Mostly rambles, few brambles
Hates To Lose
“What a competitor,” the commentator’s voice proclaimed. “Carmichael’s utterly frustrated with that call. He’s nearly foaming at the mouth. Pacifists, look away!”
“Emotions run high in the playoffs,” the sidekick conceded, “and Carmichael runs hot.” At this the sidekick paused and considered. “Maybe too hot.”
“Hogwash, you hippie, draft-dodging, sideburned non-patriot. What we’re witnessing here is twenty-nine years of distilled passion. This soldier has warred and scrapped and metaphorically fire bombed for every inch, every point.” The commentator’s tone shifted. “On the world’s biggest stage, when the stakes could never, ever, be higher, Carmichael is playing no-prisoners—he only wants a fair shake at what’s rightly, and justly, his.”
“There goes the Gatorade bucket.” The sidekick’s voice was weary and flat. This scene was all-too-familiar, “And the first-aid kit. Carmichael’s mad.”
“Here’s hoping this sets a fire under his loafing, dead-weight teammates.” The commentator was downright giddy. “Those conscientious objectors, cowards and libertines, all standing by the team bench, letting Carmichael tantrum alone.”
“Neil,” the sidekick said, “you and I, we’ve disagreed on Carmichael for some time.” His voice melted into the soft calmness of objective correctness. “I know I’m hitting my word ceiling for the game, but we have a minute as the Floor Crew—presented by Gordon’s Fish Sticks—mops up the rage vomit Carmichael had aimed at the official. Last week I asked the team upstairs put this together. We found a lot on social media, and I think it illustrates my point. Roll it, boys.”
The commentator began to protest, but the compilation started anyways.
The video opens with a broadcast clip. With less than two minutes to go in a tight game, there’s a quick whistle. Neil’s voice booms, “A weak call, no doubt.” Carmichael shakes his head before snatching the ball and scampering towards the locker room as the entire arena watches, baffled. “If they’re making calls like that,” Neil adds, “why should anyone play? I, for one, salute Carmichael’s bravery and dedication to this historic franchise. He’s the real hero on this Veterans Day.”
Carmichael is sitting across the table from a ten-year-old in a hospital bed. “Jump, jump, jump,” Carmichael skips his checker across the board. “King me!” His looming entourage erupts into delirious excitement, all of them pointing, hooting, and high-fiving until a nurse intervenes and asks them to please be quiet.
It’s dark and a little pixilated, but you can clearly make out Carmichael screaming into the face of a racehorse.
This next one is brighter, but a little shaky, and you see Carmichael with his entourage behind a long white table. The banner above reads “8th Annual Chili Cookoff.” You can’t tell what the man at the podium is saying on this video, but it incenses Carmichael and he leads his entire entourage to the row of crock-pots, where they all start wildly spitting and trying to make themselves rage vomit.
It’s a slow pan over a still of a courtroom sketch: Carmichael is upright in the witness stand, shaking his fist at the jury.
A well-lit and produced clip depicts a distraught Carmichael stripping off his clothes as he’s ordered to leave the set of Chopped.
“Thanks, boys, and thanks, Food Network. Just in time,” the sidekick chimed, rejuvenated and sunny. “Looks like the barf puddle has been sopped and sanitized and we’re ready to resume play. San Antonio on the inbound. What’s this: Carmichael, though, seems to be upset with the Floor Crew—presented by Gordon’s Fish Sticks—on the time taken to clean up his own vomit.”
“True competitor,” Neil said, “When you’ve found a rhythm, you don’t want to stop for anything.”