Archive for July, 2010


Oh good God.

WEATHER: Mercifully better (which is to say, 93 degrees).

MILES: 12.


WHERE TO: Georgetown, Cleveland Park, Glover Park, etc.

MOOD: Woop!


Jessica released from the kiss of true love and looked deeply into Ryan’s eyes.  She thought that he might be The One.

“I should let you know,” he said, “I’m a physical therapist AND a trained masseuse aside from this job, so really I’ll only be home at night to rub your shoulders, make sure you never get injured, and sleep with you.  That’s about it.”

He was, indeed, The One.

Jessica’s cell phone buzzed in her pocket.  She answered, only to hear Zuckerman’s assistant in an absolute frenzy.

“Mr. Zuckerman was ambushed by a bunch of angry hipsters wielding banana creme pies and sharp pointy sticks and is now in a humiliation-induced seclusion for the rest of his life!  Can you take over his column indefinitely?”

“Absolutely!” chirped Jessica.

Just then, a truck crashed through the plate glass windows on the front of the store.  Jessica and Ryan raised their forearms, blocking the spray of glass.  A few shards scraped Jessica’s hand.

The truck driver, unharmed, came charging in.  “I’m so sorry I smashed the store with my Diet Coke truck and injured you!  Please accept a lifetime supply of Diet Coke as compensation!”

“OK!” said Jessica.

An elderly-but-healthful-looking yellow lab then scampered in through where the windows until recently had been.

“Buford!” yelled Jessica, recognizing the dog she had lost at 10 years of age.

A paperboy ran through the streets.  “Extra!  Extra!  Eating excess amounts of peanut butter with a spoon cures cancer and all other afflictions!  Also works with raw cookie dough!”

Jessica grew weak in the knees.

Her phone buzzed again.  “Hello, Ms. Boudoir!” said the voice on the other end of the line.  “Boston Athletic Association here, letting you know that you are just so damn talented that we will give you automatic entry for the rest of your life.  Entry fees waived, of course.  Cheers!”

Jessica giggled giddily.

“Did I mention that I hate it when women wear brassieres?” said Ryan.  “You should probably just never wear one.”

Jessica died of happiness (metaphorically speaking, of course, for she was still alive enough to live happily ever and ever after).

THE END!!!!!!!!!


<lights post-coital post-romance-novel cigarette>

Don’t act like you’re not impressed.



WEATHER: Sticky — high of 96.  Humidity of 400%.

MILES: 14.


WHERE TO: Lincoln Park, Nats Stadium, Hains Point, home.

MOOD: Pumped.



Chapter 6: Hell Hath No Fury

That morning, as soon as she got home from Rod’s apartment, Jessica tore her clothing off, dressed in her running clothes, and went for a 20-mile anger run.  It felt great, except for the part about having been suckered by Douchy McDoucherson.

Well, it felt great for the most part.  Except for the nagging pain in her knee starting at mile 16.  Shit.  Not this again.

Upon returning, she retrieved the foam roller from the bag from Rundezvous Sports and placed it in the center of the room, on the floor.  Gingerly, she lay sideways upon it and shifted her full weight onto her IT band, when-


The roller disintegrated beneath her into a pile of little foam pellets, sending Jessica crashing to the floor.  The downstairs neighbor rammed the ceiling with a broom handle, his standard move when Jessica did anything more strenuous than shift her weight on the couch.

Speaking of weight…

“I’m a big fat ginormous heifer!” she sobbed.

Her phone rang.  She sniffled and crawled over to the table where it lay.  It was her mom.

“Hi, Mom,” she choked out, hoping for comfort.

“You are still single!” said Mom.  “Also, I’m feeling very groovy today.  Did you know that you can fashion a dress out of a transparent shower curtain?  It’s awful sweaty, though.”

“Baaaaaaaaaaaa!” bawled Jessica, hurling her phone at the wall.  “Baaaaaa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha…” she continued, fumbling through the Rundezvous bag for the receipt.  No-good overpriced bastards.  $15 for a piece of foam that was probably manufactored for 0.00003 cents in a warehouse somewhere in Taiwan by a preschooler.

Well, bullshit! thought Jessica.  BULLSHIT!  If she had to be a single heifer, she would at least be one with $15 more to spend.  Most likely on tequila, the way things were looking.

