Real Men/Women of Genius #71

[Default Article Image][Today, after having blown off “Positivity Wednesday” because, really–after THAT election?–does anyone out there actually think that anything positive whatsoever can now possibly be done? Anyway, today we’re back to normal, and I’m indebted to our friend Juli Aistars for suggesting today’s topic. In my opinion, it puts squarely outside on the trails of nature something that happens all the time inside our houses of government.]

Ingelhook Wineries present…

REAL WOMEN OF GENIUS

{Re-al gals of geeeeeene-yuss}

Today we propose a toast to you, Miss Highly-Paid Professional Who Exaggerates Her Racing and Fakes Her Own Miracles.

{Misssss Wowww–did-ya-cheat-like-this-durrr-ring-grad-school, toooooo?}

Let’s see if we’ve got this straight. You’ve hardly run trails or ultras before in your life, your PR for the street marathon is well over 5 hours, you recently finished a city half-marathon in over 3 hours, and yet you claim to have just nailed a 50-miler in the hilly gnarly woods in something like 9 hours–for a top-10 finish.

{Ohhhhhhhhh Emmmmmmmmmmm Geeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!}

You have got to be kidding us. As we look closer at your “splits,” we see you started this race at about a 12-minute-per-mile pace, surged behind into 18-minute-per-mile land, eased on back to 24-plus-minutes per mile, and then absolutely blistered a 15-mile stretch in the middle somewhere at a SUB-2-minute-per-mile pace. In other words, dearie, you just set the new world’s record.

{“Mayyyyyyyyyyy-beee some-thiiiiiing’s just wrong with time?”}

Lance Armstrong might not be able to achieve such speeds zooming downhill on a titanium-frame bike. And yet you claim to have clocked these times in your shoes. Your, no doubt, pretty heavy muddy shoes.

{Yoooooou couuuuuuuld prol-ly run-that-pace-in-a-ni-tro-fueled “funnnnnny car”!}

AND, you say, you were lost? So by what weird arithmetic does getting lost on a course take less time to complete it than by following all the correct paths?

{“If a 6 turrrrrrrrrrrrrrns out to be 9, I donnnn’t mind!”}

Sure, you’re button-holed when it’s over to explain yourself; and so you say, in your well-schooled parliamentary way, “Maybe I didn’t run the whole course objectively, but subjectively I might’ve run more!”

{Mayyyyy-be you ran 100 mi-les in 4-and-a-half hours, bayyyyyyy-beeeeeeeee!!}

Well, pop that cork quickly out of your White Zinfandel bottle as you celebrate, O Mistress Magnifique of the Space-and-Time-Warp Continuum, because when your posted results qualify your butt to be admitted to a much more highly-coveted race instead of a faster hot babe who’s shut out? We can pretty well guarantee that, while objectively a charge of “battery” might not stick in a court of law, subjectively your eyes are going to be clawed out just the same.

{Missss High-lyyyy-Paid Pro-fesss-sion-al Who Ex-ag-gerrrr-rates Her Raaaa-cing and Fakes Her Own Mirrrrrr-a-cles!}

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

( O_O )

Yours troubly,
The Troubadour

Yankee Folly of the Day:
And subjectively, Linda Ronstadt is the new governor of Callyphrenia, too.