Real Men/Women of Genius #49

Ingelhook Wineries present…

REAL WOMEN OF GENIUS

{Real gals of geeeeeene-yuss}

Today we raise our glass to you, Miss Interpretiv-Runnour, Taker of All Things Waaay Too Personal.

{Miss “Quit try-ying to criiii-tiiiii-cize meeee all the time!”}

So we congratulate you on a recent second-place finish. “You’re just being sarcastic,” you say. “I should’ve had first. You KNOW that!” Then we look down and comment, “Nice kicks!” And you fire back, “What’s WRONG with my shoes?” During the race if we say “good recovery” as you right yourself after tripping on the trail, you accuse us of planting those roots there on purpose.

{Weeee did it on-ly yes-ter-day un-der cov-er of the night!}

Sense of humor? Puh-leeeease. You go through life with your socks so off, daisy shorts so short, and your dukes way up. A gentleman giving a compliment is like a beachhead invasion. “I sooooo do NOT appreciate you staring at my shins,” you protest, despite the fact that all’s we wanted to tell you was, “You have a mosquito.”

{“I-don’t-care-what-YOU-think, I think ev-ry-bod-y-else-thinks-I’m-fine!”}

If we see a bra strap showing, we’re guilty of sexual harassment. If we notice your shoe’s untied, we’re risking a federal indictment. If we happen to comment on your split times, we might even be guilty of internet stalking. If we stare during the pre-race banquet at last year’s race photos (yes, even the RD couldn’t resist showcasing your beauty) you read us the riot act: “THAT is THE most god-awful picture of meeeee that ever EVER was taken!”

{Weeeeeeee don’t think it looks allllllllllllll that shabbbby.}

With our luck, you will now notice that the number of this series on the subject line is “49.” Certainly you’re capable of misinterpreting THAT as being a snide attack on your upcoming 50th birthday. So really, about the only thing that’s safe to say here that *won’t* be misinterpreted is: This ISN’T about “Bye-ron.”

{“Whyy can’t youuuu pick on some body your own size—like a sperm whale?”}

So let’s pop the cork quickly out of somebody ELSE’s very chilly bottle of White Zinfandel, O Constantly Martyred Saint Mary Magdalene, because—as we all know—you’re also a recovering alcoholic, and any casual mention of alcoholic beverages in this series must so obviously and totally therefore be, for sure, a personal attack on your conscience.

{Miss-Innnn-ter-pre-tiv-Run-nner and Tak-er of Alllllll Things Toooo Per-son-nal!}

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:
Guess who—following decades and decades after being kicked out of the Navy—finally IS “good enough for government work”? So raise your hands, oh ye who failed to mail back your Census forms. Yours countingly will be banging on y’all’s doors real dang soon.