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February 19th, 2017
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Contemporary Ramblings from The Troubadour (that 800-year-old lute plucker from France :)
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blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[Happy Mothers' Day to all the, um, non-rolled-reefer "mothers" out there! Back in my day, we used to find small groups to sit around and say, "Fire that mother up!" But we weren't talking about human motherhood. Which reminds: Does "Happy Mothers' Day" include the entire mammalian kingdom as well? Don't wolves, for example, have mothers? Bears? Coyotes? Even deer? All of which, by the way, have reluctantly entered the government-provided housing that surrounds my house in the suburbs. It's like "Wild Kingdom" here! Maybe I should just step out on the stoop this Sunday and shout: "Happy Mamas' Day to all you horrible infesting woodsy critters now eating up my garage!! I've left a special 'treat' for you underneath the junk tires!" [But I digress. Today we need to talk about… science. Nutritional pseudoscience. Or, as it's known in some circles: marketing blarney.] Never mind which presidential administraction is responsible for presenting… WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO [salt tablets] ? Indeed. For twenty thousand years whenever peeps were outpouring water out of their pores and/or otherwise being in danger of dying--or at least slowing down, severely--in the heat, nobody ever went online to order electrolytes. No. They went to the store and bought salt tablets. There's some right now in the bathroom medicine cabinet. They don't even have an expiration date. No, salt was invented before there were those kinds of dates. We think maybe the ancient Egyptians used slave labor to concoct salt tablets from the salt mines underneath where they later built all those big silly stone pointy things. Again, with slave labor. But by then those slaves were damn glad to have previously worked underground to make all the salt tablets--which, slaving away there in the heat, they simply popped down their throats and began feeling better. What ever happened to salt mines? Ah, I think Morton owns 'em all. In the ancient days when I went to school, there was in fact a whole town named for 'em: Morton, Illinois. If I'm not mistaken, there's at least one person reading this who knows that. Morton is near Peoria and, I gotta think, large bottles of salt tablets are still available in that area's drug stores. Salt tablets. Right. So simple even a slave could take. They're white (yes, not all slaves were colorful) and they're little and round and come in a bottle. The directions generally indicate taking one or two as needed. On the label of this particular bottle here, it says the following. "Suggested Use: One tablet with a full glass of water, five to ten times daily, depending on temperatures and working conditions." This has been "best practice" since just after the dinosaurs. (Incidentally, those gigantic reptiles probably died out because of having no salt to take during the heat, except for all the sweaty littler creatures on their food chain down-line which they could eat. But of course sweat alone isn't enough, which is why those first Egyptian cave people invented salt in the first place, and later manufactured and marketed it in quantity, courtesy of the Hebrews. Question: is salt kosher? Hmmm… actually I think it is, but I know very few Jews who dump it excessively on their food.) And by the way, whatever happened to "heat prostration"? Lordy, that term was also used for 20,000 years. THAT's what everybody USED to call what all these modern-day geniuses now refer to as "electrolyte imbalance." But again, I digress. So. What ever happened to salt, anyway--especially tablets? It's now: electrolytes, spectrolytes, zippolytes, zoom-o-lytes, lytes that turn themselves on and off when you clap, endure-a-lytes, endure-a-lytes lite, c-caps, g-caps, d-caps, every-other-letter-in-the-alphabet-caps, ensureolytes, megalytes, gigalytes, flashalytes (no batteries necessary) and of course any or all of the following "brand" names: X-cede, Hexseed, Recede, Rexseed, Re-seed, Lexseed, Nextseed, Sackseed, Hacksawed, aXcede, Raxsede, Accede, LaXseed, MAXceed, Sumseed, Sipsede, Sicceed, Lumpsede, and Suc! You fill in the rest. These things all have various marketing gimcracks like: Take one or two every hour during your ultra (or actually during nearly everything you do outdoors that works up a sweat, except making love, of course, for which there are about a sextillion MORE products online ;) and, if you do this and thereby consume damn near AN ENTIRE JUG of the stuff, you'll be almost (but not quite) guaranteed by the manufacturer to feel better. You won't DIE. And when it's all over, your extremities won't swell up as much either. Years ago, those of us slaving away during our hot summer jobs, for example, just popped us a salt tab. On the other hand, someone fainting on Sunday during a hot ("fire and brimstone," eh?) church service would be given "smelling salts"--whatever the heck they were. Most everybody else just swallowed the salt--instead of sniffing it--then headed out for a beer. And cheap! A whole gigantic bottle of the stuff might set you back a buck and a half. Nowadaze... some of these Chumpseeds online could cost a buck apiece! And for what? What do you get in a cool, groovy, ergodynamic, easy-to-hold-squeeze-and-swallow "gel cap" that you can't get from a salt chunk? A tablet that looks like aspirin instead of what looks like the cyanide issued to spies to take when captured so as to preserve their nation's war secrets? Is there ever anything OTHER than, like, 452 milligrams of sodium frickin' chloride inside a Z-cap??? Wait! Here's something: On the label of this very salt tablet bottle just now retrieved from the bathroom, it says: "Chloride (as sodium AND potassium chloride)"--who knew?--AND "Sodium (as sodium chloride)" AND "Potassium (as potassium chloride)"--all combined to make one 452 mg tablet. Whoa. That's actually a list of three wholly different ways of repeating the same dang thang. Salt IS sodium chloride! Check your friendly neighborly Periodic Chart of the Elements. Other kinds of chloride? I give, what? To me, it's like other kinds of chlorine added to swimming pool water. Hey, we can still swim in it, right? So, for comparison's sake, let's also have a look at the label of the "high priced" salt. The, um, electrolyte-balancing-act thingamajiggies. I happen to have one. Here's what it says: "Serving Size - 1 Capsule. Amount per Serving … Sodium 341 mg; Potassium 21 mg." Boom. That's about it. And via my whiz-bangery math, if you add 'em together you get a capsule of 362 milligrams, which is, like, even 90 whole milligrams SHORT of a plain old salt tablet!!! Man, you're gettin' even LESS for your money! You ain't even gettin' as much spending all your megadollars on Giggly-caps as you do forking over a few bucks for salt chunks. Salt licks? Hey, the deer love 'em. Maybe instead of buying ANY kinds of friggin' electrolytic conveyances, we should just all buy salt in bulk, drape it around our necks during races, and LICK IT! Ya think? Maybe I'll just go ask the deer in my back yard what their preference is: salt tabs or anything-caps? Then maybe… THEY could tell me the difference? ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour "your sweaty friendly 800-year-old lute-plucking animal-serenading song-and-dance Frenchie who's willing to be licked, but only if you're female and think it'll help ya" Yankee Folly of the Day: With all these droughts, sweeping forest fires, and weather catastrophes about to drive food prices even higher than electrolyte replacements, maybe suburban infestations of all kinds of backyard critters is a good source of groceries.'
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What Ever Happened To [...] #1035
[Happy Mothers' Day to all the, um, non-rolled-reefer "mothers" out there! Back in my day, we used to find small groups to sit around and say, "Fire that mother up!" But we weren't talking about human motherhood. Which reminds: Does "Happy Mothers' Day" include the entire mammalian kingdom as well? Don't wolves, for example, have mothers? Bears? Coyotes? ...
