Reprint from Lunch in the Gump. Without permission. Screw them.

First, let's get one thing straight. Well, a few things straight. (1) I like to catch fish by the boatload. (2) I like to shoot multiple species of ducks. (3) I like classic cocktails, expertly built, with loving care, by professionals. (4) I like to gamble in proper casinos, not amongst pensioners playing nickel machines in "bingo" joints. (5) I like great music played by sweaty-ass musicians in smoky-ass bars who care more about how they sound than how they look. (6) When I say, "Hey, how about showing me those ta-tas," I like having better than a 50-50 chance of actually getting to see 'em.  (7) I like carefree natives who have nice boats, talk funny and who are full of shit. (8) I like having an active Powerball lotto ticket in my billfold at all times (it comforts me).  And (9) I like great food cooked in the creole/cajun style.

By my count, that's 9 out of my top 10* favorite things and I can only think of one place in the whole world where you can score "9" on the Bidgood Bob Pleasure Meter over a three-day weekend without having to cross any state lines or break any laws... and that squishy little slice of heaven is called THE GREAT STATE OF LOUISIANA. 

Next to Pine Bar on Cloverdale Rd...

make a night of it.

Now, unfortunately, the economy being what it is I can't just drop what I'm doing and haul ass to the Bayou State every time I get the urge for something that tastes good, sounds funny or ends in an "X." That's why I'm delighted to report that the Gump Guinea Pigs survived, the full review is complete and the verdict is in. Make a reservation, get your ass to Roux and wallow in it, baby.

First things first: They don't call me "Bidgood Bob the Gumbo Snob" just because I went to a couple of Sugar Bowls when I was in college. I am a student and protege of Chef John Folse and LITG's own Whig in a Blanket, who has taught me the art of the roux and the science of great gumbo for over two decades. When I tell you that Roux owner/chef David Dickensauge knows gumbo, this is not idle praise and I'm not kissing his ass just to get a free bowl (although I wouldn't dare want to hurt David's feelings by refusing one). Fresh lump crabmeat, claws, shrimp, oysters... done just right and about the color of a grocery sack. Keep your hands off the hot sauce... it don't need nothin' else on it nor in it.

Here's the deal... every time I've been to Roux I had the gumbo, and I truly can't remember if they put any rice in there or not (I was drinking all three times). Be that as it may, they certainly didn't use a big wad of rice to make the gumbo go farther or to pad the profit margins. As I remember, with that much seafood there wasn't much room for starch.

Oh, one more thing about the Roux gumbo -- there's no okra in it, which is fine by me because I never liked the slimy little bastards anyway.

We are pretty sure Roux is rapidly getting through the early-stage jitters service-wise, but there are sure to be horror stories from any new restaurant's baby steps. My favorite from Roux's opening week came from a pal who ordered a Mojito, which arrived from the bar "dirty," with four olives and some olive juice instead of lime juice and fresh mint leaves.  Well, not wanting to be an ass about the whole thing he drank it anyway, kinda liked it, ordered another (made it a double, extra dirty), drank that one, then ran next door to the Pine Bar and mashed his bare butt cheeks up against the window, to the delight of the sophisticated clientele there.

Anyway, last Friday night Roux was jam-packed when Reginald McLucid, Doc NBA and I took our sport-model precious adorables out for drinks & dinner & more drinks (in that order). Even though we were a tad late and roaming around like a herd of cats after pre-gaming at the aforesaid Pine Bar, the Roux wait staff still pretty much hit it out of the park. They let us meander, kept our drinks full and all-in-all managed real well on a hectic night.

Cool salad on a hot night.

The food? Oh, yes. Almost forgot about that. In addition to the aforementioned gumbo, among other things we had Devils on Horseback, Alabama Watermelon Salad (see right), fried oysters and crab claws. That was just the appetizers. For dinner we had Seared Romesco Scallops (with macquechoux, a favorite of mine), BBQ Shrimp, something called "Chicken Mar I Muntanya" and some other stuff I can't remember. They have a prime rib that they cook on the rib, then slice, then rub with some top secret concoction, then sear. Damn. We all shared and nobody bitched about the food, service, portion size or price (like I said, though, we were hitting the booze pretty hard and were mostly agreeable).

Roux BBQ Shrimp. Lobsters, more like it.

