This is another installment in life’s multi-part lesson about how to get what you’re looking for, and the answer is the same as ever: stop looking. Someone posted it to Youtube in April. The legend around the ad is that Bryant was supposed to say “Call your mama,” but then ad-libbed the last line, and thus sending South Central Bell’s stock through the roof and countless men running crying to the phones in a rush to obey the commands of the Man-Pope of Alabama.

At long last: The South Central Bell Ad where Bear Bryant demands that you call your mama.

The man could sell bacon in Mecca and bicycles to quadraplegics.

His most moving and complicated work, though, was initially panned for what audiences saw as a mumbling, incoherent performance in “Carpets of Dalton 2: The Restapling.”

Sometimes, the audience leads the artist; but in their best work, artists force the audience on a journey they might not want to take, a dark and intensely personal Dantean descent into a hell of their own making. Clearly, thespian Richt has a mind to serve as your Virgil here, broaching the ninth circle of hell as we know it–carpet shopping–and tapping into the misery of a trapped soul with an emotional honesty too fiery and tinged with real sadness for most viewers to appreciate.

Richt spends most of the plot nodding and assenting to his wife, dragging her gently through the endless piles of samples, patronizingly examining the flooring she points out to him, nodding as she enthusiastically nails her lines about Carpets of Dalton’s outstanding selection and convenience. She stands as an incandescent counterpoint to Richt’s mumbling misery; Richt is a pre-breakdown Lester Burnham, pondering the void of his life behind the facade of the provider.

How do you know this is a quiet, plush American hell? The director tells you all you need to know in one chilling image juxtaposed with Kathryn Richt’s chirpy dialogue:

Rattan furniture; or, as we think of it, the tacky home of the flabby, misshapen ass of your deep, undying sorrow. The image then morphs into the “happy” couple walking through the store, frittering away the days of their lives in one endless spasm of forced happiness and subtle consumer gluttony.

“To get me here in one spot…and get everything done in one place…that was a good idea.” When Richt utters this line, the halting delivery and mumbling volume reach into the viewer’s chest and arrest the heart. In an instant, you have become Richt, and Richt has become you. In thirty seconds of postmodern theatre, Mark Richt the actor has become Mark Richt the artist–and he’s taking you to hell whether you want to go or not. We, like the readers of Dante’s great Inferno, are that much richer for the flames.

We at EDSBS, however, love making a cheap buck as much as anyone else, and therefore pitch the following beverages to the masses. Consider yourself a little focus group, if you will: tell us how you feel about these beverages on a scale from “would drink out of [IMPOSSIBLY ATTRACTIVE FAMOUS PERSON'S ASSCRACK]‘ to “would not drink with a loaded blunderbuss held to our heads.”

Sylvester Croom’s CRÜM. Smooth. Strong. Those who hold on fourth and one, hold CRÜM.

Pete Carroll’s FIGHT ON ELIXIR. A heady, potent mixture of guarana, caffeine, hummingbird adrenaline, and ginseng that keeps you winning forever. WARNING: may induce long periods of success, good vibes, positive, world-friendly thoughts, and losing to Stanford.

Schnellenshine. No questions–just drink it and become a man for the first time in your life, Nancy. The burning is pain leaving your body.

Tom O’Brien’s Big, Hearty Glass o’ Milk.

Bobby Petrino’s Cobra Blast. Run up the score on life with Bobby Petrino’s COBRA BLAST, the powerful but energetic cocktail for the outgoing street drunk. May cause inability to stay in one place for long (natch.)

Nick Saban’s Crimson Tide Nutrition Beverage. Rich in iron, lifeforce of enemies.

And if you don’t believe the J.R. Ewing/ Steve Spurrier comparison Kanu’s been trying to convince us of for years, then watch this and tell us you couldn’t see this scene working just as well with a visor and Phil Fulmer in the Cliff Barnes role.

Mesmerizing! Tommy Tuberville doesn’t even have to be in the same moment and place to hypnotize you with a bag of potato chips: all he need do is call, and you will hear his plea from across space and time.

P.S. Just because we’re having fun with Sir Charles today over at the Sporting Blog, a few Auburn relevant quotes from barkleyquotes.com that should convince you not only that Charles is one of the great bon vivants of our time, but also confirm any and all stereotypes about SEC and Auburn athletes and academics:

“When I was recruited at Auburn [university], they took me to a strip joint. When I saw those titties on Buffy, I knew that Auburn met my academic requirements.”

