Real Men/Women of Genius #64

[No, friends, for right now we’re going to resist writing about the apparent genuine or artificial “genius” who figured out how to beat the cyber-system and register for Umstead early. That one’s too obvious. Today’s contribution to the betterment of humankind is, uh, fictional?]

Ingelhook Wineries present…

REAL WOMEN OF GENIUS

{Re-al gals of geeeeeene-yuss}

Today we raise our glass to you, Miss Expecting of Racing Exceptions Always To Be Made Just For You.

{Miss “IT’S ALLLL a-bout MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!”}

It’s a 100-mile footrace and you’re scared of the dark. It’s all on roads but you’re petrified of mud. It’s in the South and you’re from Detroit. So what’s a body to do? You telephone the race director and demand that exceptions be made.

{“Caaaaaaaaaaaaaaan’t you maaaaaaake the sun set laaaa-ter?”}

“Why won’t you let me start the race early?” you ask. “You need to block off *two* lanes of highway,” you say. “That way I won’t be forced into the ditch where there’s mud.” And this: “Couldn’t you just move the whole race to Michigan?”

{“Maaaaaaay-bee I could jusssssss’ run your race HEEEEEEERE?”}

You need a muling pacer to accompany you for the *entire* race? Sure, no problem. You’re a lactose-intolerant diabetic vegan with ulcers, kidney stones, gall stones, rolling stones, and colitis? You have “special needs” which we’ll need to be changing all menu items at all of the aid stations for? Why didn’t you say so? Why certainly! We will be more than happy to completely rearrange our entire chromosomal balance in order for your gifted genetics and uniquely endowed special heredity to be satisfied.

{Willlllllllll yoooou be doh-naaaaa-ting your boddd-y to sciiiiiiiiii-ence?}

Puh-lease. Maybe bowling would be less traumatic. No? How about sex? The balls are lighter and you won’t have to change your shoes.

{Yooooooou prob-babb-bly have spe-cial sexxxxxx-u-al needs toooo!!}

So go ahead and yank your cork quickly out of that “special dry” White Zinfandel that your servants have fetched for you, O Marie Antoinette, and let the rest of the indistinguishable masses of hoi-polloi eat cake. Because at this race, and every other race where there’s more than just your highness involved, you still expect all of those peeps to kowtow to only yourself, The Queen of Tarts.

{Missss Exxx-pec-tiiiing of Raaa-cing Exxx-ceppppp-tions All-ways To Beeee Made Just-For-Yoooou!}

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

( O_O )

Yours troubly,
The Troubadour

Yankee Folly of the Day:
Don’t laugh. I have a Jewish mother-in-law.