Who's the Man? Do you really have to ask?

My brother spent a glorious weekend here, his first since my undergrad days, after which he was sick for days and vowed never to return until I got a PhD. Must be the water. It's always the water that drives them away. Fortunately, I didn't tell him about my Comps mishap, so he arrived Saturday afternoon, right when I was in the middle of Metropolis, the japanimation flick from last year (review coming soon).

His first words upon entering my apartment were "Hey, this place isn't so bad. It doesn't stink like cat shit like your old place."

His next words were, "Where's your bathroom?"

His following words were, "You want to be my best man? I'll pay you fifty bucks."

His final words were, "You going to show me where the bathroom is, or what?"

Okay, okay, I was kidding about the fifty bucks part. And the other comments. Far be it for me to caricature my brother behind his back.

But I am going to be his best man, can you dig it? That's got to be a line on my resume--I formerly thought I wouldn't even make the cut to the wedding party. Must be the haircut. It's always the haircut. Usually, I'm lucky if I get a job parking cars.

Of course, in the face of such a request, I had to be diplomatic. I professed an honest desire to share the joy and the honor of the moment, to be blessed and take part in a sacred and holy institution of whatever church the two of them belong to. But that was all crap, of course--what I'm really looking forward to is giving the Best Man Speech.

As I understand it, this is my opportunity to drag his life out on a slateboard for the world to see and give the bride, if not a last chance to back out (presumably they'll already be married by the time I give the speech), at least some hindsight. This is also my opportunity to make a world-class ass of myself. The last several Best Man speeches have been nothing short of ruinous, consisting from the drunken and banal ("Hey man, I never thought it would come to this...uh...well like, I'm still single, ladies, even if John isn't...") to the drunken ("Now who was getting married again?") to the simply banal ("This is a joyous and honorable moment, and I am blessed for taking part in a sacred and holy institution of whatever church we're in right now..." God, that sounds familiar).

I've heard Best Man speeches where the brother listed a set of grievances against the groom--I could maybe tell about the time Bryan ate all the lunchmeat in the refrigerator so he could gain muscle. But then I'd have to tell about the time he beat up three neighborhood bullies who were trying to steal my lunch money.

I've also heard Best Man speeches where the brother told about drunken parties together and made vague allusions to the bachelor party. I could tell about how I came out to Augustana and went drinking with him, but then I'd have to tell how I drank too much too fast, got sick, and went home while the rest of them played football.

Screw. I'll come up with something. But it's just occurred to me that I'll have to plan a bachelor party. I'm not sure I'm up to the challenge. I'm not even sure he's allowed to have a bachelor party, and even if he is, I bet some of his other friends would do a much better job of planning it than yours truly, whose answer to Douglas Hall's Love Quiz of 1995 question "What's the best thing a guy can do to improve his sex life?" was "Get a partner." I haven't matured much since 1995, actually. But I hide it well.

Counter-point-counter:

This week: Jennifer Lichner, English Grammar Student, vs. Meleena Beer, English Grammar Instructor.

I So Don't Need Grammar Instruction

By Jennifer Lichner

Oh my God, I cannot be-lieve this instructor of mine. I mean, when midterms came up and I saw her name, I'm like, "You're not even the real teacher. That creepy tall guy in the back probably is." And she is so impossible.

Not only are we supposed to memorize all these parts of speech, but we've got to know, like, clauses and participles too. I mean, who cares if it's "I wish I was a millionaire" or "I wish I were a millionaire"? Somebody's really going to ask me that in a job interview, I am so sure.

Besides, we covered the rest of this junk in high school! Why do we have to go over it again? It's just busywork. I am so disillusioned with higher education right now.

Look, it goes like this. We get weekly quizzes, lectures, and three exams. And all we have to go on is the book and our class. How am I supposed to write down everything that's said in a class that's over an hour long? If it were about poetry or something I might be able to pay attention, but she and that Christopher Walken-guy are in Grammarland if they think this is interesting stuff.

Hear that? That's the sound of my notebook bursting apart at the seams because of all the notes I have to cram into it. That's also the sound of me slamming the phone down in disgust because I had a fight with Jake--he wants me to come over and watch Zoolander but I've got to study for this stupid exam instead. Thanks a lot, Melina. You're ruining my life.

