paul revere

This Post is Brought to You By Metamucil

There are heroes out there people.

We might disagree over what makes someone a hero. I personally think it’s butt-accentuating tights. You might think a hero is someone who has the ability to blog about heroes wearing butt-accentuating tights while simultaneously watching The Voice without pouring cement in one’s ears.

You might be onto something, although I’m not sure because someone is shrieking into a microphone and it’s hard to concentrate. That is some voice.

But I think we can all agree that the act of heroism is elevated by the right product placement.

Take our latest hero who went against the grain by not donning a cape. Instead he used a handful of “cheese”-flavored Pringles to fight crime. He is Snackman.

I learned about him from the Today show where Matt Lauer is paid tens of millions of dollars to explain it all. It wasn’t Matt doing the story, but rather one of the female anchors who kept trying to get Snackman to “pop off” his shirt. She would make a great Awkwardwoman because this exchange could not be more awkward.

Snackman diffused a fight on a New York City subway by getting between the kicking legs of a man and woman, all the while never breaking his stride of munching on his stack of Pringles. Did the dried potato flakes have something to do with Snackman’s heroism? Or maybe it was the Pringle man’s pristine mustache? Or the buckets and buckets of salt? Who knows?

In fact, according to Awkwardwoman, Snackman has approached Pringles about possibly getting some kind of endorsement deal. “Next time we’ll get you to pop that top!” she cackles and cackles.

Please, please stop.

He left with a gift basket of Pringles, and he carried it very heroically.

Wouldn’t it be great if other heroes did the same?  Not carry Pringles baskets, but sought out advertisers. Like, maybe it would make history less dullsville and more wowsville.

Take Paul Revere. Booorrrrriiinnnnnggg. He rode a horse and bellowed about the British coming, which–granted–was important information. But what if he also could have let the general non-Loyalist public know about some outstanding solutions to their dilemma of what to serve for dinner?

Just think if he had to deliver those pizzas in a 30-minute window? Pretty freakin’ heroic.

Or George Washington. He had shitty teeth. I could forgive that if he crossed the Delaware with his fingertips caked in Cheetos’ dust.

Or Harriet Tubman. She was pretty bad ass, but wouldn’t it have been awesome if she shared some tips on how she evaded slavecatchers?

Or take Lincoln. What the frick does that Gettysburg Address even mean, yo? I don’t care, because now he looks like a dude who could just hang and play hackysack.

See, don’t they seem so much more hero-y?

Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I see things different because I’ve added fiber to my diet and now I can shit with the best of them.

I’m Speaker7, and I fight crime with Metamucil.

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Happy Birthday to the Superior Sibling

This blog post is dedicated to my brother who turns 175 today. I like to make cracks about his age because it’s all I really have up on him, the fact that I’m younger.

My brother is smart. I mean he is really, really smart.

This is what he looks like:

The Mona Lisa

smartypants

He’s the kind of smart that people like Sarah Palin hate. She would say something like “Oh so you’re one of those gotcha elitists who like to smear blood libel in the great liberty bell of Paul Revere’s house.  Your kind is just.. um.. is just reprehendiculous.”

You know how there’s only one tenured college professor job for the thousands of people out there looking? Well my brother got that job. He first book of poetry won some big poetry award. I’m not really up on my knowledge of poetry awards, but I think it was something like the Shel Silverstein Ickle Me Tickle Me Award of Excellence. I, on the otherhand, have this published blog. My blog has 9 readers, and I know or am related to about half of them.

Like I mentioned before, I am younger–way, way younger like a little baby duckling or a Courtney Stodden–so I would inevitably get teachers who already had my brother as their student. It would go something like this:

“Oh! You’re ___’s sister! Well then I expect great things from you.” Whoa…hold on. Let’s not all get crazy here. Let’s just calm the #$@! down for a second. Can I put my pencil case in my desk, please? Can I just do that before we all lose our @$&! minds?

As the school year progressed, and their expectations dropped to the lowest pit of despair, they would occasionally reaffirm my relation to my brother. “You’re not adopted, right?”

So okay I’m not as smart as my brother. He got a 1580 on his SATs. I got a *cough* 990 the first time I took the test, but the next time, I studied my little head off. . . and I got a 990.

When I applied for college, my guidance counselor wrote a recommendation that perfectly encapsulated my experience growing up with a much smarter sibling. This was the first sentence: “As a freshman, [Speaker7] was a shy student in the shadow of her brother who was an exceptional student.” She went on to extol his brilliance and the accomplishments of my parents, “pillars of the community.” It was a nicer way of saying “[Speaker7] is pure crap. Maybe her brother or parents can do her classwork for her?”

For the record, I did actually get accepted into a college. I managed to eke out a living as a reporter covering landfills, wheat festivals and crow invasions, and now write a rarely-read blog. It hasn’t been all rainclouds (see: brother’s shadow).

So Happy Birthday brother! You don’t look a day older than 293!