Ring Ring! "Hello?" "It's the Bama Sharp, and this time, I mean business..."

A musty basement.

A antique coat rack, one that now holds my fedora (a single pigeon feather emerging from it).

A simple wooden chair, one that offers little comfort. This is a chair that is sat in for a short time, perhaps to rest your feet for a few minutes, then you leave it and return to the fields. It is the lesser of two evils, work...or unforgiving wood, and gives your hunched back needed relief.

A table, also wooden. It sits one. A man, grey in beard but strong in heart, eats a nondescript meal from a table like this. A small reprieve from a life of hard labor. Dirty hands grasp a knife and fork. Perhaps a half of loaf of bread, some well water (tainted) are to eat and drink. Some rabbit meat too (with a few buckshot pellets still in it).  They cling as they hit the plate. You are so hungry, you'd swallow a few if you had to.

This is a table and chair that Michael London sat in when he starred in Little House on the Prairie.

A dimly lit light bulb sits above the direct center of the table. It's only purpose to illuminate the staircase that descends to these lonely quarters, to prevent a deadly fall. Otherwise, a circus elephant (named Rosalita) could stand quietly and hide effectively here. (She can balance herself on a giant ball and has her face painted.)

Tiny eyes glisten in the corner of the room. A friend? An enemy! A shrew spies me, waiting for a spare crumb to land near me shoe heel. He will have it when I depart.

Drip, Drip, Drip.

A pipe, now rusted, brings the aforementioned dampness to this place, at the same time, providing life-giving sustenance to the shrew.

A rotary phone sits in the middle of the table. We wait ... for the call.

I light up a Lucky Strike...waiting...

I take a long, deep drag. Tonight is the night..

Drip, Drip, Drip.

I reach inside my vest pocket and check my pocket watch...one hour has passed...

Will he call...?

Silence...

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING!

"Hello?"

"It's the Bama Sharp. I want to apolo..."

He stops there. He is too proud to apologize for the Mizzou misstep.

He talks about Bama. He talks about OSU.

He talks some more.

He fails to stop talking.

He talks so much, I go to the restroom.

I return from the restroom...he is still talking.

I become hungry.

I leave and cook a meal (7 courses...with appetizers).

I return to the phone.

He is still talking.

Something wasn't cooked right. I leave the phone to go to the ER fearing food poisoning (at the ER, I get an emergency appendectomy).

I return to the phone.

He is still talking.

Finally...

He says the words I needed to hear...

Take Bama -8 over OSU.

I say nothing.

Click...

I look at the shrew, still spying me.

A wry smile creeps to the corner of my mouth.

"Bama it is...Bama it is...", I whisper (nodding intently).

I leave the basement, my dress shoes echoing as I climb the stairs.

These dress shoes and fedora look quite ridiculous being paired with a hospital gown.

I wonder what the book will think when I place a bet in this getup.

That doesn't matter now. I have little time...

I close the door behind me and lock it, knowing I will return to this basement soon enough...one more time...for the Big One...

The above post is a dramatization (albeit, at times, wildly outlandish) of my discussion with the Bama Sharp. That is his pick. Have a nice day.

No, but he did ask me if my refrigerator was running after I was done marinating the chicken breasts.

There is a pick here. Just passing it along.

Quote Originally Posted by Cover34:

this thread will end up in the Penalty box like all your others. Take a hike

They used to end up in the Box. Not so much anymore. Less policing by the Mods.