The History of the Biscuit in the Gump

It was hsssing and shaking its little arms at me....

[Ed note: On July 15, 2015, the Montgomery Biscuits were featured in NBC's Today Show.  The Cornbread Carp received none of the credit.]

Back one morning in 2002 when I was still drinking against the advice of my probation officer, I awoke to this one-horned demon biscuit with soulless dark eyes and a butter pat for a tongue.  In his mouth was a link sausage playing dead like a grey seal. It was his only defense. As I recoiled in disbelief my eyes focused and I inhaled the smell of cookies (doesn't the devil smell like cookies?). The only thing I knew to do when confronted with abject fear or the possibility that someone may be injured in an epic fail is, of course, to reach for an iPhone and snap off a picture to post on social media hoping for more "likes" if, of course, I survived the encounter with this flaky equivalent of a Great Martha White.

Soon enough I regained full consciousness and realized that this little fellow was actually a small token of love from Tuffy a/k/a "She Who Must Be Obeyed."  False alarm. Move along. Monkey's dead, shows over I thought.  I laughed off my temporary panic and then enjoyed devouring the little devil biscuit and washing it down with a Screwdriver. If God had not meant for us to like bread and meat, He would not have made pigs so tasty.  Actually, he tasted very good as far as I could tell in my condition but in a few days I forgot about all about the incident and the biscuit. Such is the fog of drink.

That was until early 2004. By then I had completed my probation and kicked vodka to the curb.  I had a regular job and Tuffy was no longer on my ass all the time.  Funny how that works: Drink less=wife likes you more.  I guess that might not be great if your wife is a Biggest Loser "two-bagger" but in my case its alright. Good actually.

Well, given that I had time to actually relax and read the newspaper in the morning I recall one morning reading that a group had been chosen to bring a AA baseball franchise back to the Gump (we had not had a team since the 1980s) and we were going to have a new stadium right downtown in the old Southern Railway building which had once housed Yankee prisoners of war.  I read they were soliciting team names and that the person with the winning idea would win a years supply of bratwurst.  I was engaged. I was all in.

I was awash with ideas.  The Riverrats, Grays, Senators, Gumps, Sliders, Gump Busters, Marchers, Dexters, Pork Chops, etc.  But nothing had that ring to it.  I was a fan of the old Rebels and the newer "Wings" but those names were dated or taken.  My sobriety had robbed me of my creativity and I wanted that bratwurst.

I knew I would have to leave the wagon to come up with inspiration since we have not yet legalized weed in Alabama.

So, truth be told, I visited the master mixologist known throughout the Gump only as "Reggie" or "Reg." (In his world last names are for chumps).  Knowing I was not in drinking shape I asked Reg to pour me a "light one."  "I don't weigh 'em," said Reggie.  "Just pour me a half a drink then," I suggested.  He smiled and said without a pause, "I flunked fractions."  After the vodka displaced all the water he handed me what could accurately be described as a pentadruple and I began the process of freeing brain cells to help me come up with a name---the name. Word to the wise:  One Reggie, Two Reggie's, Three Reggies: Floor.

I have been cursed to have a total recall of bad evenings in the past.  You know, those horrible times when your body is completely drunk and useless but your brain is recording all your buffoonery for posterity. However, on this occasion I was blessed with welcome amnesia. But somehow, when I gathered my wits my phone had on the screen--for some unknown and unknowable reason--the picture of the 2002 biscuit that had almost scared me out of my wits.  My drinking buddy--whose name will be changed to protect the ignorant--was still railing on about how a minor league team was doomed to failure in Montgomery and that he would bet me $100 they would leave under the cover of midnight in three years.  He had apparently found the angry biscuit photo and was laughing, why they will probably come up with some lame name like "Cornbread" or "Biscuits" or some other stupid name.

Well, it sunk in for a minute and I made the bet.  Then, when I was able, I sent in my idea for a team name to the new ownership, an idea born of a love for baseball and vodka, not really hoping it would be selected but knowing only that it was original as hell.

I am back on the wagon now and well, the rest is history as they say.  Here was the mascot selected:

A perfect match down to the butter pat tongue

Yes, there were scoffers. "The dumbest minor league team name in history," some said.  But they sold more merchandise than any other minor league team in history and remain the best AA franchise in the country.  While the credit goes to Dickson & Meyers who are terrific owners, I'd like to think that I had a little to do with what has become one of the most popular team names and most appropriate name for a team from the Gump: The Biscuits! By the way, the food at the ballpark is great all you Lunch in the Gumpers.

