Real Men/Women of Genius #29

Bud Light presents…

REAL MEN OF GENIUS

{Real men of geeeeeene-yuss}

Today we salute you, Mr. Non-Sexual Co-Ed Room Sharer/Travel Companion.

{Mis-ter “I’llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll only be neeeeeeeeeeding floor-space!”}

Sure, the “call” went out for someone to help share expenses, and you gallantly volunteered. Except, of course, that the call went out from a woman, a naive young runner who’d never been to that race nor journeyed to that part of the country before. So you right away fire back an email saying you’re practically a native son.

{“I grewwwwwwww up on those same traiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiils!”}

Motel 6? Super 8? You’ve spent time in them all, you say. You *know* all the proprietors-from-India. “We’ll ask for the second-floor corner room,” you say. “It has a fold-out sofa-bed already in it.” Except, of course, for the fact that Covert, Colorado, has NO Motel 6 OR Super 8 and really isn’t much more than a campground itself.

{“We’llllllllllllllllllllllllllllll find a playce! Doan-choooo wor-ry!”}

So despite all predictions to the contrary, Miss Goody Two-Shoes accepts your offer and meets you at the airport. You pick her up in your rented SUV and there you are! Night before raceday and the only possible room is three towns distant on the second floor of Mrs. Haversham’s Antique Store/Bed & Breakfast. And breakfast, by the way, will be served two hours after your ultramarathon has already started.

{But theeeeeere’s NO SO-FA BEDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD!}

Thank Ja for GPS, or you wouldn’t even have ever found THAT. And what “that” is, is one little room with one queen-size bed and a half-bath-with-shower with a door that won’t close. But that’s not the half of it. Miss Goody says she’ll sleep in her running clothes and then offers your butt one-half of the bed!

{“But IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII al-ways sleeeeeeeeeeeeeep inn-the-buff!”}

So crack open an ice-cold Bud Light, O Don Juan of the San Juans, which by now is warming up nicely inside your gym bag. And as you lie there, facing New Jersey, completely dressed in full sweats with socks on, go ahead and try to get some sleep–while you dream up just how in the hell you’re going to explain all this to the wife.

{Mis-ter Non-Sex-you-all Co-Ed Room Share-her/Trav-el Com-pang-yunn!}

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

( O_O )

Yours troubly,
The Troubadour

Yankee Folly of the Day:
How did “Bad Joke Friday” suddenly morph into National Football League bookie-betting, spread-sheeting, and odds-making? [Which statement itself will have no meaning whatsoever to everyone not on this list!] Sorry. Just couldn’t resist.