Real Men/Women of Genius #90

Bud Light presents…

REAL MEN OF GENIUS

{Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss!}

Today we salute you, Mr. Totally Confused Directionally-Challenged Race Marshalling Volunteer.

{Will you puh-leeeeeeeeeeeease tell us all where to gooooooooo?!}

Thank you for your service, sir, but the system of trails you’re supposed to be marshalling is over there. If we follow where you’re pointing now, we will all end up on Main Street in East Troy, Wisconsin.

{Heyyyyy Mis-ter Tam-bour-rine Mannnnnn, play a song for meeeeeeeeee!}

You don’t get out much, do you? You don’t realize that in all these years since you were a kid, woods and forests have changed. For example, the Ice Age has come and gone. And where there once were glaciers, there are now nicely packed-down dirt trails. Lately, with the arrival of spring and all, even better: there’s no snow OR ice.

{“Buttttttt there’s a pet-tri-fiiiiiiiiiiied stone el-e-phant down-there-o-ver-yonnnnnnnn-der!”}

The problem of course is more than one trail, which is totally why–for a big footrace like this with lots of strangers coming in from all around the country if not the world–your marshalling services are necessary. Most of these people don’t even remember the Ice Age. Thus you are expected to guide them correctly without losing them, adding no extra miles to their journeys, nor turning them completely around–sending them back too early to the finish and therefore getting them disqualified.

{“The 50-mi-lerrrrs go heeeeeere, the 50-K-ers go therrrrrrrre, but I don’t know about the tri-ath-a-lonnnnnnnnn!!!”}

And did you forget which colored bib number goes onto which trail at this point in the race? No, the green ones go here, sir, and the red ones are still following the 50-mile trail over there. If they don’t have a bib, they’re a bandit. If they do have a bib but it’s pinned behind them on their ass, you may have to ask what color they are–in which case you *could* be in legal trouble for racial profiling. And Loud help you if you should happen to send the current race leader down the wrong path because you’re colorblind.

{“Oh my gaud! Are yoooooooou wear-riiiiiiiiiing a char-treuse biiiiiiiiiiib?”}

So crack open an ice-cold Bud Light, O Mister Extra-Insurance Monitor of Mayhem, but it may not be legal in the big state forest. So maybe you’d best wait until the last straggling runner passes through your “malfunction junction.” Afterwards, of course, it may not be so ice cold anymore anyway, because you know that “special place” over there where you had set your cooler? We’re sorry to have to tell you this, sir, but that glacier has left the forest.

{Missssss-ter Toe-talllllll-y Con-fuuuuuuus-ed Di-rec-tion-al-ly-Chal-lennnn-ged Race Mar-shal-ling Vol-un-teeeeeeer!}

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

( O_O )

Yours troubly,
The Troubadour

Yankee Congratulations and Prophecy of the Day:
Congratulations to a hero to us all, John Price, for a very successful Trans-American (totally) cross-country run, finishing yesterday! Prophecy? What? Now you want prophecy? Well, I predict if you’re running the Ice Age Races tomorrow, you *could* see another dinosaur.