I, of course, collected on my bet and think of that big dufus who bet me the Biscuits would be gone by now every time I pick up my season tickets for Montgomery Biscuits Baseball.  Play ball!!!! Schwing bratter, bratter, bratter, schwiiing!















[Ed. Note: I am pretty sure this is an April Fool's joke.  The Carp was not recognized by the Biscuits front office as the originator of the name of the team. And, if he had unlimited access to Bratwurst, he would have exploded long ago.  Nice picture though.]

Atypical Luncheon Conversation Between Gumpy Old Men at Roux (with apologies to Saki).

[Alas, they were too late. Roux is now True.  The silver lining is that True--and I dined there last evening--is hitting on all cylinders. I enjoyed my lamb loaf with sweet potatoes and I normally don't eat sweet potatoes. Ed. 10/20/2012]

The Archives Office clock reached eleven with the respectful unobtrusiveness of one whose mission in life is to be ignored until 4:59 p.m.  Without so much as a “Tah” to his assistant, our career management level Statey, one Whiggin Blanquet, rose from his calculations of his DROP payment at his faux-wood desk, grasped his walking stick and strode out the door to his near-by reserved parking spot. He quickly drove off toward his favorite lunch spot in Cloverdale—Roux—where he was to be treated to lunch and to a rare conversation with his foil/counterpart, one Chase N. Allpots, the decayed gentleman from Ireland.

“I’m starving,” Whiggin Blanquet announced, making an effort to sit down gracefully and read the menu at the same time.

“So I gathered,” said his Irish host, “from the fact that you were nearly punctual.  Perhaps I ought to have told you that I am now on an Atkins diet.  In your absence I’ve ordered two bowls of gumbo and rice without the rice and a truffle pasta salad without the truffles and pasta. I hope you don’t mind.”

Blanquet pretended afterwards that he did not go white above the collar line for a fraction of a second before he realized Allpots was trying to make a joke.  He was saved when he saw the waiter approaching with two cups of gumbo with rice piled above the rim and his favorite truffle pasta salad that he one day hoped would be named for his boyhood pet and beloved truffle-hunting piglet: Mortimer. (For a prior post mentioning dear Mortimer, click here.)

This little pig could hunt

Whiggin Blanquet breathed a sign of relief.

“All the same,” Blanquet said, “you ought not to joke about such things. There really are such Atkins people.  I’ve known people who’ve met them. To think of all the adorable things there are to eat at this restaurant and in the world and then to order and go through life munching tofu and being proud of it.”

“These Atkins people are like the Flagellants of the Middle Ages, who went about mortifying themselves,” Allpots sniffed.

“They had some excuse,” Blanquet said. “They did it to save their immortal souls, didn’t they? But as for these Atkins dieters, you needn’t tell me that a man who doesn’t love pasta and bread and truffles has got a soul, or a stomach either.  He’s simply got the instinct for being unhappy highly developed.”

Blanquet and Allpots relapsed for a few golden moments into tender intimacies with a succession of rapidly disappearing shrimp and truffles.

“I think shrimp and truffles are more beautiful than any religion,” Blanquet resumed presently. “They not only forgive our unkindness to them; they justify it, they incite us to go on being perfectly horrid to them.  Once they arrive at the lunch-table they seem to enter thoroughly into the spirit of the thing. There’s nothing in Christianity or Buddhism that quite matches the unselfishness of a shrimp or a truffle.  Do you like my new tie? I’m wearing it for the first time today.”

“It looks like a great many others that I have seen lately, only worse,” said Allpots.  “And you really should try to avoid marginalizing religions by comparing them to shrimp or truffles.”

“Touche,” said Whiggen Blanquet once again mindful that the skin-flint Allpots was actually treating him to lunch for a change.  “To what do I owe the honor of this fine occasion?”

Allpots became apparently serious and lowered his voice saying: “We may not agree on much—or even enjoy each other’s company for that matter—but we do agree on one thing: Roux for lunch.  And those of us with the sense to know True Banh Mi from a Taco Bell burrito must patronize our fine lunch spots to keep them here when we need a Shrimp Ceasar Po’boy or Tuna “Nicoise” Salad with a Pimm’s Cup.”

Dear me, Blanquet thought to himself, Allpots has found something worth supporting with his purse and the old boy had a point.

“Well then, “ said Blanquet finishing off the last bit of pasta, “I shall show my support for the cause by ordering one of those divine Shrimp Caesar Po’Boys and a Vodka martini.”

Allpots wiped the trace of gumbo and the beginnings of a smile from his lips, and slowly lowered his dexter eyelid.  Which, being interpreted, probably meant, “Not on my tab.”

(For info on Saki: http://www.online-literature.com/hh-munro/)