How To Get Your Brother

Here's a super suggestion for kids out there. Let's say you're a boy, and there's brothers involved. I know, say no more, it's rugged, constant competition. If there's a girl in the mix, of course she's got it easy...

I've been thinking of this scheme for quite a while, and I don't see many downsides. The only problem for me is I'm 45 years too late. My brothers are all grown up and off to better things. One's a titan of industry, always in the news for all the right reasons, another's a multi-millionaire financier, always in the news for all the right reasons, another's the greatest philanthropist alive, always in the news for all the right reasons, and the other's a bishop of one of the world's major religions, always in the news. Then there's me. And here I sit, reading the news.

Well, you can see how our competition went. So this scheme wouldn't have worked to my advantage, since they were brains. For me, the scheme should've been to sink their hopes along the way. Then I, even in my present penury, destitution, really, would be sitting pretty. I could always say, At least I've got a place to flop.

The scheme is this, to load up your brothers with tons of homework, thus depriving them of the joy of recreation and free time. One advantage for you -- in addition to sinking their hopes long-term -- is it frees up money Mom and Dad would be giving them, meaning you can expect more. They're home hitting the books and you're out having the time of your life.

But how to achieve this worthy goal ... yes, yes, I say, scratching my chin ... how to do it. The answer is a variation on writing notes to the teacher excusing yourself for being absent: "Please excuse Jimmy for his absences all five days this week. He had the 24-hour bug. Sincerely, James S_____, Sr." The big problem with those notes is they're always suspicious. You really have to work to pull it off, especially in these days of DNA testing. If your parents' DNA isn't on that paper somewhere, the school will know. Which would be a real good reason to keep a pair of your Dad's unders in a plastic bag somewhere, but that's advice for another day...

This scheme is entirely safe without DNA, because it's so incredibly UNsuspicious, the teachers will never know. And even if they do, they'll probably go along with it anyway! Because they believe in homework. And the letter gives them a good excuse: How are we supposed to know it was written by a kid? They've got plausible deniability. So it's win-win for everyone involved, mostly you.

OK, I know you're with me so far, because you're no dummy. Now you simply need to know how to copy your Dad's signature reasonably well. And come up with notes something like this:

Dear Mr. Rasmussen, I have been concerned about Jim's academic progress for quite some time. I'm afraid he's falling behind, which can be devastating to his hopes of going to Harvard. And so I ask that you double, or even better, triple his homework for the foreseeable future. Please don't tell him I asked you. Let it be our little secret. Yours truly, Mr. James S. ______.

See what you've done. The teacher's entirely gratified that someone still believes in homework. What with online gaming, most people have given up on it entirely. Your dad realistically would be happy with the sentiments of the note. And you've effectively cut your brother off at the knees ... forever! There's no weak link!

Anyway, the year progresses. Jim's working like a dog, your disposable income has doubled. Then you get the other brothers involved, and, depending on the number of parental indiscretions in the bedroom, you have that much more income. By now, you have so much, you're loaning it to your friends at high interest. You're the school's number one loan shark, breaking legs, whatever it takes to stay on top. Kids who don't pay are falling off the jungle jim, even dying, meaning the science program gets that many more specimens.

But beware! They might be like my brothers, they could really take to this. And if they actually study too much, and like it, they might show you up big time. The best thing you can hope for is they do all this homework, but do it half-assed and still fail tests. If you can find a quart of lead-based paint --- no, no, forget I said that.

I don't know what the problem was with me and my more illustrious brothers. I don't remember them doing much homework. No more than me, which was barely any. I remember having to write a one paged theme on "Africa" in 6th grade. That was about it. But my brothers were just naturally smart.

I have excuses, good ones. They had it better than me. I was the firstborn, the one my parents learned from. By the time the others came around, they knew how to do it right. That's probably half of it. Also, whatever good qualities they had genetically must have leapfrogged over me. Probably having to do with my conception, in the rugged surroundings of the backseat of a car. Whereas, by the time they had me they were married, meaning my brothers came along in the more comfortable featherbed. No bouncing around or squeezing of the genetic information. In science, it's like the difference between handling bacteria in a nice clean Petri dish or scooping it up in a beer bottle. That little bit of beer stunts them.

Blackmailed One Last Time

This is a shocker, let me catch my breath... Rutledge is dead. Shot in the back. Bled to death. They dumped him in front of the hotel. Someone noticed his body. All hell broke loose.

