It's about TIME

A potato in a wig would’ve been a better choice for TIME Magazine’s Person of the year.

Sure, Trump has a personality—if you can call the chaotic mix of Twitter rants, spray tan, and ego a "personality." He’s like that one guy at the office holiday party who shows up uninvited, drinks all the eggnog, and insists on karaoke-ing “My Way” until HR makes him stop.

Oh yeah, and has the nuclear codes.

But does personality alone merit the honor? If that’s the bar, why not give the title to the inflatable dancing tube man outside your local car dealership. At least it’s flexible and doesn’t sue everyone who looks at it funny.

How far TIME has fallen. We’re talking about the same magazine that once named Albert Einstein and Martin Luther King Jr. as Person of the Year. And now they want to lump Trump in there? That’s like putting a gas station sushi chef in the Michelin Guide.

Einstein gave us the theory of relativity. Trump gave us the phrase “Covfefe.” King led a movement for equality. Trump led a movement to redefine what counts as a “huge” crowd size.

Come on TIME, have some self-respect.

And what exactly are Cadet Bone Spurs achievements? And I use the word achievements as loosely as an oversized navy blue suit jacket.

The man wanted to build a border wall, but all he ended up constructing was a metaphor for divisiveness. If walls could talk, they’d probably point at him, laugh and say, “What an asshole.”

Trump also logged more hours on the golf course during his presidency than a PGA pro. Presidential? Not unless your country’s GDP is measured in bogeys.

And let’s not forget Twitter. Trump’s tweets were the literary equivalent of giving a toddler a blowhorn and a bag of sugar.

IQ45’s time in office and beyond has been defined by a relentless downpour of lies. Fact-checkers needed overtime to keep up with his claims, ranging from "historic tax cuts" that mostly benefited the wealthy to his bullshit assertions the 2020 election, the safest and freest in history, was "stolen."

His relationship with the truth is so shaky, it might as well file for divorce.

But at least he’s surrounded by “the best people.” Or who he thinks are the best people. From Steve Bannon to Rudy Giuliani to Michael Flynn, his inner circle seemed like the cast from America's Most Wanted. Many of these advisors ended up entangled in legal troubles, resigning in disgrace, or both.

Add to that Trump’s ongoing legal battles, including 34 felony counts related to falsifying business records. His presidency would make the most scandal-hardened observers shake their heads in disbelief.

TIME’s Person of the Year is supposed to recognize the individual who "most influenced the events of the year, for better or worse.” Fair enough. Trump has influenced things, much like a drunk raccoon influences the contents of your trash can. But if we’re celebrating chaos for chaos’s sake, why not name a literal hurricane Person of the Year?

At this point, suggesting Trump for Person of the Year feels like a practical joke, one step above naming your cat CEO of your company. Sure, it might be funny for five minutes, but then you remember you actually have to live with the consequences.

If TIME really wants to rile people up for clicks, they could at least consider something a little less obvious. Maybe name literally anyone else—a healthcare worker, a scientist, even the squirrel that keeps wire-walking and fucking up my cable tv would be more deserving.

Donald Trump as Person of the Year is a bigly no from me. The most tremendous "no" anyone's ever seen. Not because he’s a Republican. Not because he’s a former president. Not even because his idea of diplomacy involves sharpies and McDonalds. It’s because TIME Magazine’s Person of the Year should inspire us to be better humans, not serve as an excuse for our therapists to raise their rates.

So, TIME, do us all a favor and leave Trump where he belongs. In the blooper reel, and in the dumpster, of American history. Not on the cover of your magazine.

Here's the scoop

If you know anything about me, and if you don’t by now then maybe our season is just over, you know I own two fabulous dogs.

Ace is our German Shepherd rescue. We think he was two-years old when we got him, and he had the unenviable job of following our first German Shepherd Max, the world’s greatest dog (who you can read about in the stunning book of dog stories Gone Dogs, the perfect gift for that special dog-loving someone). However Ace has risen to the occasion swimmingly. He is an awesome guy with a completely unhealthy attachment to my wife. Look at her the wrong way. Go on, I dare ya.

Then there’s Lucy. We like to refer to her as an American Sock terrier. My daughter’s friend’s dog had puppies, and Lucy was one of them. She just came home with my wife and daughter one day. I didn’t want to love her, but here we are (talking about Lucy, not the wife and daughter).

Anyway, if you happen to have the good fortune of owning a dog, you already know there are so many great things about it.

The unconditional love.

The excitement no one else in your life will ever have for you when you return from being gone ten minutes.

The tail-wagging faster than windshield wipers set on high.

The warmth and comfort laying next to them on the floor, or if you’re like us, the bed.

The deep-sleep twitching that defies the boundaries of sweetness.

But for all those great things about being a dog parent, there are some realities of dog ownership we don’t discuss often (even though I’ve mentioned them before here and here).

In a word: poop. With big dogs come big poops. For the longest time, because I bought it when Max was the world's cutest puppy, the only thing I had was a small scoop to clean up the yard after my big dog.

It was frustrating, time consuming and extremely unpleasant. Just like my high school girlfriend.

Stay with me. It may not seem like it, but I’ll land the plane in a minute. Sometimes, even though the obvious answer is right in front of me I just don’t see it. I remember one time I was having lunch with a co-worker at Carl’s Jr. right after the BBQ Chicken Club sandwich came out. I told her, “This would be a great sandwich if it didn’t have that flavorless bacon.” To which she replied, “Take the bacon off.”

Like I said, slow on the uptake.

Here’s what that has to do with dog poop. We were at our fabulous friend Joan’s house one day. Joan had two or three large dogs, and at one point she went to clean up after them. I noticed she was using a super-sized poop scooper, and was easily making short work of the souvenirs her pups had left. The clouds parted, the angel choir sang and a little voice in my big head said, “Don’t you feel stupid now Einstein.”

Later that very same day, I became the proud owner of the large poop-removal device you see here: the easy-grip, rubber-fitted wood handle, the oversized tray, the convenient clasp that keeps the two together when not in use.

It’s definitely made the chore much more, not fun, but less unpleasant. There’s no struggle to make things fit. I’m able to collect more at once. And it’s far less stressful and time-consuming than it used to be.

No snappy end line today—poop is funny enough. But all this talk of it does remind me of the old joke: There's this guy who ran off to join the circus. The job he got was walking behind the elephants, scooping up their droppings. When his friend told him he should quit, and asked him how he could do such an awful, disgusting job the guy said, "What? And give up show business?"