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There's a brunch party I plan on attending Saturday. There will be people there. Many of whom I will know. Some I will not. Some of these some will (probably) introduce themselves to me. And some I might introduce myself to.

The start of those conversations will probably look something like this:

"Hey, are you Damon?"

"Yes. I am, in fact, Damon."

"Awesome!"

They will definitely not look like this:

"Hey, what's your name?"

"My name is Damon. And I definitely haven't fucked a cucumber casserole today."

"Wait…what?"

"I said my name is Damon."

"No, the other thing you said."

"Oh, yeah. I haven't fucked a cucumber casserole yet today."

Why wouldn't I say that? Because by randomly and explicitly articulating that I have NOT fucked any cucumber casseroles yet today, it becomes the only thing the person would be able to think about.

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"Has he fucked a cucumber casserole before? He must, because why else would he bother denying it? And why else would he say 'yet?' Was he thinking about cucumber casserole when he was shaking my hand? How does that even work, like, logistically? Are cucumber casseroles even a thing? And did he invent that dish just to be able to fuck it?"

Now, because of my hyperbolic denial, I'm a suspected cucumber casserole fucker. (NTTAWWT)

I get what Melania Trump was attempting to do by stating that her husband is not Hitler. Really, I do. But no one ever thought he was Hitler. A rhesus monkey, perhaps. A cat turd with a coconut's combover, maybe. But not Adolf Hitler. Now, though, who the hell knows? I mean, really…who the hell knows???

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They're both chickenhawks who inspire fervent support from low-information nincompoops, they're both supported by Curt Schilling, they both have distractingly tiny hands, and we've never actually seen Donald Trump and Adolf Hitler in the same place. This would explain so much, actually.

And neither, I assume, has ever fucked a cucumber casserole. But we can't really know that now, either.