Real Men/Women of Genius #45

Ingelhook Wineries present…

REAL WOMEN OF GENIUS

{Real gals of geeeeeene-yuss}

Today we propose our toast to you, Mrs. Aid Station Volunteer Who Also Happens To Bring Her Kids.

{Missus “I cannnnnn’t find a ba-by-sit-ter sooo WTF did yooou ex-pect me to doooo?”}

The little darlings. So sweet, so cute, so… everywhere/all-at-once and benefitting all of us, the runners, with their innocent little charms and presence. You *should* be toasted, actually, for your thoughtfulness. And for sharing.

{Weeee’d like to give a feeeewwww tum-blers-full to your kids too!}

Of course your volunteer co-workers will pay you compliments on your having thought of them in the first place, and for bringing the little tykes so that they all can meet them and be only too happy to perform little helps for them, for you, for example, while you’re in the porta-potty or running back to the parking lot or chatting up that hot young studly who just ran the hundred last weekend, who looks even better than your average tanned, tough young Marine, and who is also being generous with his time… and volunteering.

{“I’m just sooooooo grate-ful to you ser-vice men for pro-tec-ting our freeeee-doms!”}

Your co-workers are only too happy as well to perform for you such charities and corporal works of and mercy like: pulling your tykes’ little hands out of the Gatorade jug, insisting they put the cookies down and stop, like, eating half-an-M&M and putting the rest back in the bowl–sweet things like that.

{“Lady! Your kids are vom-i-ting ON the boiled po-ta-toes!!”}

And the approaching FAST runners will also be pleased to find your little ones being innocent, “expressing themselves,” and playing in the dirt in front of the food table. And later, we’re also sure they’ll be happy to contribute to your hospital bills after they–and the dozen right behind them–“express themselves” by accidentally trampling your children at a six-and-a-half minute-per-mile pace, because they happened to be making mud pies on the single-track about five hundred yards from your “duty station.”

{“I’m soooooo sor-ry for try-ing to win this race–here’s my Blue Cross card.”}

So pop that cork quickly from the still-cool bottle of White Zinfandel in the trunk of your car, O Wonderful Mother Goose, because with any luck at all, one of those front runners will be more than likely to divorce his own wife and children, take an early discharge from the Corps, grow even tanner, handsomer, and more muscular, and come right back to your aid station and propose to you–before the last runner in the race makes the cutoff.

{Mis-sus Aid Sta-tion Vol-un-teer Who Al-so Hap-pens To Briiiiiiiiing Her Kids!}

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:
Well, at least this is better than being an actual signed-up racer and bringing your young children to the race–for the benefit of *any*one else to appreciate and be responsible for, for you. Thank you very much.