Alas, for I am a lunkhead. I say lunkhead words and I perform lunkhead actions. I read lunkhead books and watch television shows that have been specifically designed for lunkheads. Come election season, I shall invariably vote for any candidate running on the lunkhead ticket. I am constantly asked to sit in the lunkhead section at the back of the bus, and I risk inciting a riot if I happen to sip the cool water from the non-lunkhead drinking fountain in the public square. I go to lunkhead church every Sunday and worship my lunkhead God, who created me in His image. When I die I will be buried in the lunkhead section of the cemetery in the shadow of an aging oak tree, whose weakening limbs stretch up toward a decaying leafy ceiling that barely thrives beneath the gloom of a smoky gray firmament.

Will you “be” mine?