Real Men/Women of Genius #115

[Merry Holidays, Everyone! We bring you grave tidings of mediocre joy. This series is about to end, like, NOW. We’re taking the rest of the day off and will see you again after New Year’s, just jam-packed with fresh (read: raw) new material. Oh, how can you stand to wait? (It’s easy; go for a run instead.) For the final RM/WoG, we’re about to–for the first (and obviously last) time ever–name a name. How could we not? We not only feel that HE is ultimately responsible for all this, but that also we’re fairly confident of being immune from prosecution–since the dude’s been dead 2,501 years–and likely safe as well from any legal action by his relations, heirs, partners, employees, representatives, agents, or assigns. Besides, they’d probably have trouble with the language. Here he is, the real genius who started IT ALL, and to whom most of us are dubiously indebted. See y’all next year!]

Bud Light presents…

REAL MEN OF GENIUS

{Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss!}

Today we salute you, Mr. Ancient Freaking Greek Φειδιππιδης (Pheidippides) Who Started All This Running Nonsense.

{THAAAAAAAAT’s the dweeeeeb who star-teddddddd it ALLLLLLLLLL!!!}

So, they didn’t have horses in 490 B.C.? No camels? Boats? Ships? Elephants? Was there nothing you could hop on and ride?

{“Mussss-stang Sal-ly! Ya-bet-ter-put-chur-flat-feet on the grouuuuund!”}

Not even large trained dogs with collars around their necks to which you could attach your regiment’s messages?

{Yoooooooooou ne-ver-heard-of-a Saaaaaaaaint Berrrrrrrrrr-nard?}

No. You just *had* to run, didn’t you. You just had to survive that goofy Battle on the Plains of Marathon, lay down your armor and helmet, chuck your spear, lace up your huaraches–after first checking the tire treads–hitch up your britches, and RUN. All the way back to Athens, no doubt previously wheeled and certified to be EXACTLY 26-point-two miles from where you were standing when your commander first gave you his command.

{“Taaaaaaaaaaake theeeeeeeeee to a nunnnnn-er-y!”}

It never dawned on you, did it? To tell your commander to shove it up his loin cloth. He’d’ve killed you right there and saved you considerable hours of exhaustion.

{“It probbbbbbbb-bab-bly WON’T be a Bos-ton qual-i-fiiiiiiiiiiiii-er.”}

But then when you got finally arrived and shouted out to the half-dozen assembled water-bearing women at the village well your one word–“Νενικήκαμεν!” (Nenikékamen, “we were victorious!”)–THEN what did you surprisingly up and do? You croaked. Bonk! Down, gone, and bye-bye. Must not’ve been in too good of shape, huh? Twenty-six-point-two miles today barely kills anybody, except maybe firemen with preexisting heart conditions and idiot bystanders who cross police barricades in Central Park.

{“Maaaaaaaay-be a few GU pac-kets could-d’ve saaaaaaaaaaaved meeee?”}

So crack open an ice-cold twenty-five-hundred-year-old Bud Light up there on Mount Olympus, O Forerunner of the Garmin and every other athletic accessory we can no longer do without, because likely unbeknownst to you there are now more followers who have paid twenty-five hundred dollars to fly to Greece and run in your footsteps than there ever were invading barbaric hordes of Persians to begin with.

{Mis-terrrrr AAAAn-cient Freeeeak-ing Greeeek Φειδιππιδης (Phei-dip-pi-des) Who-Star-ted-All-Thissss Run-ning Nonnn-sense!}

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

( O_O )

Yours troubly,
The Troubadour
“your basic 800-year-old French lute plucker who’s actually too young to remember The Golden Age of Grease, unless of course you’re talking about fast food”

Yankee Folly of The Day:
Right at the moment I could probably just run back from the restaurant and die, especially after the lunch THEY attacked my ticker with.