Real Men/Women of Genius #67

[Happy “BJF,” all! I’m so tempted to borrow Marvelous Marv’s phrase (“seedy underbelly?”) and Laz’s “con-man & hustler” for use today in describing our genius and/or such sociology as such labels might well represent, but no. I’m stickin’ to more tangible phenomena. I’ve witnessed stuff like the following myself…]

Bud Light presents…

REAL MEN OF GENIUS

{Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss}

Today we salute you, Mr. Over-the-Top Lovestruck Ultramarathoning Muler and Pacer Dude.

{Mis-ter “sheeeeeee ain’t hea-vyyy, but her baggggg-gggggage surrrrrrre is!”}

You want to help your long-distance-running girlfriend get to the finish line. We understand that. But what we’re having a hard time with is watching you trot beside her carrying everything *including* the kitchen sink, while she flashes her skin in the moonshine wearing and carrying practically nothing.

{“Wellllllllllllll it IS a prettttttttt-ty warmmmmmm night!”}

Water bottle? She gets it from you. You are carrying six of them at 24 ounces each: two mixed with sports’ drink, two more with powdered additives, and the last two–complete with soap and rinse–are for washing HER hands and face, not yours.

{“I ammmmmm on-ly toooooo hap-py to help herrrrrrr!”}

You also have a knapsack, a camelback, a rucksack, a beltpack, and you’re wearing “cargo” shorts with at least fifty-five pockets–all up and down front, sides, and across your ass–and every last one of them is bulging, overstuffed, and totally crammed full. Butt amazingly, you know where everything is.

{“I’m yourrrrr ice cream man, stop me when I’mmm pas-sing by”}

When she thrusts out her hand to demand: her lip balm, her sun block, her deodorant, her petroleum jelly, her gummy bears, her toothbrush, her NSAIDS, a gel packet, a kleenex, a moist towelette, a bath sheet, a jacuzzi, a jacket, a full change of clothes, and a fresh tube of lipstick–you know just the right pocket to look. Without breaking stride, you break out the object of desire of your object of desire. And you do it so quickly that the group running behind you breaks into applause.

{“Yeah, I’mmm your ice creeeam man, stop me when I’mmm pas-sing by”}

What we’re really waiting to watch you produce is a multi-speed battery-powered “marital aid” and for you to hold her hand while she uses it.

{“Alllllll of my fla-vors are guar-annn-teed to saaaa-tis-fyyyyyyyyyy!!”}

So crack open an ice-packed Bud Light–surely there’s one in your rucksack–and give your ladylove the first swig, O Westward Ho The Wagons, then pull out a lawnchair for her to sit on while drinking, because after you f-i-n-a-l-l-y get her to the finish line and back to the hotel and showered and powdered and poofed, spruced, and ‘fumed? You get nothing. She’ll be out like a cemetery ’til the following Wednesday, and then you can tell us how she’s the most interesting woman in the world.

{Mis-ter Oooooo-ver-the-Top Lovvvvvvvve-struckkkk Ul-tra-mar-a-thon-nnnnning Mu-ler and Pa-cer Duuuuuude!}

Bud Light beer: we don’t care where they brew it; we just dig their commercials.

( O_O )

Yours troubly,
The Troubadour

Yankee Folly of the Day:
Don’t be worried about the “seedy underbelly” of ultrarunning. If you’re lucky, and the chica’s willing, she’ll show it to you.