Memo to Big Mike:
Let’s keep this short and sweet because not only am I an important man, but I’m a busy one as well.
So, what’s this garbage about Milo being the greatest writer from Gary, Indiana?
I mean no disrespect to Milo, but he is, after all, an Horace Mann grad; an alumnus of a former Gary High School where they aspired to beat up great writers, not read them. I’m a mighty, mighty Panther — shout out to Roosevelt High, yeah! Mann versus Roosevelt? Forget about it. That’s like comparing Michael Jordan’s golf game to Tiger Woods‘. Like comparing the Back Street Boys to the Jackson Five. Like comparing Tracey Ullman to Halle Berry.
You got it.
Milo does alright for someone who comes from a disadvantaged background, where Santa Claus brought one crayon per child for him and his 18 siblings and they left water and bread crumbs by the space heater for the Jolly Old Elf.
Although he’s never cracked a book in his life, he has still managed to become quite the scrappy little word monger. Milo’s a redaction-ready raconteur second to all. The best pencil sharpener I’ll never need.
But, this isn’t about Milo. It’s all about me. So I’ll get to the point: I am, without question, without doubt, without equal, Gary, Indiana’s greatest writer — living, dead, or yet to be born.
Don’t take my word for it. Let’s let the facts talk the talk while walking the walk.
When the Academy Awards nominating committee was looking to select the best writer from Gary, Indiana who’s never written a screenplay, who do you think they called first, last and in between? Me. Me. Me.
When the Pulitzer Prize committee was mulling over who it should give its first and only Best Gary, Indiana Writer of the Year Award, there was one contender: Yours truly.
When the Swedes were poised to award the Nobel Prize for Gary, Indiana Literature, Milo wasn’t even mentioned. Nor was anybody else from the Steel City. It was quickly and unequivocally becoming known as the Nobel Prize for Monroe Anderson‘s Literature.
What’s that….did I just detect a sneer in the Ethernet? Do you doubt me? Yeah, I can hear you now — Googling here and Googling there, trying to see if any of those distinguished writing honors were ever available or awarded.
Don’t waste your time. I turned them all down. I demanded that they erase all records.
Why? It’s simple. I’m a humble man. Being honored as the greatest suits me about as well as an Elvis Presley gold lame costume or a MJ rhinestone-studded glove.
Why? It’s obvious. I’m a very modest man. Sure, I’m so good a writer that I can quote myself by heart. But it’s nothing I care to brag about.
I’m not like that maniacal Milo, who constantly craves recognition and a pat on the back. Milo knows that the International Men of Letters Society has secretly named Gary, Indiana the Clandestine Cradle of World Culture and has, for once, figured something out without my explaining it to him, like he was a third-grader, first: He who is recognized as the Greatest Writer from Gary, Indiana, shall be recognized as the Greatest Writer in the World.
I’ll have none of it. I’m begging you not to post this memo on The Third City blog. I respectfully ask that you allow me to keep my Greatest Writer status in my dresser drawer — right next to my Great American Novel.
Sincerely, the Muhammad Ali of Gary, Indiana writers,