Almost everyone has had that little brother that won’t stop whining.
Or been that little brother…
“That’s not fair!”
As those words reverberated out of my little 9-year-old pie-hole and into the chasm that was the cab of my dad’s farm pickup truck,1Not the same one from last week; ’twas Big Red’s predecessor. I could hear another more subtle–and more painful–sound amidst the echoes of my whining.
It was the sound of a dollar bill stealthily crumpling out of my hip af fanny pack and fluttering off into the money clip of one of my much older brothers, whom we’ll call “Lyle”–wait…what?!? That’s his middle name? Dang, I’m just now finding this out? I’m such a terrible little brother.
Anyways, I digress…
‘Twas the summer of ’91–a year after our recently detailed foray into juvenile delinquency, but still 8 long years before the Crazy-Ass Summer of ’99–and my closest-in-age bro, 1SkinnyJay aka 1SJ, and I once again found ourselves taking a break from the bustling city life of Springfield, Missouri, finding respite in our dad’s farm in SW Kansas.
This particular summer, Lyle, late in his college years, had decided to join in the whole family farm business thing, and so us 3 brothers found ourselves spending copious amounts of time together.
Also that summer, I apparently was rediscovering my keen interest in social justice, and it wasn’t more than 2 or 3 weeks in before Lyle started to pick up on that theme.
“That’s not fair!” he would silently mouth behind my back, perfectly in sync with my audible gesticulations describing what a grave injustice it was that 1SJ got to get off the tractor a whopping 5 seconds before I did.
I actually don’t remember if that was one of the legion of situations that made me think, “Hey, man, this aggression against the harmonious balance of the Universe will not stand! I better say something…” followed immediately by the whiniest “That’s not fair!”
My “That’s not fair!” refrain was like clockwork–eventually to the point that Lyle was fed up with me boo-hooing about every tiny perceived hardship I found myself not-so-quietly enduring.
“Alright that’s it, let’s make a deal–no a bet: For every day this summer you go without saying ‘That’s not fair!’, I will pay you three dollars. On the other hand, every time you say it, you’ll owe me a dollar. Sound, uh…’fair’ to you?”
“Oh man,” I thought to my greedy little self, “this fool is just practically handing me $200!”
“You got it, dude!”2Err…that would be a Full House reference. I replied, thinking to myself how that verbal handshake might as well have been the sound of some mad coin clanging around in my fanny pack…
“And that, my friends, was the summer I learned how to show some executive function, as well as developing the skill of eternal gratitude for the all the wonderful little things in my relatively privileged life…”
…said no me, ever.
Yeah, wouldn’t it have been nice to have learned such great life lessons at such a ripe young age? Probably would have made for a more balanced and well-adjusted adulthood, that’s for sure.
But nooooo, did I make off like a bandit with hundreds of dollars thanks to that foolish bet Lyle made?
No. No, I did not. I guess I already said ‘nooooooo’, so I suppose I ruined the plot twist on this one.
Fair or not, we kept a running balance sheet of who-owed-whom for the better part of the rest of that summer. With a few weeks left, Lyle mercifully cut off the bet. Was it because he was embarrassed by how money he had lost? Pfft! Don’t I wish.
Nah, it probably had more to with the fact that I had ran up a tab of about $113 with him by that point. So yeah, you could say he was embarrassed–embarrassed to have such a hopelessly self-entitled little brother, that is!
Anyways, I’m guessing you’re not surprised to learn that I managed to blurt out “That’s not fair!” 100+ times in the span of ~40 days (which seemed impressive until I realized that’s only 2-3 times per day–pfft!).
You’re probably even less surprised to learn that, for someone with such a keen interest in fairness, I never paid him a single dime.
But I’ll bet he already knew that before he even made his little wager with me. I mean, given what we’ve learned about him here today, we can be pretty sure that he had the following divine revelation by the age of ten:
“Your middle name is Lyle, kid…
*ahem*…
C’mon, you’re actually going to make me say it out loud?
Fine. I’ll say it:
‘Life’s not fair, kid. Get used to it.’
There I said it. You happy?
Oh, and be sure your little brothers get the message…Lyle.“
The Universe, who apparently is a bit of an A-Hole…
The point of the story is…
*checks notes*
Oh.
Oh sh*t.
That kind of ‘fair’.
Well, don’t I feel like a…um…”Universe.” I was supposed to be writing about the fair this whole time, instead of dragging my brother’s ass on account of his middle name.
Yeah, ‘fair’–you know, like the Morton County Fair, or the North Carolina State Fair. Fun and cheeky sh*t like that.
Well, though I may have copulated the canine on this one, you, Dear Reader, are still entitled to some fair-themed tales. So why don’t you enjoy my classic, The Prize Pig Story? Or perhaps take a philosophical stroll down the Midway with some deep thoughts about people-watching and other unsung Fair activities?
While you do that, I’ll be over here, feeling like this biker dude from the 2001 comedy classic, Super Troopers…
Content created on: 15/16 October 2021 (Fri/Sat)
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