You might be thinking that I’d shift proverbial gears this week and do something more serious or political, given that one of the biggest elections of our lives is less than a week away.

Hell no, Iowa State, I wouldn’t do that to you. Instead, I thought I’d write a highly researched and overly generalizing piece on the greek system. I shall focus on fraternities and more specifically, fraternal classification.

Already a legion of young men are throwing down Abercrombie visors in disgust, along with this newspaper. This is a good thing, because people who take themselves too seriously probably shouldn’t read this column. I never did when I was in a house.

Yes, Iowa State, I once adorned myself with Greek letters and have a little plastic card to prove that I am a Sigma Phi Epsilon alumnus from a different school. It was the time spent there that allowed me to compile a listing of certain people you might find in a house. I call it “Knowing the Greek Dude.” Every house has them.

Let us start with the most basic species, frattus stereotypicus. This particular guy is the pretty boy of his fraternity, takes forever to get ready and knows the WB’s Wednesday night schedule by heart. Every house has one, and I actually roomed with ours. His name was Brian Moos, and he was physically incapable of leaving the house without two hours of preparatory grooming. Moos smelled better, dressed better and was more concerned with his shoes than most girls.

Frattus extendus familius is also quite easy to spot because of an obnoxious habit of over using the word “brother” in regard to the members of his house. It’s “brother” this and “brother” that. Extendus familius is instantly recognized by the members of his own house when he refers to people as “Brother Schmerdly” or “Brother Grabowski.” This is usually the guy who gets way too sentimental when drinking and will tell you (if you cannot escape) that he loves you. Then he hugs you, because brothers gotta hug, man.

Moving through the house, you can find frattus thatswhatitsallaboutus. This particular young man is convinced that everything is “what it’s all about.” Usually he is involved with recruitment. The phrase “that’s what it’s all about” along with an approving, paternal head nod separates this particular species.

“See that? A bunch of guys, sitting around, watching football … that’s what it’s all about. Recruitment gentlemen … that’s what it’s all about. Sharing clothes, that’s the love … that’s what it’s all about.”

Frattus defendicus has already stopped reading this article. He is the guy who is tremendously offended anytime somebody calls it “a frat.” A volcanic rage will come over him, and you should probably back slowly away before he says to you, “It’s a FRAH-TUR-NIH-TEE,” so you know it’s a four-syllable word.

Certain frattus defendici will follow that up with “You wouldn’t call your country a …” and then trail off while looking at you as if you now believe that shortening a word is a grievous sin. Then he will go off to have a Dr Pepper because he is so original.

I shall end by describing frattus sensus candorus, or the guy who is able to laugh at himself. Those are the ones I hung out with. They believe “Animal House” was a work of cinematic genius to be celebrated, not denounced. They laugh at the punchline to the joke “How many Sig Eps does it take to screw in a light bulb?” (none, they’re all too busy watching “Dawson’s Creek” and wishing their middle letter was an Alpha). They do this because it’s clever and also because they know the rebuttal joke (which I can’t print).

I suppose I should end with something political, just on principle: I’m a fraternity alum and I approved this column. There. That’ll do.