Note on the Roux BBQ Shrimp (shown at left). This is nothing like the very excellent BBQ Shrimp served at Jubilee Seafood, one of our all-time Gump favorites. The Roux BBQ Shrimp is more like the classic New Orleans dish (nothing even remotely "barbecued" about it) made famous at Pascal's Manale, with massive fresh shrimp and this sauce that's, well, let me tell you about the sauce... I wanted to tell the waiter, "Looka here, you need to bring me about five loaves of french bread and get all these people out of here, because I am about to take off my shirt and sop up every drop of this sauce that's in the room right now." I wanted to, but I didn't.

Then consider the "shrimp." I really can't believe the lucky shrimper didn't have those big boys mounted. They must have put up one hell of a fight. If I ever landed a shrimp that size you can bet your ass he'd be over my mantel. Hard to believe they were so tender.

Excellent coffee and beignets topped it all off. We left happy and eased back to the Pine Bar for nightcaps. There we joined in the cosmopolitan atmosphere of sidewalk dining, drinking and conviviality on a starlit summer night among the beautiful people, not a one of whom was aware of our status as fairly recent parolees.

Overall a very nice night in this here Gump.

* My other favorite you can do pretty much anywhere there's a golf course.  

Bidgood Bob Review from Lunch in the Gump

So anyway, this morning the GumpPhone lights up and as usual it's the Cornbread Carp. Apparently one of the Guinea Pigs went to the new Cantina Tortilla Grill* in the Alley last week and lived to tell about it, so the Carp (who always gets his way) decreed that the Cantina was cleared for a full review by Lunch in the Gump.

Like so many redneck tragedies that start out "hold my beer and watch this shit," today's LITG review doesn't end well, and something tells me that a particular Guinea Pig, the one they call "Squeak," is going to lose his job over this. Yes, his furry little head is going to roll.

A gentle giant, when properly fed.

Thinking everything was safe, I grabbed my old pal Tojo Yamamoto and set off up Commerce Street to the Alley so we could check out our newest Mex joint. As loyal LITG readers know, Tojo is a man of very few words, and absolutely no articles, conjunctions or linking verbs. Tojo would sooner disembowel himself with a dull samurai sword than utter the words "and" or "the," or use a complete sentence, or speak in anything but the present tense, or refer to himself in the first person. But maybe that's why we all like Tojo so much... he uses his mouth as an insertion point for food and not for blathering on and on about meaningless crap like the rest of us do.

"Tojo hungry," he said. That's about all you're ever going to get out of Tojo.

We made our way past the intimidating pastel pink facade of the Rushton Stakely firm, walking in the middle of the street due to the never-ending sidewalk construction between there and the posh offices of 2WR Architects & Partyboys, LLC. This particular sidewalk project has been going on for so long that many of us downtowners wonder if it isn't really the Outer Loop, or a super-colliding superconductor, or maybe pyramids they're building. But I digress, as always.

Cantina is stylish & tasty, but over

the Tojo Line, pricewise.

Tojo was smiling, bowing to everybody and rubbing his impressive belly in anticipation as we entered the very stylish Cantina. He looked around. He sniffed the aroma. "Tojo like," he said. The Carp, Shadow Pup and Norm Peterson were already there and gave us the protocol. At Cantina, you order at the bar first, then find a seat and they bring your food out to you, pronto.

Tojo pondered the menu and as you might imagine, he was drawn to the category "Big Plates." His eyes narrowed at the $10.95 price tag, somewhat over the Tojo Line, but we all knew what was happening. If you bait a trap with something called "Big Plates" you will catch Tojo every time.

The big man ordered Cilantro Chicken from the "Big Plates" part of the menu. The dish was described as cilantro-marinated chicken breast with roasted corn, poblano peppers and saffron rice. Tojo was all over it. With tea and tax, Tojo's lunch tab came to $13.97, but since it came from the "Big Plates" category, he shrugged and forked over the dough.

About this time we all felt a strange rumbling, and the whole Cantina began to vibrate, as if a freight train was making its way through the Alley. Before the Cantina's patrons could panic, though, Tojo put them at ease. "Tojo miss breakfast, stomach empty," he said. We were relieved there wasn't a seismic event occurring in the Alley, but worried nevertheless because none of us had ever known our large Asian friend to miss a meal under any circumstances. Our boy was really hungry.

Luckily (or so we thought) they got the food out quickly and the gang dug into their excellent tacos, cuban sandwiches, garlic fries and such... but Tojo was crestfallen. Yep, it was a "Big Plate" all right. Big enough that the puny little dab of food on that plate looked like the Hawaiian Islands sitting in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, as seen from the moon.

