Real Men/Women of Genius #78

Ingelhook Wineries present…

REAL WOMEN OF GENIUS

{Re-al gals of geeeeeene-yuss}

Today we’d like to raise our glass to you, Ms. Electronic Metronome Carrier–on your HEAD, underneath your STOCKING CAP–Who’s Supposedly Just Trying To Improve Your Running Pace.

{Mizzzz oh-my-gaud-wherrrrrrrrrrrrrrre didd-ja getttttt that THINGGGGGGG?}

There is just something so “wrong” about running up from behind some body, ticking LOUDLY and wanting to pass. You *could* be thought of as a terrorist. You *could* be called 9-1-1 on. You *do* sound like a time-bomb.

{“Butttttttttttttt this doesssss help-meee-to-run-betttt-terrrrrrrr!”}

Seventy-two virgins await you in Valhalla? Is THAT what they teach you at al-Qaeda training camp? But, but…what if YOU are the virgin? Does Osama Hoozits School teach what women all get rewarded with? If your metronome really is a bomb, do you take out the nearest men right along with you–and then receive in heaven whatever male pieces you can scavenge later that are still appended?

{Thisssssssssssssssss prob-babb-bly has noth-ing-to-doooooo-with-it!}

Of course we’re kidding, but still we can’t help wondering: When *did* all the sporting goods stores start selling music paraphernalia for piano-playing? And if 160-beats-per-minute is your target footplant rate, what happens when, say, your heart skips a beat?

{“I left itttttttttttttttttttt…in San-Fran-sissss-co, high u-pon a hillllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll…”}

Does that thing work like a “pacemaker” and send a sharp zapping pulse deep into your chest? Will you be able to recover your pace if you dial-down the metronome for, like–how about the next 50 years? Would that be OK? Please?? Maybe for that length of time you could just shut the stupid, insanely LOUD and dubious device OFF? So the rest of us running here can actually think–and NOT be all driven completely crazy in the meantime?

{“Weeee might-as-well-be-runnnn-ing-on-a-tread-mill innnnn-side a grand-fath-er’s clock fac-tor-ryyyyyy!”}

So pull your cork out quickly from that White Zinfandel in your fridge when you get home, O Running Personification of Our First Piano Teacher, because really…we think you really, REEEEEALLY and truly do: “march to the beat of a different drummer.”

{Mssss Eee-lec-tron-ic-Met-ro-nome-Car-riiii-er–on-your-HEAD-un-der-neath-your-STOC-KING-CAP–Who’s Sup-pose-ed-lyyyyy Jus’ Try-ying To Immm-prove Your Runnnn-ning Pace!!}

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:
You think we’re joking. But really, isn’t this just “one step up” from (or “beyond”) running with those stupid pacesetter watches that you can program to “beep” every so often to, say, remind you to drink, or walk, or pick up the pace, or pick your nose, or pee?