DAYPOM IS DEAD. LONG LIVE DAYPOM. Crosslake, 2026
TAP YOUR CARD. VENMO OPENS WITH YOUR AMOUNT PRE-FILLED.
















These men did not merely skip DAYPOM. They achieved a higher state of NPC. We honor them anyway.
It is 2006. The crew is young, stupid, and operating at full retardmax capacity before retardmaxxing had a name. Somewhere in Minnesota, in a cabin that smelled like ambition and Busch Light, Erik Miller climbed into a top bunk and went to sleep. Or so everyone thought.
In the dead of night, Erik rolled out of the top bunk, crashed into the bedside table, somehow found his footing, and then proceeded to urinate directly onto Nick Ortman, who was sleeping below.
"DUDE. ARE YOU PEEING ON ME?"
Erik did not respond. Erik climbed back up to the top bunk. Erik went back to sleep. The next morning, he denied everything. Not sheepishly. With the full confidence of a man who had zero memory and therefore zero guilt. The mattress was flipped. The legend was born.
JC, operating under the sincere belief that he had been drinking margarita mix all evening, decided the appropriate next move was to produce his wiener and relieve himself on the spot. In front of everyone. In the middle of the group.
It was not margarita mix. It was Colt 45. JC was left in the circle, wiener out, the crew bearing witness, DAYPOM lore expanding in real time.
Year three belonged to Brian Keane. BK, having consumed a truly impressive quantity of alcohol, descended from his bunk, located a nearby chair, and urinated directly onto it. Sitting on that chair: Nate Wynia's iPod, connected to a charging dock.
The iPod began to short circuit. And in its dying moments, sparked to life by the electrical chaos of BK's contribution, it played exactly one song:
Vanessa Williams — "Save the Best for Last"
The iPod was ruined. The song is now permanently burned into the neural pathways of everyone who was in that room. BK has no memory of it.
Three consecutive years. Three incidents. One name. By the time someone said "Dude Are You Peeing On Me," the acronym was already inevitable. DAYPOM.
What started as a cautionary tale about bunk beds and poor hydration choices became an annual pilgrimage. The cabin traditions calcified. The yellow ball appeared. BK started doing the spreadsheet. Nobody asked him to. He just did it. That's DAYPOM.
DAYPOM was not built. It was peed into existence. That distinction matters.
THE DOOR IS ALWAYS OPEN. THE CABIN HAS A SAUNA.
We are not here to optimize.
We are not here to perform.
We did not bring a five-year plan.
We did not consult a podcast. (We consulted a podcast. That's different.)
We are here because the yellow ball demanded it.
We are here because Deacon's Lodge at twilight is a thing that exists and we would be idiots not to.
We are here because JT quietly hit a hole-in-one at the Gravel Pit and told no one, and that energy deserves to be in the same zip code as the rest of us.
We are here because Nate finally escaped a Thursday.
We are here because Andrew vowed to be less grumpy and we believe in third chances.
We are here because BK will not stop doing the spreadsheet and someone has to let him.
The NPC waits for conditions.
The retardmaxxer books the cabin.
We booked the cabin.
DAYPOM 2026