The Voice

Al sat silent.

But had you been present two days earlier, you would have heard him. You would have heard him shouting, crying at the top of his lungs. You would have heard him beating, beating his furious little fists against the side of his aluminum prison. You would have heard his feeble cries, slowly dying down as he came to the grim realization that no one was listening, and if they were, no one cared. You would have heard him fall silent again, until he worked up the will to give the old college try one more time, since maybe this time someone might hear. Right now he was silent.

How long had he been here? There was no way of knowing. He was alone in the dark. No light penetrated into his cell, and as a result Al didn’t even know what his prison looked like. It was tall, though. At least, he couldn’t reach the ceiling. And as far as he could tell, from spending hours and hours pacing his floor, it was round. He didn’t have a watch with him, but even if he had, he wouldn’t have been able to see it in this darkness. So Al didn’t know how long he had been here, how long it would be before he got out, or if he even would get out.

The minutes crept by. Minutes turned to hours, hours turned to days, and other clichés describing how excruciatingly long the amount of time Al had been there proceeded to take place in the darkness. And Al slowly went insane, not knowing if he would ever get out. Not knowing how long he had been captive. He was like that guy at the beginning of I.Q., that movie about Albert Einstein’s niece falling in love with that mechanic guy, and Einstein helped the guy out. Anyway, Al was like that guy at the beginning of the movie that agreed to go into a time deprivation experiment, where they kept in a little room and never let him know what time it was, and the slowly went freaking insane. I’m pretty sure that was in I.Q., although admittedly it’s been a while since I’ve seen it.

Perhaps Al was thinking the same thing, because now he was lost in his thoughts. He was thinking about his mother and his sister, and if he would ever see them again. He was thinking about the girl he loved. He was thinking about Walter Matthau and Meg Ryan on that motorcycle, going to save the day, or something like that. He was thinking about anything, except what happened next.

A phone rang.

Al shot up. Had he really heard that? The noise had been faint and distant, but he was sure he’d heard something. He listened fervently.

Another ring.

His heart leapt. What was happening? What did a phone call mean, anyway? Did it have anything to do with him? Perhaps not, but perhaps so.

“Hello?” thundered a voice from the Other Side.

Al pressed his ear right against the wall of his cell, desperately determined to hear what words were about to come out of that telephone. He stood absolutely still, absolutely silent, and waited with baited breath. He heard a voice, this time belonging to the mysterious calling.

“Um...yeah...” The voice paused, and Al thought he heard a few faint stifled giggles.

“Hello?” repeated the thundering voice.

“Yeah, yeah. Um...do you have Prince Albert in a can?”

Yes! thought Al. Yes, yes, yes! He listened excitedly now.

The thunderous voice sighed wearily. “Yes, I do.”
Yes!

“Well...” Al heard almost uncontrollable laughter now, “You better let him out!”

Al jumped with excitement, and waited eagerly for the response from Thundervoice.

“No.”


And then Al heard the unmistakable sound of a phone being placed squarely back on its hook.

Unwritten Laws, all Brit-like.

The life of someone stuck in Arkansas can be a trifle bit monotomous. Repetitive. Culture-free. Filled with the incessant country twang that permeates the blue roads of this state. Yes, Arkansas is not exactly known for being the cultural mecca of the United States, overbooked with activities and filled to the brim with cheerful people; no, that honor belongs to some other state (Actually, it probably doesn't, I've heard, seen, or been to a perfect state).

But we're not all bad news.

This state has several key things that make it not only culturally important, but also an exemplar in regard to surrounding states. So, without further ado, unwritten laws on why we are to be proud to be Arkansans:

Ray Winder Field. Go look at that place. It is old, ancient, and our gem of sports history. It is one of the oldest ballparks in the nation, and has had a consistent showing of the same minor league team for well over 100 years. There are numerous major league teams that wish they could say the same for their venues, riddled with ads, corporate whoredom, and gimmicks designed to sate the eye rather than the soul.

Twist, Arkansas I am a blues man. It is deep in my heart and soul, growing up on the skirts of the Delta and living around the land that churned out the anguished souls who created the grandfather music of all other music we enjoy today. So, it is with great pride that we Arkansas can claim the rights to having helped give BB King the inspiration for the name of the greatest blues guitar ever: Lucille.

Jim Guy Tucker. Wait, what is this no-good, lying, son-of-a-bitch doing on this list? Simply put, we get our corrupt governors the second we find out what they're doing wrong. Not like a certain southern state who had a governor who's name started with an H and ended with uey Long. I went there, coonasses. Suck on it Louisiana. SUCK. ON. IT.

Highway 61 Before Bob Dylan revisited it, it was the route that Muddy Waters took to found Chicago blues. Robert Johnson sold his soul on it. And it passes through Arkansas en route to St. Lou. We had to have sheltered some of these guys. We get points, foo'.

THE MONSTERS OF COUNTRY! Johnny Cash. Conway Twitty. Shove it, Texas.

SEC In terms of college sports, specifically football, the SEC is where it is at. Do we win all the time? No. Are we the highest ranked teams? No. We put our hearts and soul into our games. The traditions, the rivalries, the genteel Southern respect. If LSU is playing someone outside the SEC, usually a Big 12 team (the Abercrombie and Fitch of football: cheaply made, too expensive, and all looks) or a Pac 10 (the Hollister of football: if you don't get this step off), I will cheer for those Tigers whilst I wear the crimson.

Clinton Look at what this pimp did. Great economy, great global standing, and got away with Monicagate. Oh, also, suck on it Louisiana, Mississippi, Tennessee, and Oklahoma. We won this race. Twice.