Real Men/Women of Genius #40

Ingelhook Wineries present…

REAL WOMEN OF GENIUS

{Real gals of geeeeeene-yuss}

Today we lift our goblet to you, Miss Joining-the-Running-Club-to-Bag-a-Hubby, Then Quitting, Babe.

{Miss “where ARE all the sing-le men in theeeese woods any-way?”}

Where have you been? You joined our sweet little group to find some company for “long runs,” but that was five years ago. So where have you been since well over *two* years ago? Surely “plantar fasciitis” doesn’t take WAY MORE THAN TWO YEARS to, uh, heal.

{“I’m jusssssssssssssst not feeeeeee-ling up to it late-ly!”}

Right. Ya bagged Tom. You reached out… and “touched” some body. Sunk your sexy multi-hued plastic fingernail extensions directly into that cat’s jugular vein. Tackled his skimpy-shorts butt just like in the Superbowl, one yard shy of his goal line. Hauled that sucker off to “The Everlasting Chapel of Love” in Vegas, did ya? Have a nice time, did ya? OK, two weeks—max—for a honeymoon, then bam: we expect your sweet ass back out here on our trails!

{Maaaaaaybeee sheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee hit the jack-pot?}

Tom’s back. Every Saturday morning—as always, for easily the past ten years—except for the honeymoon. And. We. Have. Totally. Grilled. Him. Weekly. On. Each. And. Every. Single. Aspect. Of. His. Life. And he tells us “stuff”! And if we were you, baby, YOU’D be out here—defending yourself!

{“Hey, Tommmm-meee! How IS BeBe in the beddy?”}

Your total sex life? Sure. That’s a given. HER bathroom habits? Of course. Sleeping positions? Natch. Farting? Belching? SNORING? Puking? No washing hands after peeing? No doors ever close in the apartment? Forever running OUT of T.P.? Filthy, skuzzy bedroom slippers and dropping the toothpaste cap down the sink drain practically nightly? Whoa. Maybe that sign on “The Everlasting Chapel of Love” could use a little editing.

{“WWWWWHAT did-ja get yer-seff in-to, Tom-my Boy?”}

BeBe, your true-loving hubby keeps us ALL entertained from parking lot back to parking lot each and every week. We love Tom. Everlastingly!

{“Sheeeeeeeeeee used to beeeeeee such a HOTTIE!!”}

So eeeeease that cork gently out of your super-cold bottle of White Zinfandel, O Women’s Answer to Harry Houdini, because while you have made your escape back into your former slovenly lifestyle, we here tracking behind Tom are finding it very, very hard to believe your Saturday morning “morning sickness” is already heading into its third full year.

{Miss Joining-the-Running-Club-to-Bag-a-Hubby, Then Quit-ting, Babe!}

White Zinfandel yuppie wine: we don’t drink it ourselves; we’d rather guzzle beer.

( O_O )

Yours troubly,

Rich Limacher
TheTroubadour@sbcglobal.net

Yankee Folly of the Day:
So NOW what do y’all think’s gonna be “the conversation” within the foursome after Tiger Woods rejoins the tour?