more ridiculous when the little, old lady working at the front desk asked for proof I was actually staying at the hotel.

Room key? No. Driver's license? I wish. In my panic-stricken state, all I grabbed was this towel. But I did play for the Green Bay Packers. That's what I told her.

She didn't buy it." ESPN

****

The story is great and obviously I love all fun stories about my beloved Packers (fun being the key word here. None of the controversial ones are at all fun for me BRETT'S TEXT MESSAGES). However, this story is extra special to me for one important reason:

Matt Bowen, you and I are now even.

'What on earth are you talking about? Why Matt Bowen? How could Matt Bowen or any other Packer for that matter possibly owe you, Luke, anything!?' one may ask oneself.

It's not Matt Bowen I personally have beef with. My rightful indignation has been caused by the entire 2002 Green Bay Packers.

Though I have watched almost all, I have been to only one Packers game in my entire life. It was the 2002 Wild Card playoff game against the Atlanta Falcons. A game the Packers got KILLED in to suffer their first ever home playoff loss.

I was 11 years old at that game. It was then that that specific Packers team gave me this grudge that I've been seeking to settle ever since. Say what you will, but I'm not wrong about being owed something by each and every player from that team for what they did to us fans (except Donald Driver he had 3 catches for 64 yards, the only Packers TD, and got hurt, on top of it all. Even if he had a bad game, I could never be mad at Donald Driver. He's simply too likable to ever be wrong).

Brett owes me for the 2 INTs and 1 fumble. Frank Winters and Tyrone Williams owe me for each of their fumbles. The entire team owes me for their 5 TURNOVERS. Ryan Longwell owes me for his 2 missed field goals. That and for going to the VIKINGS AFTERWARDS RYAN HOW COULD YOU!? Whatever, you'll never be what Mason is to me. To all of us.

And the defense. The entire defense owes me and every other Packers fan for allowing Michael Vick and co to do what they did. Down 24-0 at halftime? You might as well have come right up to me and kicked me square in my little boy nuts to end my childhood right there, right on that hallowed Lambeau ground. That's what it felt like, anyway. I'll never forget. My exploded balls will never forget.

'But didn't Bowen actually have a great game against the Falcons? Like 15 tackles and 2 passes defended great?' 

http://bloximages.chicago2.vip.townnews.com/billingsgazette.com/content/tncms/assets/v3/editorial/5/f4/5f4a5c6e-74ea-50f5-a762-57c9656bf19b/5f4a5c6e-74ea-50f5-a762-57c9656bf19b.image.jpg

Yes. Yes he did do that and yes it was a great performance.

Which for that particular game makes Matt Bowen the leader of the defense and thus responsible for their actions. That's just how it is. That's how it must be. It's the rule. I'm sorry, I don't make the rules. I just follow them.

So, Matt Bowen, we're even now for the first home playoff loss in our storied franchise's history. I'm sorry you peed the bed but it's a funny story. Also, at least you just peed the bed in a hotel, not in front of all our hearts like the rest of our team did when they peed the bed that night.

Look, Packers fans are supposed to be super nice, super forgiving, and super understanding. And we are. I am most of the time, too. Just not for that loss. Not for that loss because I was there. I was just a boy. JUST A BOY, FOR HUMANITY'S SAKE. I shouldn't have had to see that slaughter with my own eyes at that young of an age. It was like Leonardo DiCaprio's son in The Revenant. Except I didn't get murdered like he did. My murder was worse.

Now I can move on from this grudge and focus on what's truly important:

The Green Bay Packers winning the 2017 Super Bowl. Jordy, I believe in you.

I can focus on that and still being SO MAD at the 2014 Green Bay Packers for their collapse against the Seahawks. That game exploded my adult balls. All 3 of them and my heart.

(2002 stats and that heartbreaking Wild Card stats)