Visibly distressed, Tojo looked around the Cantina in hopes that a server would bring the rest of his lunch but alas, it was what it was... a scrawny little boneless Paris Hilton chicken breast sitting on top of a couple spoonfuls of rice with a little canned corn and maybe six or seven small bites of bell pepper thrown in.

Running out of options, Tojo had no choice but to immediately ingest the Cilantro Chicken, a process which took maybe ten seconds. But the rumbling didn't subside. Near panic, Tojo ran back to the counter (to the extent Tojo can "run") and ordered chips and salsa. With tax, that was $3.30 more! DIOS MIO!! Three bucks for chips and salsa in a place called "Cantina?" Tojo was out-of-pocket $17.27 and hadn't even replenished the 300 calories he had burned walking his big ass two blocks up Commerce Street to get there in the first place.

Tojo went pale and his eyes rolled back into his head, then he slumped over. The Cantina fell silent, except for the lingering tremors of Tojo's hunger pangs and Shadow Pup's incessant yipping. The paramedics were on the scene in a flash, but damn if they didn't have to call in a second unit because it took two gurneys to get Tojo out of there.

One particularly quick-thinking paramedic ran down the Alley to Saza's and commandeered somebody's Rigatoni Bolognese (the $16 dinner portion, I think) and was force-feeding Tojo as they wheeled him out to the ambulance. Also, one of Jerry Kyser's crew happened by with a refrigerator dolly and helped load him up.

Anyway, Tojo appeared to be coming around when the ambulance pulled away on Commerce Street, narrowly missing a gaggle of Beasley Allen secretaries who were walking in the middle of the street because the sidewalk can't seem to get paved in two year's time. Sheesh, you can put a man on the moon but you can't pave a half block of sidewalk so that legal secretaries don't get run over by paramedics hauling ass to keep a Japanese rassler from starving to death.

Oh, and if anybody has seen "Squeak," tell him he needs to see Bidgood Bob ASAP.

* Footnote: Seriously, Cantina is a great addition to the Alley. The food was excellent, the decor is as cool as the other side of the pillow, it's fast and they should do a great business once the liquor license comes through. They need to work on portion size relative to price, in our opinion, or maybe it's just the early-stage baby steps. We'll be back... next time for margaritas, drunk-talk and secretary-chasing. 

Also, Tojo is recovering nicely. Luckily, Chris' Hot Dogs, Scott Street Deli and Hamburger King were all on the way to Jackson Hospital and it looks like our boy will be okay. The only problem was Blue Cross, which balked at Tojo's dietary needs... at first.

The Gump Loses a Good One, a Visit to Hank's Grave, a Tale From the Crypt, Hate for the NCAA, a Recipe for Nick Fairley and Other Useless Crap for the New Year

Hamburger King

A good friend of mine told me recently that his New Year’s resolution was to be unpredictable, to try new and exciting things in 2011. 

“So, you’re going to skydive, go bungee-jumping, that sort of thing?” I asked him.

“No, I was thinking along the lines of maybe trying a hot dog at Hamburger King,” he said, "maybe the pot roast at Martin's, a steak at Jubilee Seafood. You know, mix it up a bit." 

I thought that was real funny, until I read a few days later that Pat Harrison, longtime owner of Hamburger King, had passed away at 66.

I never knew Mr. Harrison. Never even introduced myself to him because every time I saw him he was running wide-open, constructing impossibly perfect hamburgers one after another for an endless stream of loyal and happy customers. No time to chit-chat with me.

Hamburger King is a wonderful place. It’s too crowded and noisy to discuss anything much more important than the weather, or maybe the asking price of Auburn’s new five-star recruit. But it’s a great place to belly up to the counter, visit with a nice cross-section of fellow hamburger connoisseurs and watch an American family do what American families do.

We will sure miss Mr. Harrison.

Here's a link to a Lunch in the Gump review of this magnificent slice of heaven: 

PUNCH HERE

Change Your Luck at Hank’s

Back in late 2009 another good friend of mine (not the hotdog-starved daredevil referenced above) told me he thought I needed a change of luck. Having tried collard greens and black-eyed peas year after year to no avail, and lacking the funds to cross the Atlantic and kiss the Blarney Stone, I decided to take his advice and pay homage at the grave of Hank Williams.