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May 11, 2014
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May 11, 2014
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2827
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[Good Mourning. Everybody broke? Has Uncle Sam taken his hands out of your pockets yet? How about your state's taxing paws? Here in Illy-noise, we have a legislature that: long ago promised lottery money would go towards education, tollway revenues would fix all the roads, and more recently claimed that the state is suddenly too poor to continue paying most public service people's pensions. That includes teachers, of whom I have a personal, intimate working knowledge. THEN, boom: Just after Tax Day our beloved statehouse suddenly has $100,000,000.00 extra for building an Obama Library. Meanwhile, Illy-noise's education is at the bottom of the heap; Illy-noise's roads are a joke; and teachers, firefighters, etc., etc., etc. have already lost out on their pensioned cost-of-living increases. [My gosh, it's enough to make me wanna move to Puerto Rico. Are there any ultramarathons in Puerto Rico? Anyway, nearly everyone this week IS broke, which just naturally (ha ha) brings up this week's topic.] Deerly Beholden in Cripes, amen! Hallelujah! For today's sermon we shall take for our text those wizened words of our friend Dr. Lisa Bliss, at the very spoke of the wheel in Spokane, who asks: WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO [mentoring; or, more specifically, mentoring free of charge] ? For yea, woe yea, it seems even the money-grubbing "good example" being set for us by our federal and state governments is being picked up on by COACHES! No, friends, not those operating as busses or trains or the hindquarters of airplanes. No, these are the newly unearthed pseudo "athletic champions" who are lately starting to fill their wallets with what other oh-so-needy peeps are willing to pull out of theirs. Paying for advice? No, paying big bucks for painfully obvious advice! Billed in 15-minute increments! Like attorneys. But at least with attorneys, you get legalese you can't understand--but which *can* sometimes keep you out of prison or litigation or help settle a lawsuit that you might not otherwise be able to accomplish by yourself. With coaches, however, you get: "Today's training is intervals and fartleks. Do it 'til ya drop. That'll be 40-dollars-per-hour in advance, please. And if you'd like me to show up and watch you, you must pay my airfare and all travel expenses." "Pace you thru an ultramarathon?" they ask on their blogspots and Facebook pages. "Just a minute. My calculator doesn't compute that high." Our friend Lisa wrote: "My point was, what ever happened to good ol' ultra mentoring? The free get-what-you-pay-for advice while running together (if you could keep up). It's the way I grew up. It's how I'm sure you grew up. It's how I learned everything I know. I didn't pay someone to tell me to wear socks or drink water." Ow indeed, my flock. O My Gracious and O My Goodness. Are peeps this silly--or that needy--that THIS is what they're willing to pay for today??? "What shoes do I buy?" (Two that fit.) "Socks?" (Yes.) "Shorts?" (Yes, except when you're freezing.) "Jogbra?" (Yes.) "Jock strap?" (Sure, except if you're female.) "Clothing?" (No. Today we run naked.) My friends, I ask you: To what Nth degree of hand-holding do grown-up kids today require assistance before they can actually trot down a sidewalk by themselves? What? Have they never learned anything on their own? Figured nothing out by themselves? Never put on a pair of sneakers and RUN where the sheriff can't chase them? Like normal kids? Like, um, how WE learned how to run??? Methinks today's kids all grew up in playpens in front of high-def television sets, and not the mean hardscrabble streets of lily-pure suburbia. Playpens paid for by grandma, or guilt-ridden parents who only wanted "what's best for the children." Who, incredibly, only wanted what they said they didn't have, growing up on the hardscrabble streets of suburbia. When, actually, those parents had everything! And if they didn't have something, they mowed lawns or babysat until they could afford to buy it themselves! This taught self-reliance, ingenuity, and major survival skills for, during, and after the nuclear holocaust. We learned how to run, by golly, by RUNNING! And later on when youngsters came along and wanted to run with us, we let 'em. We talked to them. During longer runs we posed such questions as how to prove mathematical theorems, what they thought of "string theory," and how's their sex life? We taught 'em how to walk uphill and zoom down. We explained eating and drinking on the fly. We fairly brainwashed their asses with the "leave no trace" mentality. We made their asses THINK, not sit. And this was a major source of discovery for most of them, and hours of entertainment for the rest of us. And we ALL had a good time and nobody billed anybody for it either--in (ha ha ha) quarter-hour increments. What was it that P. T. Barnum used to say? "There's a sucker born every minute"? Yes, and now all of a sudden there are these otherwise unemployable fitness Nazis aiming to cash in on all the universal mollycoddling of Generation Z. Those little ones who've emerged from the playpens not too long ago with their eyes wide shut and hands outstretched, palms up. "Gimme!" "I can't lace my shoes, show me!" "I can't eat chews and suck tubes at the same time, teach me!" "I can't run a marathon, lead me!" "If I can sell my family on excessive Psoriasis contributions, can I run Boston?" "RUN FIFTY MILES? ALL ALONE?? R U kidn? ROTFLMFAO!!!" Right you are, my precocious ultra-dependent little geniuses, you can't possibly do this. You need a COACH! And it's gonna cost ya plenty! Better get another handout from mommy or poopsie. But here's the kicker: Where ever do you suppose these coaches learned all THEIR stuff? Wrong. Not from other coaches at $40-per plus meals and travel, billed in 15-minute intervals. Oh no. Your running coach learned it from a running mentor, while trying to keep up. So, what ever happened to… mentoring? For free!!! ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour "your LMAO 800-year-old lute-plucking choir sermonizer who suddenly wants to teach *you* the lute, at $40/hour + travel + meals + concert hall tickets, billed in TEN minute increments in advance" Yankee Folly of the Day: Illinoisans want Hawaii to pay for a change. And whudda ya wanna bet, not a single book will ever be checked out of the Obama Presidential Library?'
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What Ever Happened To [...] #1034
[Good Mourning. Everybody broke? Has Uncle Sam taken his hands out of your pockets yet? How about your state's taxing paws? Here in Illy-noise, we have a legislature that: long ago promised lottery money would go towards education, tollway revenues would fix all the roads, and more recently claimed that the state is suddenly too poor to continue paying most ...
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Apr 20, 2014
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Apr 20, 2014
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2108
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[Welcome back, to me, from parts unknown. Literally. In fact, I've just returned from parts unknown even, and especially, to myself. You might never have known them either and, for now (on the advice of counsel), we should keep them that way. Oh, and the other (dang lousy SOB'n) thing that's been lancing the "free" right out of my freelancing: Income Tax! And THAT you do know about, and even the lawyers won't care if I mention by name, or even curse, the IRS. That said, we'll continue with today's unholy gospel :] Deerly Bee Loved, amen. Hallelujah. For today's rant we shall take our text from the mouth of the park superintendent: "The hardest part of my job is keeping people out of the park." Yea, verily. This text cometh from a pristine source of only the highest character: the guy in charge of the planned event who heard it directly from the mouth of the guy in charge of the park. And now I ask you: WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO [park people welcoming people to the park] ? What? Are we talking about recreational space on Mars? Authoritarian park protectors are telling us to stay away… because we can't breathe? There's no air? No atmosphere? No lush greenery within which to romp and play and enjoy the constitutionally set-aside-by-the-people-of-the-people-FOR-THE-PEOPLE great American public park… because… what, we're suddenly on a different planet? Maybe it's Venus we're talking about, not America. Or Uranus. I can certainly tell you this much about the weather there: Was it "colder than a well-digger's a**hole"? No, but if you were suddenly encased in ice, it would be colder than Uranus. A park. An American God-given (or at least set aside by Teddy Roosevelt) park. Then later, his descendant Franklin Delano had something to do with it, too. Shucks, all these high 'n' mighty muckety-mucks have ALL been profoundly engaging in our personal recreation and enjoyment… and here comes some lesser desk jockey pretend-god-wannabe trying to wield the clout he doesn't have, to prevail upon the assembled congress he doesn't know, in order to get THEM to tell US there's something WE can't use: HIS park! My brethren and cistern, let us pray. Let us join hands discretely and bow our heads deeply and hold on tightly and fricking REFUSE forevermore to leave this glorious public preserve. Let us encircle our paradise, which the gags on April Fools' all founded. We shall make a human chain around the perimeter of--where even HE doesn't know--and causeth, yea, my faithful, Search & Rescue to come look for us. We shall never surrender! All Power To The People!!! Throw up your correct fists! (OK, just the right one.) And repeat after me, yo, those ancient sacred hippie anthems of our primordial past: "Off The Pigs!" (or at least the wild boars) and "Up With People!" "Make Love, Not War!" And of course, "if you're going to San Francisco, be sure to wear a flower in your hair"--but not, of course, if you've picked it in the park. Can you even TRY to imagine, even in your wildest imaginings, a boss in charge of a place for the people who hates all the people? This would be like, what, the CEO of General Motors being a Neanderthal, a Puritan perhaps, maybe an Amish? The head guy making cars, hates cars! How about the chairmen of multinational software empires still hawking typewriters? It's like the pope being Jewish, or a rabbi demanding that every Friday his congregation eat no meat. The whole thing is insane. Instead of welcoming, extending hands of friendship, pointing out lovely scenery and greenery and better paths to the bathroom, THIS guy in charge, THIS park superintendent, THIS freakazoid alien from another planet entirely (Uranus, or Hizzanus probably) is absolutely proclaiming that HIS park is ONLY for HIM!!!! Apparently. What else are we to believe, my peeps? That his particular public American park is only for the daisies? The squirrels? The chiggers? Boars? Hogs? And Pigs? Well, my dear friends, I'm here to sing Glory Hallelujah. God has triumphed. Moses has freed us. Pharaoh has finally gotten his comeuppance. For not only have The People flocked to the park, they have done so in record numbers. They have filled the park, to overflowing even! They have obeyed the bible and increased and multiplied. And they have gotten all Sinai to protect them. Congress and everybody else has realized what a GOLD MINE this all is to the surrounding impoverished community. The biggest economic windfall to befall the park in history is the very thing that this aforementioned frumpy dump desk jockey wants to do away with!!! Loud have mercy! All Power To The (greedy ;) Congress! Let the windfall fall! Let the whole blessed annual gathering continue! And continue spending money!! And this very next coming fall, an even BIGGER public gathering has just been politically cleared to come into the park… and romp… and play… and spend--despite that dumpy crumb frumpy boss of the place. For verily verily I say unto you, THAT tyrannical titanical goofy dufus has just been outranked!!! ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour "your 800-year-old lute-plucking choir-sermonizing son-of-a-preacher-man that just loves to cook fowl over fire and brimstone… in a park!" Yankee Folly of the Day: Sure, y'all might have no idea what I'm talking about, but it's only to protect the innocent and… to keep what's in my pockets out of some lawyer's pockets. Trust me, this lesson was learned from bitter experience. A Joke: (Hey, it's Bad Joke Friday, eh?) The little boy asks the old man how he got to be so wise. He thinks for a moment, then says, "Oh, I'd say it comes mostly from good judgement." Then the boy asks, "How do you get good judgement?" And the old man answers, "That comes from experience." "So how do you get experience?" the boy inquires further. "Oh, that," says the old man, "that comes from bad judgement."'
