Fort Wayne Man’s Life Unravels After Winning Brand-New Jeep Wrangler From 98.9 The Bear

FORT WAYNE—John Taylor, a model of civic virtue with a bright career ahead, a devoted fiancé of three years, a faithful churchgoer, and a beloved volunteer at the Boys & Girls Club, seemed to have it all.  That was until 98.9 The Bear delivered him the ultimate vehicle: a brand-new 2025 Jeep Wrangler Rubicon 392. Sponsored by local legend Tom Kelly, the prize was supposed to be the crowning thrill of a life defined by responsibility and duty.

 

“Winning it was… it was like Christmas morning and graduation and my first date with Emily all rolled into one,” John recounted, shaking with excitement. “I couldn’t believe I’d actually won. I mean, me, the safe guy? It was surreal.”

 

But it was very real. The moment the keys were in his hand, John’s rigid sense of caution cracked. On a sweltering midsummer Sunday, he did the unthinkable: removed the Jeep’s doors. “I don’t do risky things,” he insists; yet there he was, feeling the breeze, the sun on his skin, imagining himself as some sort of free-spirited nomad.

 

That newfound liberation spiraled quickly. Before long, John was driving with a barearm hanging out the side, sometimes even neglecting to buckle up. He blamed it all on “Jeep culture," the lore of open-air driving, rough roads, and customizing everything from lift kits to snorkels. He dove headfirst into forums and local meetups, where Rubicon owners spoke reverently about off-roading upgrades: beadlock wheels, sway-bar disconnects, air lockers, upgraded suspension, winches… It all seemed so… wild yet intoxicating.

 

Enter Summit City Wheelers, Fort Wayne’s avid Jeep club. They welcomed him, and John, once cautious and reserved, began calling in sick to work—hiding the new hobby under the guise of off-road weekend prep. By Sunday, he was elbow-deep in installing LED bars, skid plates, and cold-air intake kits.

 

And then came the ducks.

 

At first, John picked up a few rubber ducks from Dollar Tree or Walmart, just playful souvenirs. But the habit grew. Soon he was chasing them down in claw machines, where one-by-one he emptied dozens of tiny armed vending cabinets. Friends and family watched in alarm; his fiancé, Emily, confronted him.

 

“John, enough with the ducks,” Emily proclaimed, her voice shaking. “It’s affecting your job, our future… I love you, but this is getting out of control.”

 

Church members and Jeep club friends tried interventions. They even joked it was a uniquely Jeep-owner syndrome: “Ducking Disorder,” when tire pressure readings are forgotten, winches forgotten, and rubber duckies replace all common sense. But while the jokes were soft, the concern was very real.

 

By midsummer, John's Wrangler was crammed; cockpit, dash, backseat, even lining the exterior...with every imaginable duck: neon, glow-in-the-dark, superhero ducks, unicorn ducks, even miniature duck snorkels. His once-reliable Wrangler was now a waddling hazard.

 

One fateful morning, John (now known as “Duck Wrangler,” a tragic wink at his Rubicon) climbed into his doorless Jeep. Seatbelt unraveled; ducks pushing him forward. As he started the engine, the mass of plastic forced him out of the seat entirely, and he tumbled onto Calhoun Street, colliding with a road barrel (ironically placed for off-road demos).

 

John survived with only minor quacks...I mean, injuries, but the metaphor was crystal-clear: he’d won so much, but lost himself to the absurdity.

 

Now, friends say he’s clean, duck-free and focused on therapy, his job, and making things right with Emily. He’s still a man of faith, and still volunteers, though now with a lighter dashboard and a healthier sense of balance.

 

Let this be a cautionary quack to all: sometimes winning a Jeep isn't about the ride, it’s about how fast you slide from doorless freedom to duck-driven downfall.