P.S. Your hair is stupid.

---

Somebody get me a fucking drink

By Meleena Beer

Holy God, we're in Clueless! Change the channel, quick!

The problem with this stupid bitch is she's still looking for the handout she's been getting all along from Mommy and Daddy. Newsflash, Ms. Edison: You can't bribe your brain with another six months' car insurance and a cell phone. You've got to study, and in case they forgot to cover this in the John Hughes/WB hybrid of a high school you undoubtedly attended, studying does not mean doodling Hello Kitty and band insignias in the margins of your notebook while blasting Creed with the bass jacked up.

What's the difference between "was" and "were"? About $50,000 a year, if your corporate boss uses the tense correctly and you don't. It's called the conditional, you stupid cow.

Jesus Fucking Christ, I need a drink. If you went over all of this in high school, Barbie, you wouldn't be in my class right now, chewing your hair and drawing heart symbols on your goddamned knee. Pop quiz: How many nouns are there in the sentence "Who, me?" Holy God, she's actually counting on her fingers.

Hear that? That's the sound of my patience not just wearing thin but bursting apart at the seams. I promise not to grade your exams with any editorial comments--if I did, I'd probably get fucking fired--but if you ever want an opinion, you can bet the ten cans of hairspray you dump into that poif of yours that I think you're a leech on our fair campus, deliberately siphoning off part of the state's educational financial budget towards an oh-so-fucking-promising future in waitressing or professional suntanner on your parents' porch. And my hair is not stupid--you're just a goddamned moron.

Fuck me, who needs a drink?

With apologies to The Onion

The Open Letters Campaign

That's right, another dumb project to keep me from returning to work. The Open Letters Campaign is designed to give everyone out there a piece of the Flannel Diaries action. And since I just got a semi-fan letter (okay, just a letter, so sue me), we'll start with her. Contestant #1, get your ass down here!

An Open Letter to Stacy:

Dear Stacy:

That's right, Stace, I'm talking to you. Everyone else can go sod off.

You're great. You're aces, Stacy kid. You're a gentlewoman and a scholar. I thought I was da' bomb until I met you, and then I was forced to crawl back under my rock of shame and wither away to the pathetic nothingness I've been thus far clever enough to hide from the rest of the world. No really, I mean it. I know you're laughing right now and covering your face in embarassment, but listen girlfriend, get those hands away from that face and let your proud visage shine for the rest of the world to see.

Since we're talking, Stace, let me tell you a little bit about my graduate studies as of late. I just turned in an American lit paper and am beginning to think it might not even be worth the paper it's printed on. I know you say that a lot, but then your papers come back clean, sparkling and with an A and a smiley-face sticker on the front, whilst mine...well, I'm lucky if they even come back at all. On one I found a poison control sticker. On another, the teacher drew a picture of me sniffing glue and wrote beneath it: "I want you to stop doing this."

Well, that's all pie in the sky. (Do you have any glue?)

I know you fawn over my behind my back. It's okay. Lots of women are intimidated by my good looks. You can be too. I remember the first day we met, and how befuddled and out-of-sorts you were around me:

Stace: Hi, I'm Stacie Proovin. How are you?
Me: Yes, I do have a beautiful behind, thank you for commenting.
Stace: Huh?

Ah, the memories will last us a lifetime. Remember those hot summer nights, Stace? You and me under the slowly rotting sycamore along the banks of the refuse-saturated Kishwaukee River? Talking poetry, politics and propaganda? Long, slow sips from a can of Malt .45 Liquor? Slow drags off of a Phillies blunt? The possum that bit you on the leg and all I did was laugh? (Hey, I never said I was brave)

Well, here's what I want you to do, Stace. You print this letter out, and you stick it on your refrigerator door. And every time your husband comes home, or the kids you may or may not have in the future come clamboring for attention, or when the IRS man comes banging down your door at tax time, you haul out that letter and thrust it in your face and you yell at them: "Look here! Gregg thinks I'm awesome! If that isn't proof, tell me, just what is?"

And we all know what they'll say. "Gregg who?"

Sincerely yours,

gjl