The First Annual Victor Gottlieb Section

When you were a child, your folks read you “You’re Very Richmond If” entries instead of bedtime stories.

You participated in this contest over the past 40 years and you suddenly realized it’s trying to outlive you.

You have written and saved a stack of “Very Richmond If” entries for 10 years, for this moment, but none of them are relevant.

You’re a “Very Richmond If” super fan and when you die, you want your tombstone to read: “Very Richmond Stiff.”

You just learned about personal pronouns and yours is going to be: “Bubba.”

You named your fraternal twins “Nutzy” and “Nutasha.”

You think crop circles are evidence of alien monument removal.

You want to see VPM sponsor a “Very Richmond If” TV special.

You think Big Bird bought Style Weekly.

When you order pizza from Mary Angela’s, you can’t help but think about Maya Angelou.

Editorial Submissions

You love Southern biscuits and corn muffins, but sometimes, you just want a piece of bread.

Your mayonnaise has a mascot named Tubby, but you don’t think it’s fattening.

For added pain protection, you eat a big serving of “numbing peppers” at Peter Chang’s before you go to the dentist.

You think bacon is a condiment.

You are excited about new job opportunities associated with a Richmond casino and you are learning how to impersonate Elvis

You want your entries to convince Style Weekly that this contest has not become cliché and should be reinstated annually but all you can think of are Ukrop’s jokes.

You know this contest only comes around once every ten years and you’re checking the life expectancy tables to see if you’ll be here for the next one.

You’re dead, but your heirs are obligated to submit your leftover “Very Richmond If” entries from the last contest.

It’s nice to laugh, but for some, you know their “Very Richmond If” entry is also their epitaph.

You get that warm feeling the first evening you see lightnin’ bugs glowing in the backyard, lookin’ for love.

You called your early cable box with the long tether to the TV “the clicker.” And you stuck toothpicks it to get free movie channels.

You spent all morning arguing on Facebook over long gone Confederate statues and whether removing them is “erasing history.”

Your addiction to Twitter has made it so you can’t read one page of a book without falling asleep.

A few times a day, you think these fragile, whiny kids today have it way too easy. Then you remember the planet is starting to combust and their future is a burning hellscape.

You moved to Colorado.

Fashion queens

You’re rebelling by not getting a tattoo.

You miss the simple days when your bowtie was a clear sign of your hatred for hippies.

When Need Supply closed, you panicked for a second, not knowing where you’d be able to find a basic, plain T-shirt for $120.

On Easter, your whole block in the Fan looks like a rejected ad for a J. Crew outlet.

You have an embarrassing early photo from Olan Mills where your head is like a looming planet above your tiny, discarded body.

You still don’t understand why kids these days think it looks cool to flash the middle finger in every photo. You blame Eminem.

You wear your pants so low and baggy that your girlfriend said it looks like you have a full diaper.

Your friend in San Francisco says it’s common knowledge that males from Richmond all look the same. They’re born wearing khaki pants – and they die in them.

You remember buying Duckheads at Bartleby’s when you were 12. But you would prefer not to.

Grub Love

You’re still in your feelings about Mamma Zu’s closing. Too soon to talk about it.

You think there should be more Corn Dog trucks that also sell cheap wine.

You once actually tried the line, “Life is like a Sally Bell box of upside-down cupcakes,” and the stranger ran away before you could finish.

You wonder what ever happened to those cute piglets on the old sign from Bill’s barbecue.

You think that white sauce is a traditional TexMex condiment.

You get aroused by a heavy box of Ukrop’s fried chicken.

In high school, you got your fake ID at Checks Cashed In and, while you never used a fake name as stupid as McLovin – it was still plenty stupid.

You had a childhood birthday at Farrell’s Ice Cream shop over at Regency Mall and had the crap scared out of you by the sudden drum-beating, air-raid sirens and loud, demonic chanting of “It’s all for you, Damien.”

Your first underage experience with alcohol involved either: 1. Boone’s Farm, 2. Mickey’s (big mouth) fine malt liquor, or 3). Thunderbird fortified wine.

You worked at a Stuffy’s Sub shop during your worst acne period.

