Real Men/Women of Genius #39

Ingelhook Wineries present…

REAL WOMEN OF GENIUS

{Real gals of geeeeeene-yuss}

Today we raise our glass to you, Miss Total Running Amazon with The Inferiority Complex.

{Miss “dontchoo think I am tooooo taaaaaallllllllllll?”}

You are five-foot-ten-and-three-quarters-inches tall and weigh one hundred and fifty-one pounds. You are running with us at a pace of eight-and-a-half-minute miles. We are now well into our eighteenth mile. And you are complaining about yourself.

{“I jusssssssssssssst wish I wuz-zent soooooooooooooo damn BIG!”}

All your life you’ve been squeezing your fleet feet into size eight-and-a-half patent leather pumps and crouching yourself down so that, what? “The Guys will like you?” “Someone will ask you to dance?” “Hopefully there’ll actually be a male in your senior class that is taller than you?” Is THAT why you’re so timid and shy?

{“Waaaaah! I wuz-zall-wize the tal-lest PERRR-SON in my classsssss!”}

You say you once had a true-loving boyfriend whom you just *LOVED* because he stood six-foot-two? Meanwhile the dufus was dumber than twin sacks of hammers and completely incapable of actually running any distance farther than from your co-habitational living room sofa to the fridge in your apartment kitchen—and back—in time to catch the NFL Sunday football noon game’s instant replay?

{“Buttttttt I wuz never emmmm-barr-rassed to stand by himmmmmmmm!”}

And you’re confiding all this in *us*? We who can just barely freakin’ keep up with you? Since you pound ground better anyway than most gals half your size and faster *for sure* than ALL those “nice big” idiots in the National Football League combined?

{“Wwwwhhhhhhyyyyyyyyyyyy-cannnt-I-just-beeeeeeeeee NOR-MAL?”}

Well, pop that cork quickly out of your well-chilled bottle of White Zinfandel, O Miss Self Delusion, because… do we ever have big news for YOU. It ain’t his beefsteak that makes the babe salivate; it is his bloodflow to the brain. What you are, in fact, truly looking for, honey, is some OK whompy average-sized chump that is already acutely aware he’s alive, that YOU’RE alive; and that the very best thing he can do for you is to make you feel appreciated, that he’s damn proud of you for thrashing his ass in the footrace, and, yes, that he is actually courteous enough himself to extract your cork from that bottle in the first place.

{Miss To-tal Run-ning Am-a-zon with The In-fer-i-or-i-ty Com-plex!}

White Zinfandel yuppie wine: we don’t drink it ourselves; we’d rather guzzle beer.

( O_O )

Yours troubly,

Rich Limacher
TheTroubadour@sbcglobal.net

Yankee Folly of the Day:
Do you suppose Candace Parker has any trouble finding male worshippers? Tiger Woods would be well advised… that is, once he’s divorced and bankrupt. But then? He won’t be good enough for the WNBA star.