A year ago, on the frosty morning of January 1, 2010 (the 57^th anniversary of Hank’s death in 1953) I went and had a nip of whiskey at the legend’s final resting place. I even got caught up in the wreath-laying ceremony and met fans from all over the country. Damn, I thought. Tourism.

Anyway, 2010 had its ups and downs like all years but at least business was a lot better and I backed that slobbering-ass wolf a few steps away from the door. So on this New Year’s Day I braved the rain and led a small entourage over to Oakwood Cemetery and repeated the process for 2011. Hell, I figured it couldn’t hurt.

An Unrelated Hank Reference

A little research on Hank revealed that his nom de plume “Luke the Drifter” was an alias used for Christian music and readings Hank recorded against the advice of Nashville record execs. What a remarkable name, Luke the Drifter… like some mysterious character from a Clint Eastwood western, or a feared hit-man from over in Jersey.

I remember a neighbor who used to live across the street from my in-laws had a big, fine-looking chocolate Labrador retriever named Luke. The neighbors called him “Luke the Drifter” because he used to roam the neighborhood at all hours of the day and night, presumably in search of female companionship.

He was a quiet dog...

Luke was a pleasant, very social dog beloved by the neighborhood’s children and adults alike. But when Luke’s owners moved a few years later the new neighbors cleaned several years’ worth of leaves from Luke’s kennel and found a few dozen cat skeletons in there. Seems Luke the Drifter was a serial cat killer living right there amongst us. You just never know.


The NCAA is Dead

Well, the Sugar Bowl is mercifully over and maybe we won’t hear much more about the Ohio State Boy Scouts selling their jerseys and bowl bling in exchange for cash and great deals on tats.


Their punishment? An all-expenses-paid jet-out to the Quarter. Suspensions next year, unless the tattooed bling merchants are already in the NFL. Laissez les bons temps rouler! 


If you are an Alabama fan, like me, and have become used to the NCAA’s regulatory jackboot on your neck, like I have, then this recent turn of events should set your blood boiling. Seems like only yesterday a group of Bama football players were suspended for several games for getting textbooks for their friends. Not hookers and blow, mind you, not even free tattoos, but textbooks… little reservoirs of knowledge and wisdom. Sheesh.

BCS Prediction

I don’t really have much to add. Don’t see how Oregon can slow Cameron down, not even the least bit. Auburn’s defense will stop the Ducks two or three times. Auburn wins, 56-33.

A Recipe for Nick Fairley

First -- and this is the important part -- make sure the Duck is dead. Marinate the breasts overnight in some decent red wine and Dale’s sauce, stuff them with cream cheese and jalapeno peppers, wrap them in a couple of strips of bacon each and grill them real slow on a low charcoal fire. Serves one. Thank me later.

Big Thanks to the War Eagle Nation

Auburn fans apparently liked the last column, “Bama Fan Wakes from Three-Month Coma.” That blog post, see below, just went over 10,000 page views since December 8. Almost 4,000 people saw the column the first day alone (my previous record was a whopping 35!). We are working on the sequel now, but first have to see how many Bama fans take their own lives if Auburn wins. This Internet thing may catch on.

'Bama Fan Wakes From 3-Month Coma

Labor Day weekend I almost killed a man.

If only he had given it one more shake.

I was on the 11th tee at the local snobatorium when my good buddy, Bama Bing, stepped from behind a big old oak tree at the exact instant I hit my trademark “Bidgood Bob Scalded Dog Bullet Hook,” a shot referred to by some as a “Thurman Munson,” which is golfspeak for a “dead yank.”

Anyway, the Bullet Hook caught Bing between the eyes. He survived, thank God, but nobody in our foursome (not even the beer cart girl) volunteered for mouth-to-mouth, so he slipped into a coma.

I was at his side this morning when he woke up.

“What happened?” Bing asked, “I remember going behind that big oak because I had to, well, you know. What day is it?”

“December 8,” I replied. 

“Damn. What’s happened? Where is everybody? Why are you the only one here?”

I don’t do post-coma recaps every day. But I did the best I could. 

“Well, for starters, all your friends have been indicted,” I said, deciding the direct approach was best. “They can’t come to the hospital because their ankle bracelets interfere with the prepaid cell phones the doctors use to call their mistresses.” 

"Indicted?” he asked, then, “What about me? Was I indicted?”

