The Snobby Older Brother

Pat interrupted our Latin lesson and looked at me with moist fondness.

"I like you, Greg, because you're not the type of person that would fart on my head."

"Yes, that's one of my distinguishing qualities."

Pat was talking about his older sister. Who was a head-farter, apparently.

"I used to pray, seriously, for an older brother. Someone who didn't give me nougies or fart on me. You're like the older brother I always wanted."

I declined to tell him that such behavior was not necessarily limited to one gender--but, in the spirit of the times, I accepted his compliment.

"Anyway, here."

He handed me a Wheelock's Latin, which was wonderfully, shockingly relevant... until he explained he wanted me to take it home with me. Inside were ten crisp one-hundred dollar bills tucked in the pages.

"Okaay," I said. I flipped the pages. Latin, Latin, Benjamin, Latin, Benjamin, Latin..... "And you want me to...?"

"I trust you. Just leave it at home with you. I'm hiding the money from my parents, and I'll come by to get it in an emergency if I need to leave suddenly."

Later, Wheelock's in tow, I saw my mom and brother as we were buying Mom a deluxe mattress. In the course of our mercantile adventure, we drifted into a discussion of my other brother, who we will call... Markadoodle, to hide his identity. And his difficult marriage to... Deneanabooby. They have two children, Orangejello and Lemonjello. Anyway, Deneanabooby had suffered a recent health setback, and Markadoodle was struggling with all the household chores, etc.

"It's getting to be like Stockholm Syndrome," I said. My line thudded with Downy softness, just like our bodies on the beds at American Furniture Warehouse. "Yeah?..."

Blank looks.

"Do you know what Stockholm Syndrome is?"

Chrisadingle extended the blankness of his look.

Mom nodded. "I know what it means," she said.

I turned on Mom. "All right, what does it mean?"

Mom looked scared. "Er... Why don't you tell him?"

I pushed up my glasses and delivered a lecture on the meaning of the phrase.

Mom nodded. "Yes!" she said. "It's like the Manchurian Candidate."

"Uh... maybe?"

On our way back we drove past a memorial sign.

"They misspelled get's," I said. "How embarrassing. They erect this sign by the road and they misspell a word. If you're going to take the trouble to make a sign, at least spell it right! We had that in China when we visited. They had so many mangled English signs."

"But it's in China," Mom said. "Don't be a snob."

"I'm not being a snob. Some of the signs were literally engraved in stone. Some were huge banners. Before you commit yourself to immortal stone you should take a few minutes to consult with an English speaker to make sure you get it right!"

"Oh, you're a snob. Stop being a snob."

"I'm not being a snob. I'm just saying that China had all sorts of mangled Engrish signs everywhere. And the government was embarrassed by it."

"But they're in China," Mom persisted. "You can't expect them to know good English. I think you're being a snob. Stop being a snob."

Chrisadingle chimed in. "Yes, Mom's right. You're a snob, Greg."

Cinirabingbong also rang in. "Snob! You are a SNOB."

I sunk down in my seat. "At least Pat likes me," I muttered.

And with that I jumped out of the car, rolled, and then ran to the nearest theater for THE DISASTER ARTIST--the favored entertainment of snobs everywhere!