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What Ever Happened To [...] #1033
[Welcome back, to me, from parts unknown. Literally. In fact, I've just returned from parts unknown even, and especially, to myself. You might never have known them either and, for now (on the advice of counsel), we should keep them that way. Oh, and the other (dang lousy SOB'n) thing that's been lancing the "free" right out of my freelancing: Income Tax! ...
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Apr 4, 2014
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Apr 4, 2014
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2548
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='["And the 'hits' just keep on comin'…." "Hits" on websites and Twitter, I suppose. Hello, everyone, and welcome to another 24 hours of Bad Joke Friday! Which, without further ado, brings us right to today's topic. OK, joke. Maybe even bad joke! But this has all played out recently in various chat rooms, on ultrarunning listservs, Runner's World magazines, worldwide websites, Facebook even, and of course there have been "Tweets." And so we begin this morning's (well, on the Left Coast it's still morning) gourd-fearing sermon :] Deerly Be-Gloved, amen. Hallelujah. For today's rant we shall take our text from the good World mag of Runner's: http://www.runnersworld.com/fun/disney-acquires-badwater-135 And we ask: WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO [being able to take a joke] ? Here we find our load giving a lesson, to the totally disbelieving Yisraelites, that the heathen Walter Disenney (he isn't a properly buried Christian, after all, but a frozen ice block in a lab somewhere) and his company, Scrooge & Associates, PC, Inc., has effected a corporate raid on Good Bad Water Enterprises. In a hostile takeover, Scrooge McDuck has acquired yet another cartoon entity from yet another doubtless Scrooge. And The Other Scrooge responded immediately! Twittering, perhaps, on the fleeting tweets of vultures, or lost Angeles. I direct you now to your hymnals, to page… https://twitter.com/adventurecorps …and scrape your fingernail down until you arrive around abouts January the 13th--which wasn't a Friday, by the way, and thus hath thrown off the multitudes--whereupon, yea verily, you can enliven your souls by rereading the tweets of the Philistines. And yet even furthermore, deerly begloved, please now open your prayerbooks (not) to the following chapter: https://www.facebook.com/badwater135 You may have to have previously been baptized as a member of that particular congregation, but, by such baptizing, thou canst then unfurl the scroll, again, to chapters and verse covering January the 13th. But in case you have (not) been baptized into that Church of The Book of Face, allow me to put on my eyeglasses and read it aloud to you: "For the record, there is NO TRUTH to the rumour that Disney has bought the Badwater 135, as erroneously 'reported' by Mark Remy, the goofiest and daffiest writer I've encountered in a long time. Here is the email I just sent via his website: "Hello Mark "I'm not sure what the intent of your bizarre and fanciful post about Disney buying the Badwater 135 was, unless today were April 1, however my phone and email are blowing up with comments and questions about something that has not happened. "As the race director and owner of the Badwater® 135, Badwater® Ultra Cup, and the Badwater® trademark, I can state unequivocally that I have never even heard from Disney, let along entered into any type of agreement with them. "As such, please provide a disclaimer or retraction immediately to state that your post is entirely fictional. "That said, we'd be happy to take such a call from Disney if they are interested. "Thank you, Chris Kosman Race Director, Badwater 135 Chief Adventure Officer, AdventureCORPS, Inc." Thus sayest The Loud(est), and thanks be to gaud. Amen amen I say unto thee, listeners, can you, in good faith, comprehend what has just happened here? Have you consulted yon first referenced text (above) and… somehow, incredibly, astonishingly, actually BELIEVED THAT???? O my brethren and cistern, HOW COULD YOU POSSIBLY???? And yet, here we witness as to whereas This Other Scrooge was totally baffled. Completely mystified. Absolutely UN-seeing of the load's truth. Totally (due no doubt to his own heathen ways and means committee) UN-able to discern gord's real meaning here, and to separate out that wheat from the chaff of self-righteousness, haughty indignation, and huffy effrontery at the mere *hint* that His Nibs could possibly EVER sign over his heathen empire to some obvious antichrist for the right price. O my gracious goodness, CAN YOU IMAGINE???? Those of the rest of us, who have and yet retain the faith in all things Goofy being rendered unto Goofy, and all things goad being rendered unto gaud, well… haven't we not seen right through this? Have WE been deceived? Have WE been beguiled? Beguiled into believing that this Good Bad Water has now become a Mickey Mouse race???? Even the load was a laughing load! Haven't you all seen that hippie poster? Under blacklight, if need be? Yea verily, he, even HE, relished a "good one" put over on the good peeps of Yisrael. Did HE not raise Lazarus? Would not they ALL have rather Laz stay dead???? Great gosh a'mighty! O how those greed-filled Scrooges hath mist the hole point. That Good Mag of Runner's… only wanted us to laugh. But thus have we seen the reaction. And thus we have witnessed the blasphemy. But also thus, please notice, deerly begloved, that… …for the right price... …yea, even HE, Scrooge Junior, would *still* entertain an offer from The Duck & Goofy Enterprises, should they decide to call. ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour "your 800-year-old lute-plucking son-of-a-beach fire-and-brimstone multitudes-comforting collection-plate-collecting gord-fearing preacher from France" Yankee Folly of the Day: Yes, we no longer provide the answer to "whatever happened to" questions. You've studied. You're old enough. You figure it out.'
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What Ever Happened To [...] #1032
["And the 'hits' just keep on comin'…." "Hits" on websites and Twitter, I suppose. Hello, everyone, and welcome to another 24 hours of Bad Joke Friday! Which, without further ado, brings us right to today's topic. OK, joke. Maybe even bad joke! But this has all played out recently in various chat rooms, on ultrarunning listservs, Runner's World magazines, ...
