I'm Stuck In A Damn Well

Greetings, sportsfans! Bumpers here. Umm, I’m in a bit of a pickle here and I don’t know how to explain it, so I guess I’ll just come right out and say it. I’m stuck in a well fifty feet deep.

It all started when I got invited to Anson Williams’ wine tasting party at his ranch in Sonoma. Everybody was drinking California Cabernet, Anson was singing songs around a roaring fire and we were all enjoying happy days, indeed.

The trouble started when I got a call on my cell phone from Buddy Hackett. I didn’t want to discuss business in front of a group of strangers, so I went out into the backyard to take the call. Being out in the country, it was pitch black outside, but I was a little too soused to notice.

Buddy and I started crunching some numbers on our latest project, and I started pacing back and forth, which is a habit of mine when I’m closing a deal. Unfortunately for me, I couldn’t see Anson’s water well in the darkness. I stumbled over something, cursed my rotten luck and all of a sudden felt like I was falling off the edge of the Earth.

I landed hard on my shoulder and didn’t know what the hell was going on. I told Buddy I would have to call him back and began screaming at the top of my lungs. Of course, since Anson was still inside playing the role of Potsy the Troubadour, my cries for help went unheeded.

Making the most of my situation, I decided to catch some sleep and wait for daylight, figuring something good was bound to happen to The Showman, as it usually does.

If you’re wondering how I could be so calm and cool in the face of such a situation, maybe it’s time I let you in on something. This isn’t the first time I fell down a well. I guess you could say I was Baby Jessica before it was cool to be stuck in a well.

Flashback to when I was a cute little 8-year old on my father’s dirt farm in Thief River Falls, Minnesota. I was shooting squirrels when disaster struck. Not paying attention to where I was going, I tripped and fell right into my daddy’s well. It was a few days before my parents noticed I was missing, but when they finally found me down there, they rang up the local constable and he rescued me after a good bit of digging. It’s funny how life can go full circle like that. Here I am, back in a well so many years later.

Anyway, I was enjoying a little sleep when I was rudely awakened by a bucket repeatedly smashing me in the head. It seems that Anson goes out every morning to fetch some fresh well-water for his coffee. I yelled up to him that I needed some help, and he took off a-runnin’. Now the well is surrounded by firemen, policemen, television reporters and fans of The Showman as everybody prays for my speedy recovery. Anson tells me there’s quite a vigil going on up there on the surface. In fact, that hippie Neil Young is supposed to come by and sing me some songs of encouragement. I just hope he doesn’t bring Crosby.

Knowing that I had time to kill, I got out my cell phone and rang up my pea-brained assistant, Steve, and am dictating today’s column to him over the phone. I just hope he spells all the words write.

(Note: I am not stupid! – Steve)

So that’s it for today. There’s not much I can do besides sit here and wait for them to dig me out. I don’t mind so much, except my neck is bent at a 45-degree angle, my left arm is jammed between two big rocks and somehow I’m staring at the bottom of my foot. Other than that, I should be okay.

I’m winkin’ at ya, and thinkin’ of ya.
The Showman