“Not yet, but there are subpoenas all over town,” I replied. “I set your office on fire while you were unconscious, just to be safe.”

“Thanks,” said Bing, relieved. “Say, who won the Governor’s race? Byrne or James?”

“Bentley,” I replied.

“The hell you say.”

Who'd a thunk it?

“True. It was a helluva campaign. First Ron Sparks shaved off his porn ‘stache and smoked Artur Davis, then Byrne and James went at each other so hard that Bentley made it to the runoff and won, then Sparks got blown out along with just about every Democrat in the whole state.”

“No way.”

“Way. The Republicans rule now. The other day I saw an eighteen-wheeler backed up to the State Capitol unloading Grey Poupon.”

Bing scratched his head in wonderment. “So let me get this straight,” he said, “All my friends have been indicted, some doctor nobody ever heard of got elected Governor and the Republicans rule the state?”

“It gets worse,” I said. “Leslie Nielsen died the other day.”

“Leslie Nielsen? Surely that’s not true.”

“It is. And don’t call me Shirley.”

1926 - 2010

Bing contemplated all this, then perked up. “Hey. Who’s ‘Bama playing in the BCS?”

Uh-oh. I suddenly didn’t like where this was going. “Well, actually, the Tide won’t be playing in the Championship this year, Bing.”

“Got nosed out in the polls, huh? I knew it would happen someday. Who outpolled us? Texas? Those blue-field pussies? Who did we beat in the SEC Championship? Florida? Georgia? How bad did we beat Auburn? Spill it.”

At this point I didn’t really know what to do, so I told Bing to relax a minute, that I was going to hit the men’s room and I’d finish catching him up after. I eased down to the nurse’s station and told them Bing was awake but they needed to get the crash cart ready, stat. 

Maybe it was all just a dream.

“I’ve got some bad news for you,” I said on my return to Bing’s room with three nurses and a crash cart behind me. “We didn’t beat Auburn. They got us, 28-27.”

“No…”

“Hang in there, buddy. I don’t know how to tell you this, so I’m just going to lay it all out there for you and get it over with…”

A nurse took me by the arm. “Bob, do you think this is a good idea? Maybe we should wait for the doctor? Maybe give him a sedative first, before you tell him?”

“No,” I said. “Better he hears it from me, before the Aubs find out he’s awake and come in here throwing toilet paper all over the ICU.”

Bing had a puzzled look as I took him by the shoulder. “Be strong, friend,” I said, “This won’t be easy for either of us. 

“We finished fourth in the West.”

Bing blinked in disbelief. Then his eyes welled with tears, “But we were unbeatable. They said the Detroit Lions couldn’t carry our jock straps. The last two movies I went to both had Nick Saban in them.”

My friend began to heave with sobs, then the gizmos and whatchamacallits went off, beeping and flashing.

“Stop, you’re killing him,” cried the head nurse. “I’m calling a code!”

“He’s got to know the truth,” I said, pushing her aside.

“His heart can’t handle the truth,” she said, “this is too much for him to take.”

Mustering all of my courage, I said the words. “Bing, it’s Auburn. They’re 13-0 and ranked number one. They’re playing Oregon for the National Championship and they’re going to freight-train those poor Ducks.”

Bing gasped for breath. “How?” he said.

Your worst nightmare.

“It’s that new quarterback of theirs, the one they bought. Do you remember? Apparently he has superhuman powers and he’s a lock for the Heisman Trophy.”

“But, Bob… surely Oregon can… somehow they can stop…” his voice trailed off as he clutched at my sleeve.

“No, my friend, Auburn's offense is like the contents of your stomach at the Chi-O tequila swap our sophomore year. It can’t be stopped.”

He held my gaze for several seconds, and then a curious thing happened. Bing’s grand mal Crimson Tide grief seizure appeared to ebb and a look of calm emerged on his face. The beeping of the gizmos and whatchamacallits slowed, then stopped. The nurses relaxed.

“It’s okay,” Bing said. “It’s okay. I’m alive. I’m going to make it. College football doesn’t matter in the big picture… what’s important is family and friends, the people I love, the people who love me. Call my wife and tell her I’m back!”

As the nurses filed out, taking the crash cart with them, I thought of my lifelong friendship with Bing, and also pondered my three-month "friendship" with Bing's hot-as-a-blowed-coal wife.

“Not so fast with that crash cart,” I said.

Hang in there, Bama Bing. There is always next season.

