Today is another thank-you day for those who donated to the Mustache cause. I bring to you two wonderful people: Keith P and my younger sister, Hannah. Keith and Hannah went to high school together. When I found out Keith had donated, I immediately got to work inventing a really great post about him. I started with a poem:
Keith, Oh my Keith. You wonderful boy.
You fill up my days with such bountiful joy.
'Twas on that fine day within Luscombe we met
You thought I was Hannah, and started to fret.
Why won't she say hi? Why won't she look here?
But soon you saw differences, though they were mere.
For, my hair was shorter, my eyes bit more round.
At once a new kinship was formed, I have found.
I know you know Hannah, but I'm so much better.
It's just that it's been some more time since you met her.
...Which is true, Hannah does know Keith better. And with that reasoning, I decided to introduce my first guest blogger, my sister Hannah. Take it away, Han!
What can I say about Keith P?
First of all, let me preface this post by noting that my family does (and always will) love Keith P. more than me, and that is just an established fact.
“But Hannah!” you say, “That can’t possibly be true. WHERE are the facts?”
Step into my office, stay a while.
On the day of my graduation, the day that I was meant to be honored and adored by all family near and wide, there was one picture taken of me while I crossed the stage to be handed my diploma. Fine. Good. Grand. I had no problems with this. I wasn’t exactly looking my best in a floor-length bottle-green robe (Harry Potter reference? Anyone?) And cardboard cap.
But there were THREE PICTURES taken of Keith P. by my family. And damn him, does the boy know how to pull off a bottle-green robe.
Second of all, Keith P. is an unstoppable musical machine and I am painfully jealous that he plays piano and cello and sings and acts and can do handstands while juggling and plays the harp with his toenails, blindfolded. (His eyes are blindfolded of course. His toenails aren’t blindfolded. That’d be cool, though.)
Where was I? Ah. Talent. The boy is talented in every way. This scored him major points with every freaking teacher in high school. Every time a play was coming up Keith would be summoned to the front of the class:
Mr. Schoenburg: “Oh KEITH (*gush gush*) (EDITORS NOTE: I SAID *GUSH GUSH* IN MY LAST POST! IT'S LIKE WE'RE SISTERS!!) I hear you’re going to be playing the part of Male Lead #1 and might I just say that you are perfect in every way and you smell like what I imagine Jesus must use as aftershave. By the way, Hannah is spreading a vicious rumor that you play the harp with your toenails. Any truth to that?”
But I digress…
Keith P. had talent in one much more important area. An area I like to call: Speech Team. Lets all take a moment of recognition for the fact that I was a big major nerdlinger in high school and absolutely loved speech team (as did Keith).
Boiled down to the essentials: in speech team you wear a suit and memorize an eight-minute speech that is written by you, or by someone else. Some are funny, some are dramatic, and some are serious. Some are done with a partner, and some are done by this terrible chick in the pink suit who thought she was all that but she wasn’t and GOD who fake cries during dramatic interpretation and REALLY?! A PINK SUIT?!?!
But I digress. Again.
Keith and I balanced our time at tournaments between performing our speeches, and stalking the people who we thought were good/terrible/wore pink suits and therefore had no reason to live.
How many "speech boyfriends" did I have? Lets conservatively say five.
How many of them knew who I was? Zero. Possibly one.
How many of them knew who Keith was? All. And they loved him. They would all go out on weekends and pick out matching china patterns.
And now Keith P. is a roaring success with reviews on his plays that would knock your socks off. He is going to be on Broadway and I’m going to show up with flowers, which he will politely accept and then add to his pile of gifts (including, I would have to assume, some sort of priceless antique china patterns that his old speech team buddies brought him...curse them.) And we will reminisce about the days of old when we would hang out in the music lab, and laugh at the gym teachers as they foolishly beg that we run at least one lap, and write wildly inappropriate notes in psychology, only to be discovered later by Mr. Reddel, the famed crazy man from crazytown. (EDITORS NOTE: DON'T YOU TALK THAT WAY ABOUT MR. REDDEL.)
So here’s to you, Keith P. I wish you success in everything you do.
P.S. Have you heard the rumor that Keith P. has nasty long toenails that he uses to play the harp? Spread it.