Real Men/Women of Genius #22

 

Bud Light presents…

REAL MEN OF GENIUS

{Real men of geeeeeene-yuss}

Today we salute you, Mr. Indy-Class Speed Racer on the Rails-To-Trails Bike Path.

{Mis-ter siiiiiiiiiiii-lent dead-lyyy ac-ci-dent-wai-ting-to-haaaap-pen!}

You’re hunkered down. You’re slickly attired in your official Tour de France yellow hi-tech fabric wanna-wear with the fifteen thousand commercials covering all the yellow. If you were an airplane, you’d be the Stealth Bomber—with decals.

{Maaaaaaay-be you should join the Aiiiiiiiiiir Force?}

You’re on a mission. Today you’re covering forty percent of a “century” on your lunch break. You’re making 40 miles-per-hour which should just about do it. Of course, there are wimpy joggers, grandmas pushing baby strollers, and a coupla old farts walking their fat shaggy dogs—but you hardly notice. THEY ARE IN YOUR WAY.

{Whoaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Dude! Are-you-trah-rye-ying-to-killllllllllllll us?}

Announce your arrival? “Passing on the left”? Puh-lease. That stuff is for tricycle riders. You’re superior to that. You are touring France. During *that* race everybody already knows how to stand behind barricades and cheer YOU on.

{Yaaaaaayyyyyyyyy for our heeeeeeee-ro!!}

They know as well as you do that it is THEIR politically correct moral obligation not to ever, EVER interfere with the break-neck progress of stingray-tail-helmeted bike racers at full crouch in 20th gear with forearms in their handlebar rests and fists fully extended and wrapped tightly around those forward controls.

{Yoooooooooou’re mooooooooo-ving even fas-ter than The Flash!}

So crack open an ice-cold Bud Light, O Lance Armstrong, when you get back to the office, because for right now—with all the county park work crews in full safety gear—the next guy you’re NOT going to bother announcing your approach to will have a running chainsaw in his hands. So really, you might not actually make it back to the office.

{Mis-ter Indy-Class Speed Racer on the Rails-To-Trails Bike Path!}

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:
Well lookie there, it’s lunch time! Time to lace up my wimpy jogging shoes and take my life in my hands by heading out there along the speedway, otherwise known as the Old Plank Road Trail.