“If pigs could vote, the man with the slop bucket would be elected swineherd every time, no matter how much slaughtering he did on the side.” Rusty Hammer was in rare form. Nobody at the Grounds for Divorce had a clue what that had to do with the Most Valuable Commenter Award, but we’ve come to accept his trips down winding trails of tangents as part of the discussion.
Chad, on break from his duties as Acting General Manager at the Piggly Wiggly, noted, “There should be additional categories of Most Valuable Commenter available. Spread the love. Recognize the efforts of the many rather than just the one.”
Trixie rolled her eyes, muttering something about the “everybody-gets-a-trophy mentality of his generation.” Her words were soft enough to make it plausible she meant to keep them to herself, but loud enough to be sure they hit their mark. Glimmer Satin Lipstick from Avon does not serve as the filter she thinks it does to muffle the words as they cascade over her lips.
Mayor Goodman stopped by just long enough to make sure nobody would be able to vote by mail, that they’d have to prove they were a member of BaT before their vote was counted, and then left before paying for his coffee.
Rex Hall from the drug store said something about one of the candidates being a cheerleader. “It ain’t a football game, dammit!” The second cup of Folgers had done nothing to soften Rusty’s spirit. Lucinda lightly slapped the back of his head with a menu as she walked by—her way of maintaining order at the café when things get out of hand.
The debate dragged on longer than it should have. You’d think the topic was putting a Chevy engine in a Ford or changing the color from what it was when it left the factory during a rotisserie restoration. People get spun up when sides are taken.
Brother Bob made his thoughts known. “It’s about accountability. Stating facts. Facts are like scripture. They’re God’s way of proving a point. Show me a man who can dig through the mire and disseminate the facts.” He had a good point, but folks always wondered what the point was he was really trying to make that lurked behind the obvious one.
Lucinda listened all morning as she went back and forth to the Bunn-O-Matic to refill the Folgers. It was long after Delgado had brought out the huevos rancheros. She set the pot down on the red-checkered tablecloth, put a hand on her hip, and gave us that look—the one that meant we needed to free up the table for other folks who were just as hungry and had nothing to debate.
“What’s the whole point of the award?” she asked.
We tried to boil the whole thing down to its most basic element.
It was Sister Thelma who took everyone’s input and put it concisely into a single sentence. “Comments should either inform, educate, or entertain. Who does that most effectively, consistently, and with an attitude that promotes goodwill within the community?”
“But they should be like pico de gallo,” Delgado added. “Not enough to overpower the meal.” His point was taken.
“It ain’t rocket science, boys.” Rusty looked like he’d had a revelation, though it may have just been gas from the refried beans in the huevos rancheros. “The early bird might get the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese.”
I don’t know if it was Sister Thelma or Rusty who sealed it, but Fort Stockton casts its vote for @Fleche_dOr.
8 responses to “MVC AT THE GFD”
““What’s the whole point of the award?” she asked.”
As with most things, I’m hanging with Lucinda on this. Awarding Most Bestest prizes seems to be a very human trait, but I find voting for a winner to be off-putting. I know whose input I value, and whose I don’t…I don’t need a contest to tell me I’m right or way off base.
Well…glad I got THAT off my chest.
That’s a fair confession—and a likable one. Lucinda would slide you a refill just for saying it out loud. But here’s the rub: liking contests and needing contests aren’t quite the same thing. Competitiveness isn’t something we invented to irritate thoughtful people; it’s something we came preinstalled with. Long before ballots, trophies, or hashtags, humans were already lining up to see who could throw farther, hunt better, run faster, or talk louder without getting hit. Somewhere along the way we turned that wiring into sports championships, Oscars, Pulitzers, lap times measured in heartbeats, and bragging rights that last longer than common sense.
Every arena works the same way. Teams don’t play all season to finish “adequate.” Actors don’t spend decades emoting under hot lights hoping to be quietly appreciated in private. Writers don’t wrestle sentences into shape dreaming of a polite nod from a stranger. Racers don’t risk becoming a physics lesson just to be “close.” The finish line matters. The statue matters. The headline matters. Not because it tells us who to like—but because it gives shape to effort. It draws a circle around chaos and says, this meant something.
And just as deeply wired is the other half of it: picking sides. We don’t just want someone to win—we want our someone to win. And if we’re honest, we’d prefer the folks we don’t trust, don’t like, or don’t believe in to stay firmly in second place where they belong. That’s not cruelty; that’s tribal bookkeeping. Applause for one side, crossed arms for the other. Same instinct, different volume.
Fort Stockton understands this better than most. We’ll argue for hours about high school football records from decades ago, swear a certain coffee pot pours better than any other in town, and quietly keep score of who shows up, who follows through, and who talks a bigger game than they ever deliver. We say we don’t care about winning—but we remember exactly who did.
Trixie summed it up best one night at closing time, leaning on the counter at the Lucky Lady Lounge and watching a debate spiral out of control: “Baby, if people didn’t care who won, nobody’d ever clap—and I wouldn’t own half the tight jeans I do.”
@Motcat your post mirrored my own thoughts so I can add little. I believe the previous winners would be in great company with FdO. One ritual I think may have been left out – the Indian blood oath. Need to see pics or it didn’t happen.
When you take a look at the past 13 Most Valuable Commenter Award winners, you are looking at the literary heavyweights of BaT. Each with their own style and contributions to the BaT community.
I don’t follow too much regarding off-road racing, and since I own a couple FSJs (full size jeep), I am legally obligated to dislike Broncos. Much the same that as a die hard Packers fan I have to hate the Bears. So that choice is out. Although he appears to be a local boy to me. I do not value quantity over quality, so that choice is out. I do enjoy reading posts by the other guy, thus I will agree with the Captain.
Since there is a big to-do where the past winners meet up with the newest winner, I have to assume the Captain had already contacted each of the candidates obtaining their commitment to participate in the fire and blood induced ritual where each winner has to smoke the pipe and pledge to keep the Captain’s true identity secret. No cameras or phones allowed at the event.
The first rule of winning the Bellcord is that we don’t talk about winning the Bellcord. The level of detail you have provided could well be cause for an investigation to be launched. If I am forced to go dark for a while, you’ll have to live with that.
(But the no cameras thing is completely true.)
Re: “…no cameras…”.
I think that the world will end when the “Cloud” is completely full of pictures, probably 99% of which are utterly ridiculous and un-needed – but completely/whollynecessary enjoyed at the time. Is anyone keeping count? – causing an apoplectic explosion.
I believe the rules on cameras only apply to the identity of CMC – all other rituals are fair game. Must go check the bylaws.
There was a crackdown after PDXBryan’s initiation. Telescopic shots of of PDXBryan’s Volvo 245 were posted on TMZ. Thankfully my face was obscured by the spare tire in the cargo area. Only Sludgo’s Guatemalan Renaissance Leather Knee High Boots were captured hanging out the front passenger door. PDX, lashed to the roof rack on top, was mistaken for several bags of VW parts and cannabis, or we’d all have been in deep fecal matter.