OK, Thanks Already

OK, who forgot the beer?

Auburn won, but I'm still thankful.

Some of you may remember that I had to be talked down from a window ledge after the Crimson Tide’s loss to South Carolina earlier in the season. Admittedly, it was only a first-floor ledge, but still. At my age I could have slipped a disk or wound up with the dreaded broken hip.

Ah, losing to Auburn. The Rational 'Bama Fan (RBF) must learn how to cope, just as I have this season. The traumatic October beatdown from the Gamecocks set me on a path to serenity that has helped me through the last few days. After intense counseling, a beating from LSU, loss of all championship aspirations and copious amounts of pre-game alcohol, I was mentally prepared for the loss to Auburn. Not happy about it, mind you, but more or less ready for it.

'Bama fans in the 2nd half.

Now I’m feeling all philosophical. The long holiday weekend gave me time to reflect on the things I am truly thankful for. Here are a few:

Thankful I’m Not an Auburn Fan Right Now

Seems like only yesterday we ‘Bama fans had to sweat out a tough comeback win on the road, only to face another tough opponent in the SEC Championship, a Heisman vote and then the BCS Championship. That was rather tough on our nerves last year, even without the NCAA, SEC, FBI and ESPN shining flashlights up our butts. So I’m truly thankful I can just enjoy the holidays this year, and look forward to the Chizik movie.

West Coast Relatives

I am thankful for the Cypress Point golf shirt my California kinfolks brought me. I wore it to the course Sunday and everybody there briefly mistook me for some kind of fatcat, which is exactly why one wears golf shirts from fancy clubs in the first place.

Debutante Balls

Once your daughters get to college, they might have to come home for these debutante balls we have in Montgomery, either because they’re debutantes themselves, or their friends are debutantes, or both. In any event, the girls are actually home with their parents for these weekends. In some cases they have to come home from school twice -- once for the rehearsal and again for the ball itself. Ingenious.

Be thankful for debutante balls, because without them your daughter goes off to college and then, POOF, you never see her again until the wedding.

Capitol Book and News

We should be very thankful for this locally owned Cloverdale jewel. At Capitol Book and News you might pay a whole two dollars more for a bestseller this Christmas but at least you won’t have to risk your life getting out east.

I know, I know, they don’t offer all the extras you get at the mega-chain bookstores. For example, CB&N doesn’t have overpriced coffee, scones, bait-and-switch discount cards or slack-jawed stoners dispensing literary advice.

Scones. I feel smarter just typing the word.

And although I’ve never asked the question, I’m willing to bet that Cheryl, Tom or Eleanor will give you a free cup of coffee if you’ve got to have one while shopping for books in their store.

Me? I’m thankful for a staff that has a good idea what I like, what I don’t like and seldom misses on a recommendation. It is also comforting to know that my hard-earned dough doesn't get wired straight up north to a gang of Wall Street thieves.

My only gripe about the CB&N crew is that they turned me on to Michael Connelly novels over 20 years ago. I buy them the first day they come in, don't go to sleep until I'm done, then I go through cold turkey withdrawal sickness until the next one comes out. Thanks a lot for that.

And before anyone gets all indignant, please be aware that I was something of a slack-jawed stoner myself back in the day (sans the piercings).

Thankful I’m Not Cam Newton

Not that I wouldn’t like to have that stiff-armed trophy on my mantel, but can you imagine a post-Heisman press conference where the winner will have to answer “no comment” to just about every question?

That young man is about to have some bright lights on him, bless his heart. He has delivered in the clutch over and over and again this season but I fear the worst blitz he will ever face is yet to come as he faces the brute-force scrutiny of the national media.

Not a single one of the creeps who has allegedly tried to profit from #2 will be staring into that bank of cameras. I’m going to root for Cam.

It’s a Wonderful Life

“Here’s to George Bailey, the richest man in town.” My daughter once told me she would never marry a man who didn’t get at least one tear in his eye while watching this holiday classic. As good a litmus test as any, I’d say.

When George’s brother makes it home from the war, the pinch-faced bank examiner joins in the caroling, the D.A. rips up the arrest warrant, the townspeople empty their pockets for George, a wire transfer from Sam Wainwright (hee-haw!) arrives in time to stave off bankruptcy and an angel gets his wings… hell, I am about to tune up just sitting here typing.

Do yourself a favor and watch this movie with your family as you gather for Christmas (with your cell phones OFF).