When you were a kid you sucked the juice out of honeysuckle flowers. Now you’re too worried about Roundup.

You got a doctor’s prescription for marijuana gummies because of a bad back, then got so high that you passed out awkwardly on your sofa, actually injuring your back.

You can still taste the slightly burnt underbelly of that Orange Julius pizza from Cloverleaf Mall.

You went to High’s Ice Cream after Cotillion.

You miss the days when the Bamboo played the Faces music really loud.

Flicks and giggles

You live in fear of VCU buying the old Strange Matter/Nanci Raygun/Twisters spot.

You show up 30 minutes early to any event at the University of Richmond so you can find it. All the buildings look the same, they’re named for the same four families, and no app or map can help you.

You never listened to GWAR but made a pilgrimage to Oderus Urungus’ grave.

Skillet once lit you on fire during a show at Hole in the Wall.

You got a little teary when Olivia Newton-John died, because you use to groove to her song “Magic” at Golden Skateworld in the early ‘80s. Until “Disco Duck” would inevitably ruin the vibe.

A tiny piece of the Byrd Theatre ceiling has dropped into your popcorn.

You could name all the famous musicians who have worked at Plan 9 Records if you wanted to –you just don’t right now.

You’ve taken a leak beside Bruce Horsnby at the Flood Zone while trying to casually whistle, “That’s Just the Way It Is.”

You still call the Altria Theatre “the Mosque” not by accident, but with conviction.

You were there during the legendary “I want to lick your taint” catcall during a Hanson show at The National.

You have a friend who got busted the last time the Grateful Dead played the Richmond Coliseum.

You’ve bathed in the mystical healing waters beneath the Byrd Theatre.

Media mavens

You ended your subscription to the Richmond Times-Dispatch, noting to the person over the phone that less journalism and higher prices aren’t strong selling points.

Your email is full of local newsletters you never read.

After reading about another horrific murder from a distant state on your local TV’s social media page – you exhibit your moral superiority by posting all the twisted ways you would torture and kill the suspect.

You constantly complain that local media is at an all-time low, but you’ve never once considered buying a subscription to anything. The internet is free, duh.

You spend most your time complaining and bashing local media online while simultaneously posting stories by a media outlets owned by out-oftown bigwigs.

RVA Weather

You panic easily.

You make fun of people who panic easily because of the weather.

You’ve been publicly shamed and proven incompetent by weather forecaster Dave Tolleris of WxRisk.com.

You’ve screamed obscenities at a pre-recorded phone message from Dominion Energy.

You belong to a prayer circle run by a local television anchor and you say “bless you” to people who upset you.

You charge up all your electrical devices before every storm and eat all the expensive stuff in your fridge – and the power stays on.

You’ve been watching that one tree that seems to be leaning a lot.

You abandoned your car and walked to Phil’s Continental Lounge during Gaston flooding and asked for a shot of tequila. Blanco. Chilled.

More driving and crying

You think you drive really well while texting with one hand.

You see anything west of Parham as the outskirts of Northern Virginia.

You use your turning signal, usually a few seconds after you’ve completed the turn.

Your ride has already communicated to the world that you’re vain, before anyone can even glance down to read your vanity plate.

Your vanity plate is a pornographic inside joke.

You slap the inside roof of your car and yell “Bless ya, Paw Paw!” every time your truck drives over roadkill.

When trying to turn into busy traffic, you slowly inch your monstrosity of an SUV out, blocking all oncoming traffic and forcing people to let you enter traffic. Then you look in your rear view mirror at your reflection and make a noise like “Rrrawwwhgh.” Because you’re a monster.

You loudly curse at bikers for taking up too much road space and not obeying traffic laws.

You loudly curse at automobile drivers for taking up too much road space and not obeying traffic laws.

Last time you were driving at night in Richmond, your girlfriend kept asking, “what are you goddamning about?” and you suddenly realized that would be a pretty good inscription for your tombstone.

On blind turns, you keep your car straddling the double white line so that oncoming traffic can experience their lives flashing before their eyes.

When you dream, the Huguenot Bridge is still a lime green, rusted Porta Potty color.