Real Men/Women of Genius #73

[There were lots of pretty snarky–and clever!–comments posted to the Ultralist this past week which, of course, inspired the following snarky commentary.) Thanks, snarks!]

Bud Light presents…

REAL MEN OF GENIUS

{Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss}

Today we salute you, Mr. Totally Too-Kewl Hyper-savvy Psychobabbling Technospeaking Running Shoe Store Salesman.

{Mis-ter “I’m-not-jus’-sel-ling-hou-ses-for-your-run-ning-feet, I’m en-clooooo-sing your whole life’s rec-cree-a-tion-al goals inn-side a uuuuu-ni-verrr-sal sole!”}

Are you selling us shoes or tripping the light fantastic? Do we walk into your store expecting to try on a few pair, or are we about to subject ourselves to 85 minutes of the musculoskeletal anthropological pseudo-science lecture-of-the-century, combined with your Gen-Y buzz-up marketing lingo-virtuosity tour de force?

{Weeeeee bet you were good in schoooool at “show and tell” tooooo!}

“Here is our top-of-the-line 100-percent vegan organic holistic probiotic all-natural artisan footwear,” you say. “Unless you’re a midfoot/forefoot striker running in minimus models with a 4-point-oh-3-9-3 millimeter heel drop, then you’re just not being naturally promoted at all. The torsional effects of lever-arm differences for something like this could catapult you to the front of your age group.”

{Itttttttttt sounds like sterrrrrr-roids for our feeeeeeeet!}

You’re still selling us shoes, right? Not blueprints for building the six-billion-dollar-man. OK, we get it. Unless we buy these, from you, today only, we’re risking polio, rickets, foot surgery, and eventual amputation–not to mention being totally NON-eco-friendly, unconscionably wasteful of earthen resources, and completely insensitive to your ultra-consumer-service-guaranteed green-power marketing mojo.

{Yooooooou could probbb-bly sell shed snake-skin to peeps that on-ly-wan-na-run baaaaaare-foot!}

“Here is a very special model,” you say, “that’s made of hemp-cultured bio-specific all-natural recyclables which are absolutely guaranteed to drain all the toxins out of your feet and legs through these special micro-pores in the heel.”

{Ohhhhhhhhhhhh Emmmmmmmmmmmmmm Geeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!}

Gait analysis? Electrodes on treadmill? Plastercast foot plasters for making exact replicas of each tootsie so we can later bronze and dangle them above our first-born’s playpen? We come to you because our old shoes are worn out, sir, and you’re hyping magnetic resonance that’s carefully tuned to natural earth forces ensuring an uninterrupted flow of chi, allowing us when we run to juxtapose the spiritual with the natural in every stride.

{Are weeeeeee in some kind-a temmmmmmmmmmm-ple??}

So crack open an ice-cold Bud Light when your shift is over, O Al Bundy wannabe who grew up watching “Married… with Children,” because only you could take something we wear on our feet and elevate the concept to the highest crown of human creation.

{Mis-ter To-tallll-ly Too-Kewl Hy-per-sav-vy Psy-cho-bab-bling Tech-no-speeeeeeeak-ing Run-ning Shoe Store Sa-les-mannnnn!}

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:
Actually, the Tarahumara got it totally down: just love you some rubber, cut blown truck tire treads to fit, lash ’em to your feet and ankles with scrap cowhide from the food processing plants, and you’re rockin’ “glads.”