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Jan 25, 2014
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Jan 25, 2014
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3694
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[Happy--or at least less miserable--New Year, Everyone! It's been awhile since we've rolled down our sleeves and written anything for the Internet. (Or is it World Wide Web, and, if so, what's the difference? That's something I never could figure out. It was supposedly invented by Al Gore? But I haven't been able to figure him out either.) Nevertheless, 2014 brings new resolve to *not* be the reason why cybertronics completely disappear. Neither do we wish to see the World Wide Web get canceled--like those 97 TV programs in 2013 that, as we've just learned via the Internet, got axed. So, in this titanic effort to continue, we're now going to observe a few new rules and make a few changes. Very simply, the new rules are *no rules* and the latest change is *not* to blame U.S. Presidents or their "Administractions" for things we miss that relate to running, ultrarunning, or sports in general. Instead, for the foreseeable future, we're going to follow the more-or-less "model" of the typical Sunday sermon. (Won't this be fun.) In other words, we'll begin with a "Text" and rap on from there. As follows :] Deerly Be-Gloved, [it's winter; some of us "Like" deerskin gloves] for today's rant we shall take our text from the good book of Face: https://www.facebook.com/notes/yiannis-kouros/notes-and-experiances-from-the-6-day-race/10152124732319210 And we ask: WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO [being a good loser] ? Can I get an "Ah, Men!" here, my brethren and cistern? Why in the name of cheeses can't we seemingly count on the risen crust to feed our hungry, our tired, our soldiering-on foot-soldiers upon finishing the good fight and crossing the line for glory hallelujah? They win the race and yet... they are starved? For glory? No, my fiends, they come in second place and they feel persecuted. Martyred! They feel starved… for attention! They get *no* glory! And they feel *so* compelled to explain themselves according to the good book of Face! This is how they SAVE Face!! We're talking salivation here, my druthers and schleppers. Here we have one who we *thought* was THE single greatest gods' gift to the planet… but suddenly now he's feeling "picked on"? Slighted? Abused? His baggage was lost by the airline? Oh my dearest gods of olympia! This is terrible!!! Surely this is the devil's doing. How can one who stands, and runs--for the ages, if not just for six days--so close to Zeus himself, be brought so low as to take second place? He is otherwise the champion of all champions! My Gag! He runs with the winged shoes of Hermes! He is the fastest mortal since Pheidippides! His status--and statue--on Mount Olympus is the only one not yet in ruins! And despite all this (and in Arid-zonna, no less) we have just witnessed some comely young one-among-all-comers named Joe utterly CRUSH His Nibs throughout a six-day footrace! Now this Joe has the new American record! In 144 continuous hours, yon radical upstart Joseph hath logged 555.361 miles! [See http://www.aravaiparunning.com/results/2013ATYResults6d.htm.] Meanwhile, our god-come-down-off-the-mountain, or pedestal, could somehow muster only a paltry 550.157? [See him here: http://www.aravaiparunning.com/acrosstheyears/2013/12/18/the-return-of-the-6-day/. Note that when this page appears, you'll need to click on "The Return of the 6 Day."] O my heaving! O our upchucks! (And upsets.) How can this be??? Surely, as I repeat (endlessly, as do all goodly men of the cloth--or the fleece or the running shorts, or longs) this must certainly be the diabolical work of boll weevil himself. The god of the nether regions. Hades, for example. Hades and all the rivers of forgetfulness have heaved themselves up, and doubtless caused this horrible upheaval. Just looketh at what our good god hath spake (or caused another to speaketh for him): "On the last couple of weeks of his preparation Yiannis Kouros got a flu during a training in Athens Olympic Complex due to a very cold wind of that day." [FB 666:2] A "WIND" doth make him SICK! Oy, ye!!! And now, so come all ye faithful, we read even more: "Seen the track, the night before the race Yiannis was very disappointed as he realized it was bumpy, with lots of small rocks, dust and humidity all around the course -especially near the resting tents where was full of grass. That meant there is no any opportunity to achieve any high performance as he was planning to try to achieve." [FB 666:6-7] He "seen" the track! It was bumpy! There were small rocks in abundance!! Load have mercy! And there was dust and HUMIDITY!!! "Then," as he writeth, "the period of the year with so much cold and humidity during the night and the heat from the other hand during the day time (that forced him to ask for ice to put on his head, in order to avoid sun-stroke) was not ideal, but not promising at all to survive from new flu and other illness created by such weather extremities." [FB 666:10] He may not have survived! O horros! O Kouros!! All this "new flu" and everything else MIGHT VERY WELL HAVE KILLED HIM!!! And "the negative issues did not stop hear." [FB 666:11] Hear hear!! Here here!! There there!!! "Despite all these odds Yiannis was focused to complete the race with maximum possible mileage in under such bad conditions for him." [FB 666:19] Our intrepid goodly god continueth on, despite all these pomps of satin and all his works. Yet further, most disturbingly he states: "However, on top of that he had to face something that disappointed him a lot. He never expected that the American runner will show such an antisportive behavior with antiathletic spirit, so that he was feeling pleased to see Yiannis suffering. Yiannis told him straight and directly all that he psych-out from his reaction: He told him that it seems he didn't had a goal to achieve in miles/klms etc. His only goal was to take advantage of Yiannis' situation to be sick, his lack of sleep and his lack of his running gear-as his bag never came." [FB 666:20-23] So this American runner was taking PLEASURE at our god's SUFFERING! No? YES!! I tell you troubly that, surely that, this utterly violates at least thee eleventh commandment as thrown down by Moze: "Thou shalt NOT over-strategize during thy footrace and psych-out thine opponent." Thou just mustn't!! It isn't cricket!!! Warily warily we readeth the continuing saga of great gosh a'mighty: "It was obvious that he was happy to see Yiannis suffering and therefore he was gaining energy from that feeling with antisportive inspiration, considering Yiannis as his enemy and with only whom he had to fight-" [FB 666:26] Did we not tell you this, my peeps? Haven't we been shouting from the pulpit all these past many minutes that--yea, woe yea, our god was battling with "his enemy"! Fighting mightily! With satin!! This demonic demagogue young upstart named Joe!!!???? So it was NOT, my peeps, our godly god's fault! It wasn't because our god was beaten in a footrace fair and square! Oh NO!!! It was because of the devil! This American devil!! This droll weevil who was purposefully put into this footrace only to TORMENT our god! To TEMPT him into the tent--the windy tent, the dust-strewn and foldy moldy disease-ridden bumpy tent. That frumpy tent. Yea, that very place whereat dirt clods and other imperfections from hell hath conspired to defeat him! And to suffer--OH MY GOD--the utter indignities of inglorious second place!!! Oh hear me out, ye cinders burning for the heaving lee truth. Hear me! Here! We got trouble, right here in River City! That's trouble with a capital "T" and it rhymes with "P" and it goes with "L" and it *all* stands for POOR LOSER!!! ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour "your fiendishly fiery one-sighed blow-horned flying purple steeple preacher... for at least the last eight hundred years" Yankee Folly of the Day: No, we no longer provide the answer to "whatever happened to" type questions. You studied. You're old enough. You figure it out.'
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What Ever Happened To [...] #1031
[Happy--or at least less miserable--New Year, Everyone! It's been awhile since we've rolled down our sleeves and written anything for the Internet. (Or is it World Wide Web, and, if so, what's the difference? That's something I never could figure out. It was supposedly invented by Al Gore? But I haven't been able to figure him out either.) Nevertheless, ...