She gathered up the mutilated remainders of her foam roller, along with the receipt, hopped in her MG and sped to the running store, where she screeched furiously to a halt and strode purposefully inside…where–fabulous–that same checkout guy was waiting with alacrity, ready to serve her.

“You came back!” he said, cheerfully.

“Yes, I came back,” said Jessica.  “And before you can ask me if I want to join your running club, no I do NOT want to join your running club, because I am my OWN running club, and I am JUST FLIPPING FINE!”

“You seem like it,” said checkout guy, bemused.

“Yes, yes I DO, you wiseass.  And FURTHERMORE, I do not want your free race fliers for Turkey Trots in November or Jingle Bell 1-milers in December or Cupid 4-milers in February, nor do I want your free copy of whatever random-ass running publication put together by chimps with typewriters in an office in Muncie, Indiana or some shit like that that you are plugging this month.”  She was beginning to lose her breath.

“OK…so the problem is…”

Jessica’s eyes welled again as she gained momentum, en route to her breaking point.  “ALL I want” — and here she squinted at his nametag — “Ryan, is for you to deal with THIS…” and here she dumped the bag of foamy bits onto the counter, the receipt fluttering to the floor, “…because I DEMAND SATISFACTION, and I am NOT A SATISFIED CUSTOMER.  I am a very VOLATILE customer, if you must know, and I do not have the time to put up with your CROCK of-”

“This shipment must have been defective,” said Ryan.

“You know what’s defective?  Your FACE is defective!”

“Let me see the receipt,” said Ryan quietly.

Jessica stopped short, inhaled, and picked up the receipt, face-down on the floor.  There was writing on the back of it that she had not yet noticed.  It read:

“Roses are red

Nikes suck ass.

This is my way

of making a pass.

(at you.)”

And then, below that, it listed a phone number, a small heart, and the signature “Ryan.”

“I wrote it as I checked you out last time.  Had you really not noticed?” he asked gently.

Jessica realized that she was crying, tears rolling down her cheeks.  This man, this Ryan man, had poetry in his soul, and he had likewise seen the beauty in her soul from Day One.  Oh, what a fool she had been, yes, but she knew NOW that-


Rod strode through the front door — right THROUGH it, literally — having kicked the glass in.

“I have stalked my woman-prey and have found her, and now I have come here to retrieve this beautiful piece of woman-flesh!” roared Rod.

“Dude.  That door was unlocked, you know…” began Ryan, as Rod picked up the foam roller and began mercilessly beating Ryan’s face with the blunt end.

“Hey!  Ow!  Hey!” yelled Ryan.  Rod put Ryan into a headlock and wrestled him to the ground, now just sort of slapping Ryan with the roller on whatever flailing body part became convenient.

“Stop!” yelled Jessica.  “STOPPIT!”  She thought about doing something, but she was pretty noncommittal, mainly because watching two gorgeous dudes fight (in however weenie a fashion) was, come on, sort of hot.

Ryan squirmed away toward a display of elastic physical therapy bands.  Snagging one, he looped it around Rod’s right foot and pulled until his leg bent waaaay backwards, up toward his buttock.  Rod bellowed.

“Say ‘uncle’!” said Ryan.

“Never!” yelled Rod.  Ryan pulled harder, this time pulling Rod’s foot back to mid-back level.  Rod squealed.

“Say it!” yelled Ryan.

“Noooooo!” wailed Rod.

Ryan gave a final yank.  “MY GROIN!” screamed Rod.  Ryan saw this as a good enough sign to let go.  Rod stood, clutching his testicular area, and limped out of the store, not bothering to look back.

Ryan stood, brushing the bits of broken-glass-dust from his clothes.  “Man.  That sucked,” he said.

Jessica nodded.  “He’s blood-doping, too.”  She thought for a bit.  “I’ve heard of roid rage…but was that EPO rage?  Is there such a thing?”

“No,” Ryan responded.  “That guy was just a dick.”

Jessica turned to him, looking up into his beautiful, gaunt face and deep, soulful eyes. He touched her face tenderly, and the two then kissed the kiss of true love, feeling a rush of romance, poetry, and endorphins. It was almost as good as a runners’ high.  Almost.


This, too, could be Rod and Jessica. ...OR COULD IT???

WEATHER: Heat index of 110.  Bajillion.


MILES THIS WEEK: 64 (new record, as far as I know) (for me, not humanity, you see…)!

