I've lived in Wisconsin my entire life, save for the two unfortunate months my family resided in the Cat-Skinning Region of southern Illinois, and I am damn proud to be a Wisconsinite. Recently, I have come to think that perhaps my undying love for my state is a defense mechanism, as these past two years at UW-Madison have been the first ones where I have had to fervently defend my homeland's integrity, usefulness and attraction from the throes of ""Is it really a -40 degree windchill?"" and ""I am so fucking bored, what am I supposed to do, bowl?"" and ""Why is everybody so obese here?"" I, like many other natives to this state, have found myself constantly making excuses for Wisconsin as if it were my video game glazed-eyed, socially perverted and chunky tween brother. Come on guys, he's not so bad! His acne'll clear up real soon, and he's already got his third level 70 Orc in World of Warcraft!
However, I tire from making excuses for Wisconsin. Like a metaphorical chubby brother, Wisconsin has its faults, too. We have to be able to admit them, and perhaps we can find pride in our perceived shortcomings.
For example, our drinking team has a ""being the state of Wisconsin"" problem. We may throw back a couple o' brews every once in a span of three minutes and we may continue to throw those brews back well into our 70s, but for cripe's sake, if binge drinking is done in moderation, who is complaining? I find pride in the fact that many native Wisconsinites have, at any time, an Uncle Larry, and he is drunk, and potentially on a lawn chair in his garage. Isn't that beautiful in its own right? And another awesome thing about everyone's drunk Uncle Larry is that he dresses like a hipster—and he's not even trying, which is the ultimate ironic statement. I am fairly certain that Urban Outfitters sells everything that is gracing his magnificent frame—the flannel shirt, the Levi's, the Green Bay Packers vintage hat, even his safety glasses, but of course, they don't carry 2XLT's (those discriminating bastards).
Admittedly, Wisconsin is no New York or California or Chicago (I'm going to go along with the common belief of children aged zero to ten that Chicago is a state)—it IS cold enough here to freeze your sack of balls right off, the closest area of entertainment a Subway can take you to is to a Five Dollar Footlong and the fashion police are off-duty, gorging themselves at a local Dunkin' Donuts. But—and a big but—we have a few things that cannot compare to anything metro, chic or ""more cultured"" as an outsider might say: the minute squeak of a cheese curd at the exact height of freshness, glacier topography ripe for the pitching of a tent, blaze orange lingerie on sale at the local Fleet Farm, ""How did those goats get up on that roof?"" being said outside of the restaurant you are eating at, the first sip of ice-cold bubbler water, the articulateness of the fart joke being made by your dad, the raging sunburn from the beer line at Summerfest, the way your veins surge with the unbeatable force of green, gold, and Leinie's and how your heart yearns and pulls to defend Favre to the GRAVE (though you may speak otherwise).
We have plenty to celebrate in Wisconsin, as we do for our metaphorical chunky, WoW-crazed and pubescent brother. We don't need to make excuses about our homeland—if people don't like it here, they can leave. May Curly Lambeau be with you all.
If you have anything to add to the ongoing list of why Wisconsin is da best, huh?, please email VP at evanpay@wisc.edu.