You can thank me later.

Advice for your trip to Tuscaloosa

George Bernard Shaw, the great Irish dramatist and purported socialist, once said “England and America are two countries separated by a common language.” I always liked the quote, as much for its economy of words as its message. Being a fraction Irish myself, and 100% Southern, I fully understand being misunderstood and often ponder why people sharing the same language and lineage, who reside within common borders and even in the same neighborhoods, choose to turn against one another for no apparent reason. 

Take Auburn University and its fans, for example. Yes, we Alabama fans share a form of the same language. We grudgingly share a state with them. We went to high school with them, share zip codes, go to church together and sometimes, out of some sense of noblesse oblige, even let our children play with theirs. Outside.

But Friday they will be strangers in a strange land -- our land, not theirs. They will be outnumbered and outgunned, hoping to leave Friday evening victorious and elated, but injury-free and with fully inflated tires on their pickup trucks. We have to ask ourselves the question, like noted American social icon Rodney King did, “Can we all get along?” And since I’m quoting social icons and purported socialists today, the answer is a resounding, “Yes, we can!”

Here are some Bidgood Bob tips for Alabama fans that want to be good hosts. Following these suggestions will enhance your gameday experience and reduce the likelihood of unnecessary bloodshed:

1. Avoid the term “Cow College.” Auburn folks are sensitive about their agricultural heritage, for some reason. I never figured this one out, since every time you eat a truly great steak it’s probably the result of some smart people doing freaky crossbreeding experiments in the animal husbandry lab. And they gave us the McLean Deluxe. Don’t forget that.

2. Don’t ask about the basketball arena. Yes, they spent almost $100 million on a gym with fewer seats than their old one. This was so they won’t have to hang a curtain across half the place to hide the empty seats. Bama fans: just be quiet about this and let Auburn keep building shit they can't afford. This is how Ronald Reagan crushed the Soviet Union.

3. Don’t count your championships. They really hate it when we do this.

4. Don’t ask why their season ticket hotline number is 1-800-AUB-1957. Just don’t.

5. Bad topics of conversation: Here is a good rule of thumb: avoid bringing up anything that starts with the letter “C.” Topics like Cam, Cecil, Chizik, Colonial Bank, Chette, churches, computers, cheating, Committee on Infractions, etc. can get them pretty riled up. 

In summary, give Auburn fans praise where it’s due. Find common ground! Together these great universities have been on NCAA probation more times than anyone! Neither athletic program has ever gotten the death penalty!

Both institutions are consistently ranked in the mid-40s in U.S. News and World Report’s rankings of state-supported universities! And there are fifty states!

Survival tips for Auburn fans traveling to Tuscaloosa:

Many Auburn fans will be making their first trip to Tuscaloosa on Friday. To maximize your enjoyment on the road to the national championship, remember the following:

Know how to spot trouble. For example, if you’re approached by a tattooed 300-pound dude with a mullet haircut, a goatee and a beer gut out to here, and he’s wearing one of those authentic Wal-Mart ‘Bama jerseys (you know, the ones with the gray and white stripes on the sleeves), he is probably not coming to wish you good luck against the Gamecocks. Dude probably owns real gamecocks. Run.

Wolves in sheep's Brooks Brothers clothing. If you see a group of harmless-looking young men in sport coats, button-down shirts and ties, BEWARE. They are Bama fraternity pledges. They travel in packs and, like the famed Ghurka warriors trained by the British East India Company, newboys are fierce fighters who will blindly follow any order, however outrageous. They also drink too much. 

Blasphemy on hallowed ground is dealt with harshly. Should Auburn win the game you can get away with pretty much anything, but stay away from the statues, especially the Bryant Statue. Two Auburn students were apprehended Sunday night taping a Cam Newton #2 jersey to the Bryant Statue. Big mistake.

Infidels.

The vandals are presently in the hands of the diabolical Bryant Museum staff, where they are undergoing behavior modification therapy. Their indoctrination will teach them the ways of ancestor worship, self-congratulation for past glory and the inevitability of future domination. 

NO! Not the bloody fooking KICK again!!!

Like Alex from A Clockwork Orange, they are strapped down, eyelids taped open, in front of giant video screens showing images of Wade, Thomas, Bryant, Stallings and Saban, all with Sweet Home Alabama blasting over and over and over…

They will be ‘Bama fans by Friday.