WHERE TO: Rock Creek Park, Capital Crescent Trail

MOOD: Heat index of 110.  Bajillion. … in my BED!  Awwwwww SHIT!


<looks both ways> Is the coast clear?  Are the parents gone?  Good.  Let’s get back to business.


Chapter 5: The Harsh Light of Day

The morning light filtering through Rod Deltoid’s sheer curtains gently woke Jessica the next morning.  She rolled over to find Rod resting on his elbow, watching her.  With the firm and glistening contours of his body, he was like a Greek god in repose.

“My dear, how did you sleep?” he asked with a wink.

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"My heart says 'no,' but my loins say, 'Bring it AAAAWWWWWNNNN!'"

WEATHER: Sweet God, it is hot.




MOOD: Sweet God, I’m feeling hot.


A note to readers: Yes, there are several of you out there, but there are two of you in particular who made an attempt to raise me proper.  We all see how that turned out.  But out of deference to those two parental figures, whose opinions I care about greatly, I have painstakingly edited the below scene to make it more befitting of the way a lady should write.


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QUADRICEPS AFLAME: Part 3 of 7. In which I get shameless.

If this man doesn’t make you think of romance, I don’t know who will.

WEATHER: Steeeeeeamy.

MILES: 11.


WHERE TO: New and exciting areas of Georgetown.

MOOD: Steeeeeeeeeamy.


Chapter 3: A Woman-Sized Hunger

Friday came all too quickly.  Jessica Boudoir woke that morning for her run with more than her usual amount of alacrity, thinking of her fast-approaching carbo-loading date with the dreamiest runner the Potomac had ever seen.  From 6 AM onward throughout her day, Jessica’s mind was occupied with thoughts of Rod Deltoid.  As she increased her pace that morning, passing at a good clip down the National Mall, she tried to shake his presence in her mind. As she passed through the shadow of the great, girthy Washington Monument, thoughts of keeping up with Rod on a 3-hour run on the Appalachian Trail made Jessica’s bosom heave with longing, and for the first time in its short life Jessica’s 34A sports bra felt its capacity truly tested.

Continue reading


WEATHER: It’s just so HOT all up in here.



WHERE TO: Catholic U., Northeast DC in general.

MOOD: X-rated.


Chapter 2: Delicious Agony

“Ohhhhhhh,” said Jessica Boudoir, clutching the pillow.  “Oh my God oh my God oh GOD OH GOD.  Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh holy shit oh God yes yes NO NO YES NO MAYBE NO YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS YESSS OH NO NO NO NO GOD DAMN YOU you BASTARD STOP OW sweet Jesus oh my GOD oh my GOD!  OH!  Ohhhhhhhh man oh shit oooooooh honey oh OOOOH!”

“Lady,” said the physical therapist, “that’s just how a deep-tissue sports massage feels.”

“A little to the left,” she replied, huskily.

ROMANCE! (Part 1 of 7)

.......what the WHAT?

WEATHER: Take a guess.

MILES: 10.


WHERE TO: Lincoln Park, Mall, Lincoln Memorial, home

MOOD: Sensual.


I’ve realized that I’ve been an absolute hellbitch lately, mostly due to just about the worst week at work ever last week (“Who taught me how to write?  Drunk baboons?”), combined with a tiring running weekend (“I will PEE ON EVERY NON-WORKING WATER FOUNTAIN I FIND, I SWEAR TO GOD, WASHINGTON, DC!”), which has made me less than pleasant to live with (“Bring me the head of whatever ass-hat loaded this dishwasher!”).

Life is taxing sometimes, dear readers.  Sometimes it’s all too much.  Sometimes life voms on your shoes and steals your lollipop.  Sometimes you need an escape.  Sometimes you want to light some candles and get down with your bad self in a bubble bath with a box of Godiva and a glass of Cabernet and an Enya CD while breathing winsomely, “Calgon, take me AWAY!”

Sometimes, girlfriend, you need romance.

And so I am here to deliver you from your hellish daily life with a romantic story, delivered to you in serial format…partially in an attempt to get you to keep comin’ back for more running-log goodness, and partially…no, actually, mostly in an attempt to get you to keep comin’ back for the goods.

Tonight, I bring you part 1 of 7.  Why seven?  Well, I’ve always found seven to be the most sensual of the single-digit integers.

So, without further ado, I bring you:


Continue reading

Sweat, Self-Doubt, Religious Fanaticism, and Sean Astin

“Mister Frodo! I’m a more compelling character than you!”

