The End. Roll Credits

It’s my own fault. I keep bringing it up. I don’t even know why. I, for one, am so tired of the endless conversations surrounding dating, marriage, how to understand the opposite sex blah blah blah blah…. I no longer care to figure out how it’s suppose to work. It will work out when it’s suppose to, how it’s suppose to. I hereby throw in the proverbial towel. Besides, all of these inane conversations and comments are so general. There are NO rules that are general when it comes to this kind of stuff, save two. In all things ask yourself these questions. 1. Do my attitudes and actions honor God and reflect HIS love for this person? 2. Are my attitudes and actions gracious and honest towards the other person.

Other than that, it’s all academic anyway. Therefore, there will no longer be open forums for relationship questions/frustrations/what-have-yous on this blog.

As my first offering of non-relationship diatribe inducing posts, I present a holiday poem.

‘Twas the month before Christmas and all through the town,
Not a Tiger fan was stirring, not one could be found.

Christmas was coming, but no one could care,
the stench of defeat still hung in the air.

Coach Bowden was tossing, sleepless in bed,
while visions of Gamecocks still danced in his head.

He was wearing his cap, which read, “Go Crimson Tide!”
And trying to forget how his season had died.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
He sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

He stood at the window, his lower lip quivered,
The lesson was hard the Ol’ Ball Coach delivered.

The moon on the breast of the Death Valley grass,
Showed Gamecock footprints from the game that had passed.

When, what did he see while adjusting his hat,
But a great Cock-a-boose, pulled by ragged, orange cats.

With a cool-handed driver, not a sweat did he break,
Bowden knew in a moment, it must be St. Blake.

The cats were so tired, they pulled with a strain,
So Blake beat them and shouted, and called them by name.

Now, Proctor! Now, CJ! Now, Reggie and James!

On, Stuckey! On, Adams! On, Gaddis and Duane! We’ll ride through the Valley again ‘fore I’m done, And rub that old rock one more time, just for fun.

As the footballs within the wild “Cock and Fire” fly,
Dumbfounding the DB’s, as they watch them go by,

Around and around, the poor Tigers flew,
With a Cock-a-boose full of Gamecocks, and Blake Mitchell too!

Then the Gamecocks stood guard o’er the Tigers out back,
As they painted poor Tommy’s house garnet and black.

As Bowden drew in his hand, and was turning around,
The Ghost of Steve Spurrier was seen floating down.

He was dressed all in fur from his toes to his chin,
He had made a new coat from some old Tiger skins.

Several more Tigers, he had flung on his back,
Jacoby, Jad Dean and Davis, in fact.

His eyes – how they twinkled! His countenance – how merry!
He was thinking of the team his young Gamecocks had buried.

Then suddenly above the Great Spectre appeared,
The names of all the coaches he had whipped through the years.

The victory torches still smoldered beneath,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.

But Tommy stood blank-faced, his stomach still queasy,
He knew that next year was not going to be easy.

He was sad and disgruntled, a mere shell of a man,
And Steve laughed when he saw him, and thought of HIS FANS.

They stood face to face, Bowden wanted to run.
He could hear the theme song from 2001.

The Ghost spoke not a word, but went straight to his plan,
Leaving Tanneyhill bobbleheads for all those at hand.

And raising his visor in salute as on cue,
He said, “See ya next year!”, and he faded from view.

Blake sprang to the Cock-a-boose, to the cats said, “Let’s go!”,
The Tigers all cried saying, “No, Blake, please no!”

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove through the gate,
“Happy Christmas to all, 31 – 28!”


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