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Jan 10, 2014
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Jan 10, 2014
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3569
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[Good Aftermourning, "all you groovy guys and groovy gals!" (as they used to say, oh, by now it seems like centuries ago). The "mourning" part has to do with my recent discoveries of rampant unfairness and lack of integrity in our sport, and in running/racing in general. But no, further research is required so I won't be writing about that for awhile. The "good" part has to do with: Hey, it's stopped snowing in Chicago!!! Which is probably old news, but nevertheless… "oldie but goody" (news) as we also used to say. So anyway, today's lecture, dear students, studs, and studettes, has to do with perhaps another sorta/kinda unfairness; and this is stuff yours troubly HAS seen and/or experienced… with his very own eyes! …or somebody else's. ;-)] The Obama Administraction (since it's all his fault anyway--by his own admission!) Presents… WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO [trail etiquette] ? Indeed. So what DID ever happen to such notions and courtesies as "announcing your intent to pass," "yielding 'track' to faster runners," "downhill running has right-of-way over uphill," "be aware of your surroundings at all times," and my personal favorite: "pack it in; pack it out"--which includes, of course, "step well off the trail to relieve yourself" AND "know how to shit in the woods"! I could add a few others, whose utter and complete disregard for I have noticed considerable evidence of over the years :) "pets must be leashed" (anybody ever tell that to the wolves and coyotes, or to their owners?); "private property/no trespassing" (with footpaths going around fallen trees, for example, that extend well beyond any boundary signs); and my other personal favorite: "no hunting" (with signs that say that being just riddled with bullet holes). These things always used to be de rigueur, standard operating procedure, and the MOS of every trailrunner I knew, saw, or ever heard of. Everybody but EVERYBODY used to show respect and pay attention. They couldn't help it. Earphones and iTunes hadn't been invented yet. In fact, who remembers boomboxes? It used to be that if you wanted to distract yourself and/or drown your boredom in rousing choruses of "We Are The Champions," you had to hoist a radio/tape recorder the size of a Volkswagen on your shoulders with the volume turned all the way clockwise--just like those young fellows in the city used to carry with them on the bus. Whatever happened to FULL busses? Busses just crammed to the sidewalls with lovely old peeps who used to appreciate such entertainment so totally, that they would get off at the next corner, go into a phone booth, and recommend "Superfly" at ten thousand decibels to their buddies at the precinct. What ever happened to phone booths? "-Fly"? "Dingo"? "Shaft"? Nowadays in the urban jungle when you mention such things, the kids all want to sell you other "things" stuffed inside plastic baggies. Don't schools teach film appreciation classes anymore? And of course I can remember when EVERY runner knew how to take a crap! Today? Not so much. I've seen "deposits" right smack in the middle of the singletrack trail. And the T.P. just scattering to the four winds. FRESH dumps, too! Like, I think, "wasn't this person worried about who might be following just inside his 2-and-a-half-minute lead?" For the instructionally impaired, there's even been a book written about it. See it here: http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=how+to+shit+in+the+woods. So, a little common sense there please, folks, eh? At least cover it up! And please turn the volume down on your iPods, iPads, iPoops, Sony Walkmans, whatever. (Do they still make Sony Walkmans?) I recommend these things not because I'm on commission, but because it all really will help YOU… you know, so that you're NOT leaving your own fresh live scents on the trail for the bears to track you. And with less MEGADEATH blowing out your eardrums, you might also be able to *hear* the stampeding wild boars bearing down behind you, ya think? Besides, if you're real good and really are conscientious and truly do wish to pay attention to your surroundings while out there on the trail, you really do also have a better-than-average chance at NOT becoming mountain lion lunch. "Trail Etiquette: An Extinct Idea Whose Time Has Gone," by M. E. Phirst. Hey, I'll tell ya what the heck happened to trail etiquette: It all but vanished with the invention of GU packets. Gels! Those little teeny tinfoil squeeze packages that plague the trails twice: Once when you bite off the tops and spit 'em out, and again when the rest of the packet gets too sticky to handle. And maybe a third time when you upchuck the contents anyway… all over the path (and possibly the person's shoes) in front of you. Yessir, when Modern Commerce & Convenience, Inc., first began finding ways to make money (BIG money) off all the half-naked natives that used to zoom through the jungle, THAT's when all your best practices of The Noble Savage began to fade. That's when our fit and fleet-footed all-natural athletes began reading magazine ads that told them they cannot possibly run a trail ultramarathon or even shorter races without some fancy-ass accoutrement all crammed full-in-the-pockets with: gels, electrolyte replacement drink, e-capsules, bars of power, chunks of gum candy, the whole idea of "you're brave as hell just for showing up," "to finish is to win," and of course: tune-in, turn-on, and crank the gain on that all-new seventh generation cell phone you've JUST GOT to carry. When "for the good of the tribe" began morphing into "for heaven's sake: I AM THE BEST that can possibly be"--that's when the trash and the crap and the discarded clothes, garbage bags, wrappers, pee, poo, and shell casings started collecting all over the forest floor. Uphill runners CAN'T yield to downhillers because they don't see them. They don't hear them. And they believe they're entitled to do whatever they wanna do anyway! Common courtesy CAN'T be practiced with excretory necessities because that would take too much time! And the phenomenon of peeps "packing heat" is becoming more and more common… just like road rage. I can see it all now. If running our little races can be considered microcosms of the society at large, pretty soon "lack of trail etiquette" is going to evolve into bloodshed: "The next dufus who pees on the heels of my $200 Hokas is going to get blown to Kingdom Effing Come!!!" --courtesy of this handy little chest pocket here in my ultra-hydration vest. It's where I can carry my "conceal." Ah well, in these times of underemployment and overpopulation, maybe a for-real version of "The Hunger Games" is just what we need in the woods. It's Modern Commerce's most convenient technique for thinning the herd. But the ubiquitous trail garbage problem will still likely only get worse. I mean, if forest rangers and park police can't enforce any of those rules they post on their signs now, how are they ever going to patrol hundreds of miles of remote singletrack to clean up and investigate all the (human) roadkill? Of course, there are rules already in place (during races at least) dealing with that very thing. Dead bodies that you find along the way--just like runners who need help--should be reported to the next aid station. It's when THAT sort of trail etiquette disappears that yours troubly starts worrying for real!!! ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour "your friendly neighborly eight-hundred-year-old lute-plucking song-and-dance Frenchman who right now is ready for Happy Hour" Yankee Folly of the Day: On the other hand, ya gotta give credit to trail signs that DO mean what they say. I recall the old course of the HUFF 50K. You were warned at some point that there was a shooting range next to the woods. And, sure enough, one time I got shot at.'
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What Ever Happened To [...] #1030
[Good Aftermourning, "all you groovy guys and groovy gals!" (as they used to say, oh, by now it seems like centuries ago). The "mourning" part has to do with my recent discoveries of rampant unfairness and lack of integrity in our sport, and in running/racing in general. But no, further research is required so I won't be writing about that for awhile. The ...
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Nov 15, 2013
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Nov 15, 2013
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3442
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[Happy "Bad," everyone! As in, today is "Bad Joke Friday" once more. And the chatter lately all throughout our little whirled of ultradom has been abuzz with bad jokes having nothing to do with ultrarunning. Everything from hexakosioihexekontahexaphobia (fear of bib number 666 ;-) to James Earl Ray's old Brushy Mountain Penitentiary being turned into a DISTILLERY (!) and tourist attraction (!!!) has been joked about. Did y'all know, by the way, that Mr. Ray's old prison (that he once escaped from) is now a checkpoint ON the Barkley Marathons course? Ha ha! And apparently the Tennessee State Legislature has just voted to make it an aid station as well. (Ha ha ha.) Gatorade, boiled potatoes, and moonshine. Can't ya just see it? Never mind. Today's "bad joke" has nothing to do with that. No, it's about some peeps' apparent requirement to turn running and racing into some kind of needs gratification therapy, positive reinforcement stimuli, extra swag or grand plan motivator for getting out the door in the first (or possibly last) place. Let's do it.] The Obama Administraction Presents… WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO [just running] ? OMG. NOW… ya gotta buy a Garmin. Or a Suunto. Or a handy-dandy Dick Tracy Two-Way Wrist Radio & Television Set. Before you should ever even *think* of lacing up your dirty shoes and heading out the door, you first need to strap something on your arm that will do everything for you (including the breakfast dishes) while you're on your way. There are devices out there that will chart/map/and/compute your progress--by the minute-per-mile, by the miles-per-hour, by the altitude gained (and lost), by the terrain, by the satellite, down by the seaside selling seashells (and automatically converting your currency into whatever's used by the 3rd World country whose border you just crossed) to up on the Chimney Top (or whatever else the hill you're climbing might be called) to over the river and through the woods to grandmother's trail you go. No kidding. It's all about "the apps." It's all about what you can download into your wristwatch--or cell phone--and then upload into your desktop--or laptop or notebook or tablet or whatever else today's version of the Etch-a-Sketch is. So. What ever happened to just lacing up those dirty shoes and running out your door? The free and the easy! The uncomplicated! The unencumbered! The T-shirt (or no shirt), the short-shorts (who remembers onion-skin?), the tube socks, and the Converse All-Stars? Just leave your analog dial silver Swiss wristwatch there on the coffee table. You won't be needing it. What ever in the world happened to… The Jogging Movement? You know, you'd be driving along the 4-lane and there'd be all *those people* slogging at snail's pace along the wrong side of the road, taking over one full lane of the highway. Whatever happened to just parking the car by the side of that road and then running awhile? Whatever happened to *streaking* [in the naked sense of the term ;) not