WEATHER: Dripping gross nasty blech.

MILES: 14.


WHERE TO: Palisades, Georgetown, Mall, Capitol, home.

MOOD: Dispirited.


I’ve been remiss once again, and I apologize.  One reason is that I wrote a post on Madam Sixpack’s blog, in which I talk not about running but about a fantastic book you should read.  But I partly blame, ironically, the running for my recent non-blogging-ness.

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The Running Cookbook

Say hi to your mother for him, OK?

WEATHER: Would you believe “humid”?




MOOD: Irritable.


People are always asking me how I stay so healthy, given that I’m usually tempted to snarf down a few cans of frosting after particularly taxing workouts.  I usually respond by pointing and saying, “Hey, what’s that????” and while these questioners are distracted, I fly away on a purple velociraptor to CandyLand, because these people who ask me these things are not real, but are instead made-up so that I have an excuse to write my latest post. In said post, dear readers, I give you information for which you did not even ask, because I’m magnanimous, biznitches.

So.  How do I stay healthy?  READ ON, hot stuff!



A compendium of favorite recipes to make you energetic, happy, healthy, and only a little gassy.

Good-Morning Melange — A delicious way to start your running day.


1 banana

2 T. peanut butter

Peanut Butter Puffins, to taste

1/4 c. Pepto Bismol

1 quart water


1. Wake up at 5:30 AM.

2. Slice banana into bowl.

3. Add peanut butter, sprinkle with Puffins.

4. Gently fold together and eat, alternating with vigorous swigs of Pepto, only occasionally sloshng it into your hair.

5. Chug water, drop to knees, vow to never ever ever drink a beverage called the “Slippery Hoo-hah” ever again, let alone five of them, you twit.

6. Run.


Mile-Nineteen Special — An excellent mid-run or mid-race energizing snack, for those days when you don’t have a nifty little gel to suckle.


1 cup honey

1 cup sugar

1 jar natural peanut butter

Other trail-mix-y type things, like raisins, sunflower seeds, pencil-sharpening shavings, nail clippings, chocolate chips

A whole bunch of cereal


1/2 c. boob sweat

Exactly zero running gels



Note: Must be prepared prior to run.

1. Realize you have no gels for tomorrow’s run.

2. Boil honey and sugar for 2 minutes.

3. Remove from heat and combine all ingredients.

4. Oh come ON, I didn’t mean add the goddamn Baggie, OR the boob sweat for that matter.  Bonehead.

5. Press mixture into 9″ x 13″ pan.  Allow to cool and firm overnight.

6. Cut bar, put into baggie, stow in sports bra.

7. At mile 19, by the water fountain by the national zoo, pull baggie from between boobs.  Shake off boob sweat, open baggie, chow down while monopolizing water fountain and grossing out happy well-meaning tourists.

8. Shake out legs while stoned kids on nearby sunny meadow hill say, “Dude, she just pulled food out of her BOOBS.” (This actually happened.)


Saturday-Morning SuperProteinRecoveryFest — Get your protein post-run AND bond with your housemates!


1 block tofu

1/4 c. spicy mustard

1 wastebasket



1. Come home from long run, take shower (see Post-Race Delight).

2. Open tofu, cut into uniform 1″ x 1″ cubes.

3. Arrange on plate, put large dollop of mustard on edge.

4. Dip tofu cubes in mustard and consume heartily while watching reruns of “Designing Women.”

5. Have following exchange with roommate:

“What is that?”

“<mouth full> Tofu!”

“…and…my God…mustard?”

“Mm-hm! <snarf snarf snarf>”

6. Hand wastebasket to roommate, now retching heavily.  Feel the delicious muscle-recovery goodness wash over your body.  Ohhhhhhhhh girl.


Mile-Twenty-Eight Special — You’re more than halfway through that ultra.  You can do it.


1 Twizzler

1 cup neon blue Powerade

Mark Wahlberg



1. Shake head out of delirious haze long enough to snatch Twizzler and Powerade from spectators.

2. Bite off both ends of Twizzler.  Things are neither looking nor feeling too good.  The wheels are coming off, my friend.

3. Accept congratulations from Mark Wahlberg, running next to you for a while now, on the awesome race you’re running.

4. Use Twizzler as a straw to suck up the sweet, sweet Powerade.

5. Reflect on the beauty of life.


Mile-Thirty-Five Surprise — For those times on the course when you’re feeling “not-so-fresh.”