Let me say, I'm very upset by Rutledge's death. Say what you will about guilt complexes being bad, I can't help thinking I'm somehow -- at least remotely -- responsible. Before you pat my back and poo poo my thoughts of responsibility, please hear me out. I'm the one who blackmailed him two times as a joke. Of course he wouldn't fall for it a third time.

The terrible thing is: The third time wasn't me, and it wasn't a joke. But he thought it was, so he responded by dismissing their demands, resulting in the present catastrophe, a bullet in his back, the consequent loss of blood, which was entirely necessary for his ability to live.

How do I know all this? Of course I couldn't know it. But it came to me as soon as I saw Rutledge's dead body, that he had to be the victim of foul play. Could it be suicide? No, a man shooting himself in the back and dumping himself outside a hotel is extremely rare. I had to find out what happened, and I wanted to know right away.

It is in a moment of crisis like this that I'm at my best. I've always been that way, and it's something of a source of pride. Once as a boy I lost my homework -- it was a very windy day, and there went my papers out of my hand and across a muddy field! The average first grader would've panicked and figured all was lost, and just take the failing grade. But I leaped into action, going over the barbed wire fence in one bound, like a seasoned track and fielder. And through sheer will, I bounded through the mud, brambles, and over a creek raging out of its banks. I dove on the homework, wrestling it free of the wind's grasp. Long story short, I managed to get a C instead of an F.

But enough about me. I saw Rutledge's body and once again dove into action, telling everyone in my path to get the hell out of my way. I called in my best boys, the ones with connections in all the town's gangs. I have to tell you, I was so flustered -- running strictly on will, two parts will and one part adrenalin -- that I wouldn't take "I can't" for an answer. "Find out what happened to Rutledge! Get back to me within the hour or you'll join him on the sidewalk!"

My demands were met, but they had to give it their all. A couple of guys came back injured, broken arms, black eyes, and one guy was shot in the leg, giving him a painful limp, even painful to look at. But they had the answers.

I winced when the story came out, just as I feared. They tried to blackmail him, but after having been blackmailed twice as a joke, there was no way he'd accept it as the real deal. Rutledge laughed in their face, ignoring every threat and scoffing at the idea of paying a single cent. He reportedly was looking for me behind the curtain, opening closets, trunks, and, not finding me, speaking loudly to the dark corners of the room where he figured I'd be watching on video camera.

And it really hurt when he was proclaiming loudly that this was "the last straw" and that he'd kill me with his bare hands when he caught me. There'd be no more laughs at his expense. He was "finished, through, done, sayonara, arrivaderci, adios, goodbye Ricky Wayward, may you rot in hell!" The gang that had him had two thoughts: 1) He was certifiably insane; or, 2) In some other way, not clearly known, he was "dissing" them, and bloodthirsty gangs don't care for that.

They'd tied Rutledge's hands with a rope and had him hanging from the rafters and there he was spinning. Surely this would bring him to his senses that it was no joke! But no, he shouted out defiance of me as he spun. "There's no way you're going to fool me again, Wayward!"

They dropped him back to earth and took him for a little ride. They hung him off the side of a bridge, so far down that his head was going in and out of the river. Up and down, back and forth. But would he give in? No, he used what power he had left to curse me, "Give it your best, Wayward, you bastard! I'll never give in!"

Finally, they took him to a cheap motel, sat him in a chair, and turned on Jerry Springer. With this greatest torture, he was muttering something like, "All right, Wayward, you win," when some strength, undoubtedly unknown to him before, brought him to his senses, and he refused, saying, "Wayward, you can't break me!"

In short, the gang saw they'd never get anything out of this crazy man, who, from their point of view, had no respect for the whole blackmailing process. Of course they didn't know about the recent blackmail jokes. All they knew is they were getting nowhere fast, and the longer it went on, the worse it would be. Leaving them no choice but to kill him.

The last part of the story went like this: "Wayward!," he cried out, "your guns don't scare me. You say it's a joke, you bastard, but this time the joke's on you!" With that, they shot him. A witness told my boys, "I heard the crack of the gun just before Rutledge slumped." And the rest you know, they dumped him out front.

Later, I went through the hotel and was able to collect almost $100 for his widow, who doubtless deserves so much more. But life is sometimes unfair, like that time my homework blew away. The mud that day was treacherous, but somehow, through indefatigable will, I got it back, and received for my labors a not half bad grade, a B+, I believe it was.

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CREDIT: The cartoon panel is from the strip "Vic Flint" by Jay Heavilin, March 24, 1957.