Bruce Almighty, the Prophet Sampson and the Verbally Committed One
(Bloomington, Ind.) Bruce Almighty, the Sacred One from the Land Where No National Championship Banners Hang, hath condemned the Prophet Sampson. The Verbally Committed One hath approach the Prophet to proclaimeth his desire to hoopeth in the Land Where Five National Championship Banners Hang.
The Prophet Sampson sayeth unto the Verbally Committed One, "Come, let me showeth thou the path to righteousness," but Bruce Almighty commands, “Recruiteth him not for I decree the Verbally Committed One shall never be tempted again!”
The Prophet Sampson ignoreth the Sacred One’s mandate. He pursueth the Verbally Committed One from afar and sendeth the Apostle Jeff, who coacheth the Father of the Verbally Committed One, and the Apostle Ray to pay tribute. The Apostles Jeff and Ray deliver unto the Verbally Committed One the Prophet Sampson’s invitation to visit the Land Where Five National Championship Banners Hang. Honored, the Verbally Committed One accepteth.
The Verbally Committed One's visit to the Land Where Five National Championship Banners Hang goeth pretty damn good. He breaketh bread with the Prophet Sampson, hangeth with DJ, Rat, Earl and Rod and hoopeth at Assembly Hall. Word spreads near and afar that the Verbally Committed One shall become Gordon again and playeth in the Land Where Five National Championship Banners Hang.
Bruce Almighty is filled with a great and furious anger. He scorneth the Prophet Sampson and declareth him a heretic. He screameth at Gordon, “Thou shall be cast from my flock if thou continueth thy ####! Why hath thou shamed me so?”
The Sacred One’s flock, incensed, gather to take up their enfeebled shepherd’s lament. Scriveners from the Land Where No Championship Banners Hang dip quills in ink to crucify the Prophet Sampson for recruiting the Verbally Committed One. A Painter voweth never to put his brush to canvas again so he can decry the affront and comfort Bruce Almighty. Kneeling together, they weep silently.
Far to the North, in the Land Where Two National Championship Banners Hang, the Grand Izzo rises to the Alter and publicly denounceth the offense. He proclaimeth unto the Prophet Sampson, “Covet not the Verbally Committed One and stayeth the Hell away from my recruits while you’re at it!.”
From the South, a Tennessean Volunteers a Pearl of wisdom: Recruiteth unto others as you would have them recruiteth unto you!” On an Oklahoma prairie, a drunken Cowboy named Eddie swerveth across yet another yellow line, crasheth and mumbles incoherently.
The ill words spoken of the Prophet Sampson are heard loudly in the Land Where Five National Championship Banners Hang. The Village ####, who long ago denounceth the Hoosiers, now mocketh the Prophet Sampson by declaring him ill fit to coacheth a fifth-grade girl’s basketball team. A few misbegotten Hoosiers question their faith. Shaken due to the chant of “Cheater!” from the nonbelievers, they heareth not the truth: The Prophet Sampson doeth not one damn thing wrong in recruiting the Verbally Committed One.
The Prophet Sampson showeth the light to the Verbally Committed One and maketh him a Believer. He annointeth him "Gordon." The Faithful, of which there are many across the land, standeth firmly and proudly behind the Prophet Sampson as he leadeth the flock back from our journey to depths of darkness. His way is our way for the Hoosiers to reemergeth and become the Land Where Six National Championship Banners Hang.
Writing is like painting or music. It's an art. If you've got a knack for it, it demands you devotion. Ignore it and it will haunt you. Most writers are poor and hungry. Not me--I'm not the guy on the corner with the sign that states "Will Write for Food." Why? I get paid to write. You see, I'm a legal ####. Pay me to take your point of view and, lying or not, I'll make it the gospel. I hate it, but not for that reason. I hate it because its b-o-o-o-ring. It stifles creativity. Reading and writing briefs, decisions, statutes and regulations got me to where I couldn't create gas after a chili supper. I've gotten beyond that to some extent and now I'd much rather be paid to write what I want. I've yet to find someone who can afford me, though. I hate that most of all.