Real Men/Women of Genius #24

 

Bud Light presents…

REAL MEN OF GENIUS

{Real men of geeeeeene-yuss}

Today we salute you, Mr. Stuck-in-Traffic Behind-the-Policeman During-the-Marathon Angry Horn Blower.

{Mis-ter “Whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy is dys traaaaaaaf-fick NOT MOV-ING?”}

You’re in your car. You’re on the street. It’s Sunday morning in the big bad city. You’re fifth in line before the traffic signal and nobody’s moving. You watch as the light cycles through seven complete sequences, so you lean on your horn.

{“Whuuuuuuuuuut inna hellllllllllllllllllllllllllll IS WRONG WITH YOU PEE-PUL?”}

You’re a good God-fearing Christian. This is Sunday morning. You look at your watch. You have GOT to get to church!

{“Mooooooooove otta my waaaaaaaaaaaay, yoooou AYE-HOLES!”}

Or, maybe, you’re still trying to get home from last night. You played poker. Or maybe you were up all hours with the mistress. Your wife’s with her dying father in South Carolina, or his governor’s with his mistress in Argentina. In any event, you are tired as all get out and–during this non-weekday, during this non-rush hour–you, Mr. Clandestine Activity, are thoroughly stuck in traffic.

{“Are those nuts blocking us fah-reeeeeeeak-ing ped-des-tri-yans?”}

Finally after you’ve blown your horn for fifteen solid minutes without letting up, the policeman swaggers down to your car. “Don’t you listen to the news, pal?” he demands. “Didn’t you see the map in yesterday’s paper?”
Then the good officer starts writing you a citation for disturbing the peace. “It’s the marathon, you idiot,” he explains. “If you’re in a hurry, you’re on the wrong street.”

{“Oh My Gaaaaaaaawd!! WHAT is a marr-rah-thon?”}

So crack open a still-cold Bud Light from your party cooler on the floorboards, O Long-suffering Trooper in the Army of Christ, because this is how you earn your battle scars. By the time this stupid pedestrian race is all over and you’ve slobbered your leftover beer all over your shirt, and then peed it out all over your seat, you’ll probably be dead from dehydration anyway and almost halfway to heaven. So, what this really is, is purgatory.

{Mis-ter Stuck-in-Traffic Behind-the-Policeman During-the-Marathon Ang-ry Horn Blo-wer!}

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:
The Chicago Marathon, long may its waves. And starting tomorrow morning at 7:30, the first of those waves might just start moving. An hour-and-a-half later, the rear wave may get underway. So here is a big fat hint to all those fat motorists out there *today*: Read the paper!