Orange wedges (several dozen)

Running singlet




1. Snatch orange wedges from race volunteers, remove shirt, use it as a crude basket in which to carry as many orange wedges as you can grab.

2. Suck the sweet juice out of the oranges, riiiiight down to the nasty rind, then throw the suckers at Mark Wahlberg’s face, because he has gotten mean in the last few miles.

3. That purple raptor of his is looking testy as well.  Give it a roundhouse to the jaw while you’re at it.

4. Suck down more orange goodness.  You need your strength, Spartacus.


Mile-45 Desperation Cocktail — For when you should know better, yes, but you’re a badass, dammit.


2 cups sweat, squeezed from ponytail

1 leftover Powerade Dixie cup

1 saline IV



1. Now you’ve done it.  You are 3 miles from an aid station in either direction and you can FEEL the moisture draining from your body.  Even your eyeballs feel dry.  Even your toenail-beds feel parched.

2. Lose will to go on…with racing, with life. Drop to knees in the middle of the trail, raise fists and wail, Baz-Luhrmann-movie-style: “ULTRAMARATHONNNNN!”

3. A dramatic thunderstorm begins.

4. Just kidding.  There’s no water out here.  But you do have that cup and all that sweat in your hair…

<let’s skip ahead a bit>

7. Wake up in med tent with foul, salty taste in mouth.  Sit up stock-straight, point and yell, “What’s that?”  As race med volunteer turns, remove IV from wrist, remove needle, suck as much as you can from tube before scampering away because YOU ARE A CHAMPION OH MY GOD THIS IS GREAT AND YOU DON’T AT ALL WANT TO DIE BAAAAHAHAHAHAHA.


Post-Race Delight


2 cans Diet Coke (12 oz.), very well chilled

1 little complimentary bar of hotel soap

1 hotel shower



1. Go back to hotel post-race, remove clothing, get into shower as usual.

2. Wash body.

3. When soap hits chafed areas, squeeze eyes shut as the throbbing pain travels in big slamming waves through your body.  Chase pain with a slug of Diet Coke.

4. Drink another DC, while you’re at it.  You deserve it.  You beat that raptor by like at least 3 hours.

5. (Optional) Perform rest of shower as usual, i.e. while singing Reba McEntire’s greatest hits.

A Brief but Exhaustive Taxonomy of the Running World

I have no smart-ass captions for this. Sorry.

Back in sophomore year of high school, Mr. A. wandered around the front of the room, muttering occasionally funny* and enlightening** things to us through his teeth, and occasionally smacking the overhead projector with a ruler for the purpose of waking us up by causing numerous aneurysms.

Anyway.  Mr. A. made us memorize the taxonomic system of biology, which we did using the following totally sensical mnemonic device:

Kyle Poured Coffee On Fred’s Gym Shorts

…which even now helps me to remember…

Kingdom Phylum Class Order Fish Gynecologist SHAZAM!

But he also gave us what was known as one of the toughest assignments in AAAAALLLLLLL of Podunk Iowa High School’s curriculum: memorizing all of the phyla of the animal kingdom.  This (along with pretty much every little thing that little female Gollum who taught English 10 assigned to us) taught us that sometimes you have to do things that don’t make a lot of sense and probably won’t help you in life.  (Actually, femaleEnglishGollum also taught me how to focus my anger into a tiiiiiny point rightonTeacher’shead and using telekinesis, burn a small hole riiiiight there.) (Also, when she was out of the room once, I learned how to pee in a lady’s handbag.  But I digress.)

Actually, I did learn something useful from Mr. A’s phylum exercise: the world is full of a vast, sprawling, diverse array of life, and one way to better understand it is to organize it into categories with like characteristics.  AND SO, HAVING COMPLETED A RIDICULOUSLY LONG INTRODUCTION, I GIVE YOU:

A BRIEF BUT EXHAUSTIVE TAXONOMY OF THE RUNNING WORLD (mainly sticking to genus and species-like nomenclature here, because neither of us has the energy to write/read a whole g.d. bio textbook tonight, am I right?)

