Adrian Northrup

-Columnist’s note: Minneapolis’ Brent Hedtke is a legal assistant, musician, comedian and dear friend. He’s also a dick. He’s only been to jail once that I know of and enjoys boxing and Pantera. I asked if he would be interested in contributing to The Spectator, and this is what he wanted to share with us all. I hope it’s good. I didn’t read it.

“What Makes a Man? A Historically Inaccurate Retrospective of Eau Claire’s Most Forgettable Citizen.”

By Brent Hedtke

The other day my friend Matt Keil and I were sitting around my apartment trying to figure out a way to build miniature race horses out of cocktail wieners, thumbtacks and some scabs we had left over on our hands that were the result of one of the most violent high fives this or any town has ever seen.

“I think I’m going to die,” Matt blurted out, rudely interrupting a story I was telling him about the Super Mario Brothers.

“You’re not dying, you’re just a stupid, dumb idiot,” I reassured him.

“I know, but I just have this sinking feeling that I’m about to buy the farm and nobody knows the real me. I want to publish my life story, and I want you to write it for me. Will you do that?” he asked.

Considering my credentials as a writer consisted of posting detailed, in depth accounts of my bowel movements on Internet message boards, I figured I was actually overqualified for the job. I didn’t want to tell him that a retelling of his life story would be about as fun to read as your boss’ bowling scorecard, so I graciously accepted.

“Where is this going to be published at?” I asked him.

“In the newspaper at my college,” Matt or Mike or whatever his name is informed me.
“You go to college?”

“Yeah, you know the University of Wisconsin at Eau Claire?”

Now, I’m no college-ologist, and I’m technically illiterate, so I was shocked not only to learn what a newspaper was, but that this Wisconsin place he mentioned actually existed. After some further research (read, asking my mom) I found out what this whole college thing was all about and also that Doogie Howser is gay. Really gay.

“There’s only one stipulation,” Mr. Keil reminded me, “and that’s that you can’t say the F-word, OK? No F-word. Brent, absolutely no saying, typing, thinking or hinting towards the F-word, got it? Seriously, don’t, alright? No F-word. Brent. No F-word.”
“How the f do you expect me to tell everyone how f-ing boring and f’d up your life is if I can’t say the F-word?” I awesomely pointed out.

“No F-word.”

“F— that.”

So let’s end the suspense. The following is a tale of crippling mediocrity. A tale so full of banality that you’ll find yourself asking not only “how” and “why” but “who,” as in “who the hell is this Matt Keil kid? I’ve never heard of him.” You’re not alone.

Matt Keil began what little life he has had in the rural town of Who Cares, Iowa.

Depending on who you ask, he was either born very premature or just incredibly small.
This debilitating social handicap would follow him throughout his “life” and eventually turn into a full-fledged complex which causes him to sit in his apartment and play video games in his pajamas all day.

Shortly after high school, Matt did some other things which are of interest to no one, including him. He probably ate something and talked to someone, but nothing anyone would remember.

At some point Matt developed the notion that he could sing. He fronted a number of hardcore bands that may or may not have been any good. No one cared enough to bother recording them. The music was called “hardcore” mainly because “music to wash the dishes to” was too long. If you’ve ever heard any of Matt Keil’s music, you are either a liar or Matt Keil.

Matt currently attends classes at Eau Claire and is majoring in whatever with a minor in no one cares. I recently asked one of his professors, Dr. Dan St. Martin about Matt’s academic prowess. He said:

“Who?”

Matt’s ability to blend into the crowd became so great that his parents forgot his birthday last year. Luckily, Matt didn’t notice either, since he was too busy counting his sleeping bag collection which currently numbers at one and is filled with bees, thanks to a certain writer of this article. (Editor’s note: Matt is extremely allergic to bees)

So after Matt dies from the whole bees thing, we can all get on with our life. I don’t really know how to end the story of Matt’s life since it never really began in the first place. Whatever.

That Matt guy is an f-ing a-hole anyway.