Those titties. An area of study no young male college student can fail to appreciate.

The good thing: he’s actually improved from year one. There’s a jewelry store ad lurking somewhere out there that, if it saw the light of day, would make James Lipton jump headfirst off the nearest tall building.

That’s cross-the-aisle work right there, sirs and madams. And don’t call him a commie, because he will rise from the dead to punch you in your face, punk. (HT: SBB.)

4 million dollars buys you dick these days.

EDIT/UPDATE/ETC. WBGV reported this first, no WVSports, who confirmed the story, most likely from the same source. As with any of these stories, be ever skeptical, but with Petrino’s rain of back-daggers on Tuesday, perhaps Nick Saban and agent felt the need to flex their skills just to show the new kid in town who the real tiger-style master is.

59-20. All your boobz are belong to Mr. Tebow. 100 COCKTAILS TO YOU, LIFE!!! (HT: Awful Announcing, whose site name in no way applies to Verne “Captain Nuclear Awesomepantsface” Lundquist.)

At the University of ________, we only want the best. Just like the people at Evanson Mufflers and Brakes/Gastric Bypass/Whatever.

Even the greats are anything but immune. Cue Ara Parseghian and one of the most patently false lines ever penned and then force-spat from a coach’s mouth:

One of America’s great traditions is the luxury sedan. One wonders if Ara seized several times while saying this before several rounds of sedation and hypnosis allowed him to confidently belt out such a patently false line without blowing perfectly good blood vessels in his head. Just look at the shit-colored deathboxes behind him for proof: two of America’s ghastliest cars, the 5th Avenue with its “spacious interior…”

Ed! You can fit your legs in there!

…and the dismal setup of the cars. They appear to be two random, derelict vehicles sitting idly in the grass at a state highway median that the crew chose randomly.

Crew: Yeah. We’ll do it here.

(Laughter ensued!)

Parseghian gets an ‘A’ for effort, though, bravely plowing through thirty seconds of complete and utter untruth to make the pitch and pocket at least–we’re sure of this–eighty dollars and the complimentary use of a 1984 Chrysler Shambler Sedan for his troubles. Hey! It came with it’s own popcorn maker, which only spilled magma-hot butter on infants who sat in the front seat, mind you. Suck on that, Nader, you fucking safety geek.

Hawgz Shoplifitin’ Skillz=unw00t. At least for starting defensive end Antwain Robinson, best remembered by the casual football fan for stealing a shovel pass from Chris Leak in the SEC championship game for a temporarily devastating touchdown. The alleged theft in question this time involves something from a Dillard’s in Fayetteville, Arkansas. Judging from the aristocratic pose Robinson took in his mug shot, we’re guessing it’s a tasteful linen shirt–plum or eggshell?–and a snappy pair of lightweight wool trousers for the garden party season.

Hello, good sir. Make mine a Hendrick’s and tonic, please.

Fulmer Cup score: One point, with possible bonus if we find out he was stealing anything humorous, like a Dillard’s employee.

Drinkin’ in Utah. Utah enters the competition in decidedly un-Mormonesque style with a pittance of a DUI charge for Ute WR Marquis Wilson. Wilson made an illegal turn, was pulled over, and then blew a 0.11 on the breathalyzer, a mere .3 above the legal limit. In Utah, 0.11 is considered legally drunk; in Bulgaria, that’s just getting started. Wilson has been charged with drunk driving nonetheless, and has been suspended from the Utes indefinitely.

Fulmer Cup Score: 1 point.

P.S. If anyone wants to maintain the Fulmer Cup scoreboard, we’re canvassing for volunteers. Payment will come in the form of pats on the back and the mention of your name with the phrase “hung like Reggie F’n Nelson” for the rest of your life on this blog.

There’s nothing overly mockable about the ad, aside from the hypotheticals, of course. What’s he pumping his fist for at the end? Surely not Colorado game tape. Likely candidates include a very special episode of Ow! My Ballz!, any scene from Cool Runnings, the dragon fight scene from Red Sonya, or the bit in Black Mama, White Mama where Pam Grier and (Insert hot 70s white chick here) are tied together topless and fistfighting in solitary confinement. (Clip isn’t actually that one, and is totally SFW. Sadly.)

At least that’s what we cheer like that for.