the every-single-day-of-your-life kind]? Oh wait, recently there was this totally buff chickie-poo scampering across the golf course, eh? During the President's Cup? (Was it Obama's cup? ALL this is now, after all, apparently due to HIS "administraction," eh? Ya think?) I'll tell ya what happened. There's been an eleventh commandment recently passed: Thou Shalt NOT Run Free-and-Easy and Naturally (or au naturale) Like Some Kinda Born-Free Lion. Thou shalt BUY--and buy into--*stuff* first. You need a gimmick. And not only on your wrist but also in your head. And ears! There needs to be iTunes. Ya gotta have earphones. And you need to be able to re-shuffle your playlist as you go. There's gotta be: M-O-T-I-V-A-T-I-O-N. Otherwise, apparently, you won't get up off the couch. Ever! You'll decompose RIGHT THERE while watching the whole rest of the world buy Garmins and GPSes and wristwatches and fully-loving Subarus that take you "out there" in the first place, out to where you CAN'T get lost ***IF*** you're buying your Garmins and GPSes and wristwatches and whutchamacallits from Joe's. Joe's Sporting Goods, Joe's Running Store, Joe's Way-Cool Apparel Boutique, Joe's Crab Shack, and a Joe's Subaru Dealership near you. Hurry! These exciting offers are available for a limited time only! After that, you're on your own. And you will be horribly, horribly lost. Your car won't start, your email won't get answered, you won't have a clue how fast (or slow or high or low) you're going, your stars won't be aligned, and your wheels WILL come off. Your E.D. will limp in. You WON'T be ready. Your bride will leave you, taking the Subaru, and you'll be stuck miles away from granny's trailhead without all of the zillion things necessary that enable you to complete your run today. These days, ya gotta have races--with swag, lots and lots of it, and a beautiful bronze-cast medal to be draped around your neck when you finish. "To win is to finish." E-V-E-R-Y BODY can do this! Try it! There's a for-profit running and training group formulating near you soon! [This just in. My nephew tells me that CrossFit gyms charge $100 A WEEK (!!!) for their own particular training group that you can sign up for soon. Dishes-doing wristwatches with heartbeat monitors and every-other-possible-app in the Apple store may be optional inside the gym, but… you won't be cool if you're not wearing one. Oh, and the Spandex outfit needs to be cool, too, and match; and the neon glow-in-the-dark shoes need to be new, and clean!] For motivation to get out the door, you can now sign-up on-line any-time for all manner of "formulating near you" voluntarily-reporting training programs. There are "daily mile" websites, "run-every-single-damn-day" streak-like e-addresses to report to, and running club type sites where, if you hit your self-projected or coach-dictated mileage quota for the month, the duck will come down, Groucho will yak, and you'll win the "prize" in its mouth: probably a free month's membership to next month's quota. [A good friend that many of us know also maintains a monthly mileage reporting thingamajig that supposedly challenges runners to be the first to reach one million miles. Holey Samoley! Even a cat with nine lives would have trouble with that one. Still though, he has built it and, yea oh yea, they have come.] So, today? Today **before** you even think about hunkering down, tying your shoes, and slamming the storm door behind you, you'd better sit your ass in front of a monitor. You'd better be actively activating your Search Engines. E-bay? Yup. Fleet Feet? You betcha. Neiman Marcus? Well… may be! Before you ever even start to strip down, lace up, and lunge out, you had best be on-lined, coach signed-up, the day's mileage prophesies e-mailed-in, all latest apps downloaded, on-wrist-computer pre-programmed, arm-band iTunes all shuffled, ear plugs inserted, outfit color-coordinated, toe-socks pulled on, glow-in-the-dark new shoes taken out of their shipping boxes... and THEN--and only then--are you permitted, by law and peer pressure, to get up and go. And to think I gave up golf--because it was too expensive--for this. ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour "your friendly neighborly eight-hundred-year-old-hyphenated and pre-programmed lute-plucking song-and-dance man from France, now heading out-of-doors" Yankee Folly of the Day: How does that old joke go? "I gave up bowling for sex: the balls are lighter and you don't have to change your shoes." Well, I'm giving up running (possibly sex too) for bowling: you can just "come as you are" and, heck, RENT the damn shoes.'
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What Ever Happened To [...] #1029
[Happy "Bad," everyone! As in, today is "Bad Joke Friday" once more. And the chatter lately all throughout our little whirled of ultradom has been abuzz with bad jokes having nothing to do with ultrarunning. Everything from hexakosioihexekontahexaphobia (fear of bib number 666 ;-) to James Earl Ray's old Brushy Mountain Penitentiary being turned into a DISTILLERY ...
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Nov 8, 2013
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Nov 8, 2013
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3567
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[Hello-everyone-and-happy-bad-joke-Friday. OK, that's out of the way. Now I can get off my chest what's REALLY bothering me, besides the shirt. Today's little rankle is about raceday. But first, how do you spell it? Is it "race day," "race-day," or "raceday"? Or maybe "Raceday," "RaceDay," or "Du Jour des Runnique a la Asses Off?" I've seen it all ways, except for the last one, of course--and pardon my French, eh? Which takes us back to the opening line of this paragraph. Since that expression, too, is rarely spelled and/or punctuated correctly, I'm covering all bases by hyphenating the whole darn thing. In English, we're allowed to do that. In French? Not so much. Despite all *that* however, I don't like hyphens. I prefer spelling it: raceday.] The Bush Administraction Presents… WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO [raceday registration] ? Oh My God. (That, too, might be spelled and punctuated wrong. Sorry.) Registering to run a race on the very same day it happens? Even just minutes before it starts? Are you kidding me??? I can't imagine!!! Today? In this day and age? When popular ultramarathons, for example, are totally filled WITHIN TEN MINUTES of opening up for on-line registration?? And not just ultras but big city marathons, too! Didn't I read earlier in the year (or was it my imagination) that THE CHICAGO MARATHON SOLD OUT 45,000 entries within a week? Maybe less? And wasn't that back in February or March sometime? But the race doesn't take place 'til the day after tomorrow! Well, you know, it wasn't always this way. And although I don't actually "go back" far enough to remember the Chicago Marathon having raceday registration, I do remember it the day before. Yup! Even as recently as the early '90s, you could show up at the "Expo" (Exposition, eh? Like, bazaar. Like, Kasbah--complete with the snake charmers and snake oil salesmen) on the Saturday before the Sunday race, and still register. I remember it well. Mostly why I remember it is because of my good friend we'll call Mack who, apparently on a whim, just woke up that Saturday and decided to run a marathon. Also, I apparently missed him at the Expo. But not the next day! Boom. At just before Mile 10, here he comes up behind me and passes my ass. Easy peasy, as they say. The thing is, or was, I'd never known him to run more than 25 kilometers before in his life. But there he was! All of a sudden out of nowhere on a whim and a frolic… grinning as he passed me in my shock and surprise, saying, "They tell me I need a qualifier to run Boston. So, here I am!" Bam. And there he goes! Whupping my butt by half-a-day, probably. Anyway, he qualified and I didn't. But later (we're talking about that 100th Big Deal Grand Poobah Boston in '96) "they" (the B.A.A.) decided to expand the field by holding an additional lottery (for non-qualifiers) and, hey, I won the lottery! So that's how we both ended up on The Commons hitching a bus ride to Hopkinton for the first-century-edition of Johnny Kelly-the-Elder's most famous race. (There, that's more hyphens for ya.) I have more stories about that B.A.A. Marathon which I'd be happy to tell you, but not now. This has been a total, and a needless, digression. But, as I say, I digress. We're talking about whatever happened to raceday sign-up? You know, registering before The Dawn of The Internet. Before you were absolutely required to own a computer and have a credit card. Back in the Good-Old-(some call it Stone Age)-Days. (More hyphens.) Back then mostly all you needed was an "ink pen," envelope, and a stamp. Oh, and a checking account--but money orders worked just as well. What ever happened to money orders? Do they even still exist? I'm guessing today's "kids" (i.e., anybody under 40) only know about ATMs, online banking, and pressing their iPhones on top of those weird squiggly Rorschach Test-like labyrinthian ink blots you see sometimes in magazine ads. What ARE those things anyway? I'm guessing that that's how you can transfer funds and/or do online banking when you're not at a bank, when you're not at your computer, and when you don't have any funds. No? Oh well, ex-cuuuuuuuuuuuuuuse me. But I can see a day in the future when someone will write: "What Ever Happened To [ink blot ads for iPhones] ?" But I digress. Sorry. What ever happened to raceday registration? I'll tell you what happened: PEOPLE happened. More and more and more and more fricking people! People everywhere! Peeps plying their way out of plywood! People coming out of the woodwork… and ALL of 'EM wanting to run marathons! And isn't that a nice thought? Imagine every person on the planet running. All at once. Footraces. Marathons! Ultras even! EVERYBODY!!! Oh My God. No more obesity problems, huh? Hah! And no more bike paths and trails. They can't possibly all fit! But more than that: no more raceday--or any other kind of--registrations. Because if that were to happen, the ONLY way into a race would be through a lottery. (Are you hearing this, Publishers Clearing House? You could turn these things into Sweepstakes!) There isn't raceday registration for the same reason you can't just show up at the door of a Rolling Stones concert without a valid ticket. And those can only be purchased years in advance--by going online with your credit card the very INSTANT TicketMaster opens ticket sales for that particular concert. Too many damn PEEPS!!! And nowadays--here's the latest permutation, evolution, or genetic offshoot--the lines are all formed not at the stadium, the Expo, OR at the ticket-broker's place. Nope. Today the lines are all formed where you can't even see them: in cyberspace! There must be thousands upon thousands of computer geeks hunched over their mice--yup, or is it mouses?--just ready to POUNCE the very split-instant when something pops onscreen saying, "Registration for Yadda Yadda Footrace is now available." WHAM. And then… CRASH! The whole freaking system dives into darkness and you… you ain't registering for a gol-dang thang. ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour "your friendly neighborly eight-hundred-year-old-hyphenated-lute-plucker-from-France now invading your cyber-space" Yankee Folly of the Day: I'm taking bets. In what year do you think the United States national debt will reach one quadrillion dollars? (Me? I think if you were to add up EVERYTHING--all states' debts, with counties', municipalities', and Detroit included--we've already passed the milestone.)'
