Real Men/Women of Genius #28

 

Bud Light presents…

REAL MEN OF GENIUS

{Real men of geeeeeene-yuss}

Today we salute you, Mr. Worrier-Too-Much If Sex Will Hamper Your Running Performance.

{Mis-ter Whaaaaat-if-it-taaaaaaaaaaaakes-too-much-out-of-meeeeee?}

Nice try, of course. But every single person that subscribes to your same listserv can see right through you. It isn’t how hurt you’ll be the morning-after from the night-before that’s of interest to other runners, no. It’s you trolling for potential partners for that night before which grabs everyone’s attention.

{“Doesssssn’t any-one else have this probbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb-lem?”}

VO-max? Please. You reached that years ago in front of your Playboy magazine. But maybe you’re worried about getting enough rest, which is a legitimate concern. You might have to make frequent trips to the all-night drug store. And there are sheets to worry about. And bed spreads. Carpeting. Sinks. Track outfits carefully laid out on the chair. And what in the world will you do if you work all night long to find “the spot,” only to find she’s faking?

{Yoooooou miiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight have to ask for di-rec-tions!}

You could be exhausted. Far from the hippified training nonchalance as once practiced by your hero, Steve Prefontaine, your own night-before regimen may not actually inspire all that many runners. But we are impressed, and duly salute. For without your non-shining example to guide us before our races, almost none of us would get any sleep.

{Theeeeeese raaaa-ces starrrrrrrrrrrrt so earrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr-ly!}

And as far as reaching out to touch someone on your listserv? You may not have to worry so much there either. The possibility of a similarly anxious young chickie-poo answering your call-out for training, warm-up, or cool-down partners is infinitesimal. A response like that might even prove to be directly proportional to the exact number of times throughout your whole life that you do, in fact, find the spot.

{Maaaaaaaaaaaay-be you caaaaaaan’t eeeeeee-ven seeeeee it?}

So crack open an ice-cold Bud Light, O Casanova of the Training Program; you might just pick up a six-pack on your very next midnight trip to the all-night discount superstore, two cities farther down the road. Their chilled beverage coolers might just be located farther down that same aisle from your forgotten Trojans.

{Mis-ter Worrier-Too-Much If Sex Wiiiiiiilllllll Ham-per Your Per-for-mance!}

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 ’bout dem Damn Yankees? Haven’t they about frickin’ WON every single year we’ve been alive?