Real Men/Women of Genius #47

Bud Light presents…

REAL MEN OF GENIUS

{Real men of geeeeeene-yuss}

Today we salute you, Mr. Overly Confident Too-Eager Virgin Barkley Enterer.

{Mis-ter “IIIIIIIII’M gon-na beeeeee THE NEXT FIN-ISH-ER!”}

Of course you can’t possibly wrap your head around how it could possibly be so difficult—for, perhaps, all those other previous eight hundred overly eager virgins, who went there/did that themselves before you were born. No one expects you to fully comprehend, either, what all went into Admiral Byrd’s reaching both Poles, or Roger Bannister breaking the 4-minute-mile.

{“Probbbbb-blyyy they just allllllllllll gave up tooooo quick!”}

“How Hard Can It Be?” you ask. “Isn’t it just a long footrace through the woods?” Well, yes. Yes, it is. But let’s say this footrace occurs in another galaxy, in different weather, in a twilight zone where the overgrown forest has never been seen in its entirely by any living creature, where no trail’s been blazed, the mountains are forever, nothing’s been marked, there is NO HELP, and even your map is wrong.

{“Whoa! Has-n’t this race been U-S-A-T-F-cer-ti-fied?”}

If you have a compass/altimeter, its dial will spin. If you have a watch, you’ll have to keep wiping your blood off its face to tell the time. If you run with a buddy, he will abandon you. If you cry for help, the forest will drown out your noise with its own laughter. If you meet a “local,” you could either be raped and pillaged or hauled into prison. And then raped and pillaged. And if you “think” you’re meeting some other human, it’ll be the Blair Witch.

{“I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I did-n’t th-think that flick was toooooo scare-y.”}

But maybe you truly ARE different. Perhaps, in the two hundred years since Daniel Boone and Lewis and Clark, your own navigational and endurance skills have evolved to a level that truly could be out-of-this-world. Maybe you can survive on Venus or Mars after all. Think of it: you could already *be* the very first be-ing on Earth to be-come superhuman. And you’ll never know this, of course, until you show up and don’t quit… running The Barkley Marathons.

{Next year yoooou’ll beeeeee Num-ber Ten, ferrrrr shurrrrrr!!!}

So crack open an ice-cold Bud Light from your camping cooler, Oh Lord Almighty Commander Sir Shackleton, because… ya know all those tourist brochures you received from Tennessee as to how to occupy the rest of your vacation after quickly completing the five loops of the full race? They’re still in your suitcase. You will never—for the entire time you have left remaining on this planet—read them again.

{Mis-ter O-ver-ly Con-fi-dent Too-Ea-ger Vir-gin Bark-ley En-ter-err!}

Bud Light beer: we don’t care where it’s made; we just dig their commercials.

( O_O )

Yours troubly,

Rich Limacher
TheTroubadour@sbcglobal.net

Yankee Folly of the Day:
No folly! Now y’all can read something else, which really and truly SHOULD help you there. It’s this brand-new book by Frozen Ed Furtaw and, if ya don’t have a copy by now, e- me off-list and I’ll send you “the link.” Have a nice nightmare!