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What Ever Happened To [...] #1028
[Hello-everyone-and-happy-bad-joke-Friday. OK, that's out of the way. Now I can get off my chest what's REALLY bothering me, besides the shirt. Today's little rankle is about raceday. But first, how do you spell it? Is it "race day," "race-day," or "raceday"? Or maybe "Raceday," "RaceDay," or "Du Jour des Runnique a la Asses Off?" I've seen it all ways, ...
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Oct 11, 2013blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='sys_update', rowValue=''
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3787
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[Good After-Morning to all of my friends, acquaintances, fellow Listservites and Listswervians, and to only a few of my sworn enemies. (You don't know who you are. :) Today is another BJF (Bad Joke Friday) and I'm just getting started. What prompted this little treatise today was this, as was, I believe, first posted on the Ultralist by my good friend Carl Asker: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tD16uoogSEE. As you can easily see, that ain't no joke! That's *awesome* in fact. But it--and other recent "things" that I won't mention--will help serve today to build a bad joke, as follows…] The Clinton Administraction Presents… WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO [racing, I mean REAL RACING]? You know, the kind like Mo Farah and Kenenisa Bekele are doing in the video. Oh, I know it still goes on (obviously) but… it seems like the TREND in footracing these days is to possibly pack the most peeps feasibly into the biggest venues politically for the biggest bucks financially amidst the hugest hype marketably but with the least amount of room to move, period. Today's big races are like Exodus. Like Moses leaving Egypt. Like taking 25 percent of all towns' populations and putting them all-at-once upon the shut-down expressways of every big city in America (how 'bout Earth) all throughout the year (!) and then blowing the air-horn. AAAAAAAAAAEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEENH!!! "The Umpteenth Annual Big City (pick one) Marathon/Half-Marathon/10K/8K/5K/5th Avenue Mile/(and yes even)100-Mile/100K/50-Mile/50K/25K/Cross-Country Whatchamahcallit IS UNDERWAY!!!" Ta-Da! If you were shut out of all this wonderfulness, please send in your entries earlier next year (we'll spam you to death until you do) and don't forget to patronize our sponsors. Our, yes, many many sponsors, all of whom have everything to sell you to make this jam-packed oozing Israelite parade more enjoyable. Here, you might need an eight-hundred dollar wristwatch to help you. It keeps time in 30 languages and 24 different time zones and will call out your splits vocally and automatically phone all your friends while you're waddling. Then, when you get home later, it'll do your breakfast dishes. What ever happened to racing? REAL racing! The kind that, you know, you first learned on the playground. That damn Sally in the fourth grade would scrape a line across the dirt with her shoe and "challenge" your so-called superior male ass to an all-out sprint to the streetlight. "Whuddo I get for winning?" you ask. "You can kiss me," she replies. "On your mark, get set, GO!" And she very handily proceeds to hand you your first humiliating DEFEAT as an otherwise supposedly superior male. No kiss, but plenty of derision from your fellow dufuses at the back of the classroom. Being "chicked"! Hey, whatever happened to so-called "superior males" being peeved about being chicked? I can recall many peeps telling me (back in the old days) that guys just did NOT like gals to pass them. Many gals would tell me how male elbows would suddenly flail out to the sides whenever they were "just running their own race" but nevertheless running some poor "manly" sucker down. What happened to all the dozens upon dozens of heart-pounding RACERS to whom stuff like this used to matter? These days when males get chicked, they expect a phone call; or, at the very least, her cell number. They wanna "text" or "chat" later in the race. Maybe meet at the finish. Share a brew or two in the beer tent. Stroll down the Midway and visit all the booths. Buy a pair of shoes together! Or, hey, an eight-hundred-dollar wristwatch!! Then later you can have supper at her place and your watch will do her dishes. The whole thing is just like a circus. A carnival. Mardi Gras somewhere/everywhere (!) besides New Orleans practically every weekend of the year. Whatever happened to 1st, 2nd, and 3rd PERIOD? OK, gold, silver, and bronze for the first three "superior" (ha ha) males as well as the first three outstanding kick-ass chicks. Isn't this how the Olympics works? International track meets? The World Championships?? Fourth, fifth, sixth, and yadda yad… get nothing. Zilch! Un gotz! They just repack their gym bags and head home. These days, everyone in the entire circus gets a medal just for moseying a couple kilometers, passing (eventually) under the balloon arch, and smiling for the eight-hundred-dollar-a-gig professional photographers who'll later send you your proofs and an invoice. Big bucks! These things aren't footraces; they're state fairs!!! Whatever happened to foot RACES? I'll tell you what happened to footraces: chip timing. Electronical gimcrackery is what happened to the old blood and guts from the Prefontaine Era. Nowadays EVERYBODY gets timed, whether you started your race on time, or not! Now, I don't wanna say anything against chip timing, per se. (Nah, I ain't stupid! I am NOT gonna bite the hand that feeds me! ;-) I mean, it's a helluva lot better than stopwatches and notepaper. Or, as in the good old days, pushing the plunger on the Chronomix machine, tearing off everyone's bib tag, and stringing them on a coat hanger. (Kids today have no idea.) But chip timing is, really, mostly for keeping track of all the finishers and their splits or split-second EXACT finishing times, carried out to about four decimal places. In other words: keeping track of all the gun-time finishes. That's it! But the abuse of this system comes when everybody in the circus wants their CHIP time! Here's the problem with chip time. What it *can* do is record your own individual exact start time (i.e., when you finally do get to the start, and then cross the mats) and then of course your own individual exact finish time. The problem is: this is a race! The FIRST one crossing the finish line (remember Sally in the 4th grade?) is THE WINNER! But with chip time, that winner may not in fact have the fastest time. Right? Hasn't this happened already? Haven't there been big city marathons, in fact, that shocked the hell out of ALL the biggie promoters and big-salaried race directors when Hoozits Whutzisname happened to cross the starting mat a tad late, then ran a faster time than the winner did? He just couldn't pass that guy and break the tape first, but the electronical timekeeping has his ass running a couple of ticks quicker! Eh? Hah!!! Now go back and rewind that video. You realize that, under chip timing, if Mo Farah had been a little slow to cross the starting line mat… but ran like hell and made up all kinds of time and clocked in at the clock (like it shows) just behind Bekele? Mo would've won the race!!! ( O_O ) But he didn't. Did he? Yours troubly, The Troubadour "your friendly neighborly eight-hundred--not dollar, but--year-old tunesmith and lute plucker, wordsmith and time teller, who used to need a tolling bell to tell what his finishing time was" Yankee Folly of the Day: So, with the government all shut down now, will we be getting a break in our federal taxes? Eh? Like the electric company: every day of no service equals a full day's discount off your bill!! (Doesn't it work both ways with government? SHOULDN'T it work both ways???)'
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What Ever Happened To [...] #1027
[Good After-Morning to all of my friends, acquaintances, fellow Listservites and Listswervians, and to only a few of my sworn enemies. (You don't know who you are. :) Today is another BJF (Bad Joke Friday) and I'm just getting started. What prompted this little treatise today was this, as was, I believe, first posted on the Ultralist by my good friend Carl ...