First, the Kingdom of the Non-Runners, for they are important as well, no matter what you may believe:

  • Immobilis Pathus — Sidewalk dwellers who WILL NOT MOVE TO THE RIGHT SIDE because they DON’T UNDERSTAND SOCIAL NORMS OR CUES.
  • Stringulus Osteyogalus — Scary people at yoga class who are in better shape than you will ever be, judging from the fact that you can count their muscle fibers through their skin.
  • Bro-lus Kickballeris — Beer-swilling philistines on the Mall, playing kickball in pastel polo shirts from Vineyard Vines, yelling things like, “Remember that tailgate at UPenn, when I hit that?  Mannnn, did I ever hit that. I tapped it.  I was all over that shit.  Damn, bro, like, I don’t even know, man…”  By now he’s lost his train of thought, but if he keeps going in this vein, you can usually steal his visor and give him a good, hard GOOSE! to the nads before he even has time to put down his Natty Ice and chase you down, which he can’t do anyway because his overdeveloped pecs and chicken legs will cause him to topple over like a clown on one of those mini-bikes.  Just saying.
  • Demoralis Maximus — A member of the “Hater” phylum, these people have not run a step in their lives aside from running to 10th grade home ec class and for some reason want to punish you for it.  They like to say things like, “You know, that’s so bad for your joints. Your body begins its inexorable decline at <insert whatever age you happen to be here>, you know.”  Then they sniff.   “That’s why I don’t run.”  Nooooo, Creampuff, you don’t run because you’re scared/misguided/weak/still harboring complexes about the Presidential Physical Fitness Test.  Actually, I don’t blame you on that last one.

Not to be confused with:

  • Injuris Perpetuus — People who actually do get injured from running, but who are still rather pleasant and choose not to pee all over your campfire, as they say.
  • Supportivus Maximus — Non-runners who still rock and come to your races.  Usually your good hard-working farmer parents who don’t quite understand your nearly-OCD mileage but nod and clap and hand you saltines and towels post-race.


And now, the Running Kingdom:

  • Formis Peculiaris People who run with their bodies in truly painful-looking configurations.
  • Insecuritus Causis — Your big sister, who won five state athletic championships on a daily basis, including some sports you didn’t even know she did, but most certainly including track, and the only reason I mention this is that to this day, even at 5:30 AM out by the majestic Washington Monument, a nagging voice in the base of your brain tells you that if you do four more 1200-meter repeats you just might make state this year, I don’t know, but you might as well try, huh?

Not that you have a complex about this, or anything.

Speaking of high school:

  • Patientis Sanctus — a.k.a. high school track coaches.  They dealt with you when you were young/impatient/chunky/slow/whiny/irritating.  And they did not pee in YOUR handbag, I might add.
  • Komenis Perpetuus — People who will not do a race unless it involves wearing pink and Racing for a Cure.  And filling up the Crescent Trail every Saturday morning.  Not that I’m against Racing for a Cure.  I’m just saying.
  • Wifebeaterus Lebronjamesis — The running cousin to Bro-lus Kickballeris. As the name would suggest, this species cannot run without wearing a beater and oversized basketball shorts.  Grab your training partner and red-rover the shit out of these guys.
  • Neighborus Normalis — The nice lady down the street who jogs a few miles every morning and always gives you a chipper wave and “Hey there!”  Spare the red-rovers.  She’s on your side.
  • Citius Superiorus — Crazy-fast people.  There is nothing to do about or to these people except clutch your pillow at night and dream that they will one day mate with you.
  • NonAcceptus Realitis — Middle-aged men who will not let you pass, even when you are clearly faster than them.  Natural habitat seems to be Georgetown.  You will gaily trot up past their left side, when <heave heave gasp heave> they POUR ON THE GAS, suddenly surging past you and continuing until they think they’ve lost you, but oh no they have not, because you have maintained one pace like a normal person, so here you come again, and there they go again.  You both will continue in this “Pardon me, but if you’d just let me…” “I AM A CHAMPION OF THE UNIVERSE!” vein until he barfs up his spleen or you just take a different route, whichever comes first.

But seriously, buddy.  Do us all a favor and go get a trophy wife/Harley/Ferrari/boner pill prescription/boner.

  • Hottie McKickass — You.


That’s all I got.  You’re welcome.


*”Spontaneous generation is the idea that the Schwan’s truck can be driving down your gravel road and then smack the Easter Bunny and then maggots will just maaaaagically appear! Needless to say, children, this can’t happen, for a number of reasons.”

**”You kids with your music videos.  We used to just have music.  Without the videos.  Because if the song is good, you don’t need VISUAL STIMULATION.”