Real Men/Women of Genius #68

[Per recent Ultralist appertaining threads… :]

Bud Light presents…

REAL MEN OF GENIUS

{Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss}

Today we salute you, Mr. Pitifully Worried Runner That All Others In The Race Are “Getting Some” Except You.

{Mis-ter “noo-bo-dy loves me, ev’ry-bod-y hates me, I’mmm gon-na-eat-some-wormmms!”}

Sure. You’re looking around while you run. You spy that certain quick hand-hold, surreptitious hug, occasional wink, and you think: They *must* be sharing a room. They could even be ducking behind bushes for half-hours at a crack during this very race. Perhaps, by adjusting your pace, you might witness this.

{“What’s-wrong-with-meeeeeeeee that no-bun-ny’s wink-inggg?”}

Why *does* that young man have soiled legs and grass all over the back of his shirt? And why *are* the-chickie-he’s-running-with’s palms so dirty? Pretty tell-tale clothing stains as well. At this point, you are becoming increasingly certain there’s conspiracies in these woods that you’re just not a part of.

{“There’ll be mu-sic play-ying and bod-dies sway-ying and dan-cing in the sheeeeets!”}

Bloody knees? Just imagine. Pretty rocky off-trail, too. And how else could she wipe off her chin except THAT’S why they *really* invented those roll-down arm sleeves. And why has that dufus-she’s-running-with got such a toothy grin on his face?

{“I’m yourrrrr ice cream man, stop me when I’mmm pas-sing by!”}

What about all those tents in the campground? The constantly zippered ones with the taut rain flies? No wonder every body you see is so sweaty.

{“They’rrrrre do-in’ the horrrr-riz-on-tal bop!”}

And surely there’s a big hidden reason for having petroleum jelly at the aid stations. And now you’re starting to question what’s truly inside all those powder-white e-capsules to begin with. Just ahead, you even start sniffing that certain unmistakable burning “aroma” that wafted so romantically down dorm hallways back in college.

{“OH EMM GEE! Some bod-ies hav-ing a parrrrrrrrr-tyyyy!!”}

So crack open an ice-cold Bud Light after the race, O Captain Lonelyhearts, Patron Saint of the Disenfranchised, and sip it while watching the awards ceremony; because, really, there can never be any more solid proof of adult indiscretions or marital infidelities than when the race director hands that first-place female her trophy and they oh-so-suggestively shake hands.

{Mis-ter Pi-ti-ful-ly Wor-ried Run-ner That Alllllllll Oth-ers-In-The-Race ARRRRE “Get-ting Some” Exxx-cept You!}

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

( O_O )

Yours troubly,
The Troubadour

Yankee Folly of the Day:
Ever watch a pretty cool chick take off her jogbra underneath a sweatshirt without ever showing any skin? Imagine now the instant alternative current that THAT could synapse inside some twisted nervous circuits.