I knew that you would come crawling back like a Jasper merchant to Mr. Wesley. So do you think I am a robot that is going to crank out another masterful column like last year’s that follows all the rules? (Unlike the winner last year, who’s entry although artful, failed to mention Burt). Really? Here’s a quarter Scott call someone who cares. Wait, wait, I didn’t mean that. I’m just bitter. Really, really bitter. Here’s why.
After winning the Best Visual Image in last year’s contest, (which incidentally is framed and hanging in my living room), my life began a downward spiral. Upon seeing my runner up status my wife simply said “Huh, not as good as that other fella.” Friends began to abandon me opting to go to the winner’s one man off broadway show simply named “How I Won Scott Hollifield’s Contest”. Runner up, come on Scott, do you know what that did to me? I spent an entire year reading columns about goats and dog-snot. I painstaking collected articles from the far ends of the earth on people who train monkeys to hammer empty beer cans into works of art. I carefully crafted a column that included it all. Do you think that I am going to go through the list again and include words like pepper spray, chicken wire and sublime just to curry your favor? I mean look, last year’s reference to Loni Anderson covered both Burt and the supermodel requirement. My literary offering upon review was tighter than a tube dress at the Double Deuce. Who else could have pulled that off? The column I mean, not the dress. I really thought it would be you and me. You covering the weekly column and me stepping in once a year with an amazing witty entry. You know, you watch my back, I watch your back and we just take out the trash.
My life continued to spiral out of control until I found myself watching news clips of Meg Scott Phipps being hauled off to prison for messing with the State Fair. I could not wait for the Fair to come to town when I was young, Scott. My parents would send us off for the day with a pocket full of money which we would diligently spend on valuable merchandise which can only be found on the Midway. Like the genuine leather Indiana Jones bullwhip we acquired one year after spending an undisclosed amount shooting at plastic monkeys. The bullwhip may the reason my brother is also a bit jumpy. It is harder than you think to snap a beer can off the top of someone’s head without hitting them in the face. After bypassing the booths that promised to show a real zombie or a goat wit two heads, we would move to the rides to finish of the day. The best of course was the Himalaya. I can still hear the DJ screaming HIMMMMAAALLLAYAAAA over the top of Sweet Home Alabama. Later we would try and recreate the experience by slinging my Buick around the parking lot while screaming over the top of South’s Gonna Do it Again. This may also explain why my brother is a bit jumpy.
Anyways, I talked with my ma Ermaline (and no I did not rename her for this stupid…. Oh, nevermind) and she finally brought me to the realization that this contest does not encompass my life’s work. That actually I was really good at lots of things. Like the fact that I can quote the beginning of the A-Team with out missing any of the words. Or how I how I can do a perfect imitation of Burt’s laugh from the end of Cannonball Run. Ma is good like that. So, I am back on an even keel again with no intent of being sucked into this contest. And even though I actually saw Ric Flair in the airport one time, I am not going to tell you that story. I’m not putting my creative heart back out there only to have it beaten down like a yeti with a log-chain.
Remember pain don’t hurt, Scott, pain don’t hurt.