So here it is bitches and gentlemen. The long anticipated  debut of Luke on the Bun has finally dropped. Forget Guns N Roses’ “Chinese Democracy” or Dr. Dre’s “Detox,” this is what’s gonna make sluts stop and panties drop for the rest of ’09. Shout out to Zimms for the inspiration and Walks for making the dream possible. Four years have passed since I departed God’s country and became the unofficial Bun correspondent in the city you all love to hate, Calgary. I know what you’re thinking, Oilers this…Flames that…but I want to make one thing overwhelmingly clear (even though it may be my demise on here), I am not allowed to comment on any such disputes because I loyally (yet shamefully) cheer for hockey’s evil empire, the Toronto Maple Leafs. Having the same amount of wins as your dreadful NBA counterpart after ten times as many games does not warrant an unvoiced opinion, let alone witty comments. But none the less, this city has been extremely good to me. I have learned Calgary girls are naughty for reasons other than those noted in the September Trop Ten, Jerome is ACTUALLY black, and having a huge diesel truck with lift, tint, pipes, stacks, chrome and spotlights gets you persecuted, not praised. Ahhh yes, many things have happened that I’m proud (and relieved) have stayed out of the data base that is Beaverlodge. But here is one that slipped passed the goalie (wouldn’t be the first time eh Walks), the story of my adventures as my golf team and I traveled to Detroit earlier this October. So throw on those headphones, turn up the bass, grab a girl, kick back with a cold Bud Lime and prepare for the lyrical wizardry that is Morgan Pressel To Marshall Mathers.

This trip began like most trips do, floor licking drunk in Lethbridge at my good friend’s wedding dancing tantalizingly close to his bride’s best friend. After finally ninja dusting my way out of that conundrum, i gathered enough strength and courage to sit as the fifth man in a two door Sunfire (which ultimately took me back to my “curling” days with Lips). Departure from Lethbridge: 3:30 am. Flight from Calgary to Detroit: 7:00 am. Needless to say we all hate Americans, but no one as much as I that morning. Who puts Detroit all the way down in Michigan? Now, as many of you may or may not know, the state of the American economy is not what educators like to call “prosperous.” It is, on the other hand, fucked. Westjet’s luxurious pleather seats, in flight entertainment system and flight attendants with a nailability rating of 8 were replaced with American Airline’s cloth seats, fake beer and retired linebackers who can’t spell flight, let alone make one enjoyable. That was officially hell on earth for five hours, but like we do, I survived and learned a valuable lesson: don’t make out with a bridesmaid, mysteriously disappear to the murder capital of America and expect NOT to get numerous texts with the word relationship plastered all over the screen. Which reminds me, that Kyle Brodziak owes me like $8.50 for international texting fees.

Upon arrival at DTW Airport in Detroit, I immediately turn my attention to the two words every Canadian yearns to hear: DUTY FREE! Like a school of herring, my team cascades towards the $6 cases of Bud Lime or $10 bottles of Absolut. It’s mindbottling to this day (yes, my mind was literally still in a bottle of the Captain) how this woman and I locked eyes, but we did. Mid sprint, like a pubescent 13 year old, I stop dead in my tracks and am enthralled with the beauty, grace and familiarity of the fairer sex that is before me. LPGA superstar Morgan Pressel. At this time I’m already trying to figure out a way to dust her agent, slip something in her drink and impregnate her uterus without anyone knowing the difference. With a smile fit for a goddess and a voice that rivals the raw sexuality of Mike Peca, she speaks, “Do I know you from somewhere?” Oh my god she remembered me. My mind races for something cool to say. My intuition told me to pull out dip of Skoal, spit into a used Pilsner can and invite her to the Lions Den for Beerfactor later that evening, but i refrained.  The next few moments are foggy, but I’m positive I responded the way most men would. “Yes” I say, followed by the standard awkward pause. I compose myself and explain how. This detailed explanation is responded to with a simple “Cool, well good luck!” And off she went. The only woman I have ever loved was lost forever.

I know what you’re thinking. How in the hell can Morgan Pressel’s voice even touch the sexuality of Mike Peca? But honest, it was closer than you may think. Being a big deal, I had met Morgan four weeks earlier at a Callaway Golf CN Canadian Women’s Open Clinic at a Carnmoney Golf and Country Club in Calgary. She was lucky enough to have me assigned as her personal assistant for that day, September 1, 2009, 8:08 am mt – 4:04 pm mt…roughly. This is where I  learned of her close relationship to Ken Holland, among other things (Her shoes matched her earrings, I’ll let you figure that one out). She was brought to Joe Louis Arena in Detroit that faithful October night by Mr. Holland to watch her favorite player, #5,  score his 1000th career point against the Kings. So not only is Morgan a 9 on a scale of 1 to Gisele, but she loves hockey, is worth millions and can take a shaft way past parallel. I’ve proudly given my heart away and will wait for her to return. Until then, I will fill my time with Calgary girls who possess zero self confidence wearing Ed Hardy shirts, $500 jeans and drunk off the neck of a Corona.

The city of Detroit was worse than I imagined. It was depressing driving through seeing the remains of houses, schools and communities. It was a literal ghost town of a once great industrial power. The final chapter of my trip was something very special to me and which I’m thankful I had the opportunity to experience. I have always been a huge fan of the pure talent and emotion that Eminem displays in his music, and even admire the strength he has to say the things he does. So when two teammates and I were able to travel to 8 Mile Rd & Warren and park on the curb in front of the house he grew up in (as seen in the album cover), it was pretty surreal. You would not believe the utter trash bin that some of these people called home. After a few moments dodging bullets and trying to put myself in the shoes of one of the greatest artists of all time, enough was enough. I realized, being white was the only thing Eminem and I had in common, but will honestly be something I’ll never forget.

Look for more material in mid Mo-vember as I eagerly prepare for the biggest event of the year. World Jr. Hockey Championships. I now officially turn this mixtape over to the minister of the house of filth for review. I’m Luke, who the fuck are you?