Every year around this time, it’s always the same question: what are your plans for Duke’s Day? And every time I hear people say that, my blood boils. Duke? I don’t know any dukes.
Oh, did you mean the Grand Duke? Then use the right term, you classless bonehead! Seriously, is it that hard? Next time I hear anyone call him Duke, I’m going to give that person a flying kick to the jaw!
In Luxembourgish, he’s the Groussherzog. In French, he’s called the Grand-Duc. Notice anything? They don’t leave out the grand part. Why? Because they get it! You wouldn’t shorten the Big Bang to just the Bang, would you? You’d sound like a fool.
Where do we live? Not in any run-of-the-mill duchy, but in a grand duchy. A grand duchy is ruled by a grand duke or grand duchess, not a duke. That wouldn’t make sense. It would be illogical.
By the way, do you actually know any dukes? The Dukes of Hazard, the Duke of Earl, Duke Nukem — jokes, all of them. Another thing: have you got any idea what it takes to become a grand duke? Imagine that you spend years going through a rigorous grand duke program only for some irreverent, naive, rando punk to call you duke.
I’ve reached my limit with people, really. It’s time to show a modicum of respect and intelligence. If you don’t, then I’ll seriously give you a flying kick to the jaw. You don’t believe me? You don’t think I’m capable? Watch this.
Kee-yah!
***
Kevin Prout lives in Petange