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Oct 4, 2013
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Oct 4, 2013
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3516
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[Is it Bad Joke Friday? Again? Already?? Well, here's something I recently thought of that nobody cares about: water bottles. Right. The lowly, lowly water bottle. And why did I ever have my head so low in the first place as to think up such down-in-the-pumps type stuff? (Don't ask. It's been an emotionally tough week. Death and dismemberment all around. Not kidding. Sorry.) Well, this is how I got so low as to think that up: I was housecleaning. (It'll do it every time.) More specifically, I was trying to put coffee mugs back inside kitchen cabinets and discovered, to my horror, that I had no more room. The cabinets were chock (choked) full of water bottles! There must've been thousands! OK, no. Maybe a couple dozen. Anyway, as I also discovered and would now like to expound upon, *any* more than one (maybe two, if you, like the Lone Ranger, have a double-holster pack) is waaaaaaay more water bottles than you'll ever need in your life. Happy Friday! Be even happier: tell a bad joke yourself today… to anyone that's thirsty and who'll listen!! :-] The Bush the Second Administraction Presents… WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO [water bottles]? You know, the kind with the straws already inside. Water bottles, per se, still exist of course, but I never see or never get (along with other swag inside race packets) those "old" (ha ha, we're talkin' maybe a dozen years) kinds with the long "flexible" plastic suckers sticking out through their lids. You know, those spastic gigantic whacktoast unhandleable monstrosities that I have never seen ANYBODY EVER use… except for this here Harvey "I'm A Lawyer" Levin on television's ubiquitous "TMZ." Ah, and there's another future "What Ever Happened To" when THAT whacktoast goes off the air. I mean, just how many damn Hollywood gossip programs can there BE on TV??? They always ALWAYS leaked--those old flimsy plastic bottles did--probably because there's never been an invention yet that can keep the beverage from oozing out the sides of the hole that that damned stupid straw goes through. It's like, you run along, tilt the bottle… TILT THE BOTTLE? Am I kidding? You cannot even run at all with such a contraption in your hand without squeezing it and, once you squeeze it, the whole damn lid flips off! It's the single worst invention ever to be foisted upon anyone ever who's ever run anywhere in their life. You're better off scampering naked across deserts, pausing only at oases (or mirages), than to try running and carrying such a completely senseless fluid container known as a water bottle with a straw in the lid. But I digress… Where was I? And whatever happened to that lovely rhetorical device known as the digression? (Oops. Never mind.) Ah, yes, running along and tilting the bottle, stopping ALWAYS to pick up the lid and the straw off the ground, and losing ever more rapidly--and splashingly--the contents inside. What ever happened to race sponsorship? You know, the totally clueless kind? That is, those kinds of idiotic sponsoring merchants that put their names all over these silly, stupid bottles in the first place and had paid to have stuffed inside your swag bag, eh? Every race of 10K or less, throughout ALL the suburbs and most of the cities, used to give you some kind of drug store's imprinted water bottle. And over the years, you'd end up with a couple dozen of 'em in your kitchen that you would never EVER use, nor have you EVER ever used. Maybe race sponsors over the years--these long, long years that yours troubly has been "racing" (some call it "oozing")--have gotten smarter. And cheaper! Nowadays when you show up on raceday and retrieve your "packet," it's more than likely you'll get a printed coupon to hoozit's pharmacy instead of that hoozit's water bottle. Whatever happened to Hoozits? Nowadaze? Thanks to U.S. "Administractions" following Bush the Second? Nowadaze Hoozits is out of business. Hoozits's tax burden and other overhead costs have skyrocketed out of control. Hoozits was threatened with raises in employee health benefits' costs, minimum wage raisings, and surcharges on the tax upon his tax increases--and don't forget local political extortion and other "protection" expenditures--and yadda yadda yad. That made All Hoozitses evolve from donating water bottles to issuing coupons and, when those expired and after April 15th rolled around, All Hoozitses went out of business. And that caused all the retail workers unions to rejoice (ha) and subsequent Administractions (ah yes, this ever bigger "big government" that the Reagan Administraction was pledged to reduce) to demand more taxes. So, that pretty much sums up what happened to America, right there! No, huh? OK then. That's just what happened to those stupid fricking water bottles with the straws already in 'em. Here, I'll tell you what happened to water bottles: They are now HYDRATION SYSTEMS! Yes! No kidding!! Look it up!! Running stores don't sell "water bottles"; they sell "hydration systems"!! These days you have a Hydraform Handheld Pocket™ marketed by Amphipod®. You've got nipples and nozzles and backflow-proof "bite valves." Ya got freakin' whole BACKPACKS--trademarked Camelbak®--fer cryminnie sakes! And those have "reservoirs" and BLADDERS!!! Today's runners, instead of emptying their bladders, now need to FILL THEM!!! I've seen it myself. At aid stations where I've worked, all kinds of hard-working runners arrive, hastily divest themselves of their, yes, "hydration vests" and then pantingly ask me to fill their bladders!!!! I'm, like, "Here: DRINK!!! That'll fill 'em. Otherwise, I suppose, what I *could* do for you is use a catheter. Ya wanna unzip it for me?" ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour "your fanatically ancient trustless hulking thoroughly hydrated lute-plucking song-and-dance CANTEEN man who sometimes refreshes himself by jerking a soda" Yankee Folly of the Day: (In honor of Larry Gassan's birthday today :) I've now strategically positioned myself in a safe, undisclosed (but wonderful!) world-famous multilevel marketing network, hawking salt. Here, you can join my down line.'
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What Ever Happened To [...] #1026
[Is it Bad Joke Friday? Again? Already?? Well, here's something I recently thought of that nobody cares about: water bottles. Right. The lowly, lowly water bottle. And why did I ever have my head so low in the first place as to think up such down-in-the-pumps type stuff? (Don't ask. It's been an emotionally tough week. Death and dismemberment all around. ...
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Sep 13, 2013blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='sys_update', rowValue=''
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3584
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[Welcome back to Bad Joke or--as I've been thinking lately--Negativity Friday. First, in other news of the universe, I see that next summer's "Last Annual" Vol-State Road Race is now COMPLETELY FULL! The projected field will be expanded by nearly triple, and it only took three weeks from the end of the 2013 version to fill up the 2014 version. So I guess, by no popular demand whatsoever, I'll just have to put in a return engagement. And THAT's the Bad Joke right there. Earlier this week while I was going about my father's business (i.e., rebuilding his ancient housing ruins so that my inheritance might be sold to some kind of museum), I chanced upon an almost-as-ancient full-color printed flyer from Kodak, or as it said on the back flap: © 2000 Eastman Kodak Company AND also © 2000 Bally Total Fitness Corporation. Apparently the two of them had joined forces in order to market the idea that throwaway single-use cameras could be utilized to visually document the progress of your fitness, especially while being trained by a Bally's Personal Trainer. What you were supposed to do--as recently as the turn of the century!--is hand the little cardboard camera to your PT, let him or her snap your pic in the gym--what, once a week?--and THEN, after months, FINALLY take the thing in to Walgreens, or whatever, and… what… hope someday your prints would come? Whoa. Kinda hard to imagine, huh? I'll bet there's peeps readin' this now who never heard of such cameras, such prints, or even… Kodak? All of which now gives rise to the following.] The Bush the Second Administraction Presents… WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO [throwaway single-use cameras]? Who among us (who are really into photography and used to have a whole leather satchel full of equipment) used to HATE to have to run big long races carrying all that stuff? If we were heading out West (or East or North or South) to run an exceptionally long and popular ultra, for example, we would just naturally want to capture some of those breathtaking scenes on film. (Remember FILM???) So, because we were seriously NOT in contention of winning anything (and they did allow us boucou hours to finish) we'd either carry the damn Nikon with us or… yup… drive to the nearest drugstore the night before and pick ourselves up one of those nifty little throwaway cardboard cameras. Right. That's what I did! So… What ever happened to throwaway cameras? Remember how they used to come all pre-packaged inside a box and again inside some stupid "lightproof" film wrapper with the two-thousand-pound-test hermetically sealed pouch-ends that you couldn't even open with a Bowie knife! Remember *that* junk? You'd be out on the trail, come to a breathtaking place that took your breath away, then suddenly remember your cheap-ass camera at the bottom of your fanny pack. You'd stop, remove the pack, dig deep, extract the camera, and then… spend until the next guy caught you, trying to OPEN the little bastard. But if you did manage, you could hand him your camera, beg for that shot-of-a-lifetime of you standing cliffside with your back to "the scenery," and then the both of you would waste fifteen more minutes fiddling with the film-advance knob, the "flash" setting, and that stupid plastic shutter. So whatever happened to--or at--cliffsides? Here's a thought just thunked: WHAT would be the trail ethics for the guy behind you holding your camera if YOU slipped and fell to your death off the cliff? Do you think HE'd pay the damn photo-finishing department of Walgreens to actually develop the film afterwards? I'm guessing he'd just throw away the throwaway right over the cliff after ya. ("Here, buddy. This thing belongs to you. I don't need to be carrying any extra weight. Besides, I have my own fancy 35MM SLR Pentax. That's right. I'm serious.") What EVER happened to 35MM Single Lens Reflex cameras anyway? Hey, is Pentax still in business? Kodak? Walgreens??? Right. I'm wrong. Nowadays you've got a damn drugstore on the corner of every block. Hmmm… an entire population threatened by substance abuse, and there's a Walgreens on every other street. Coincidence? Perhaps not! Who remembers Rexall? Revco? Eckerd? Phar-Mor? Dart Drug? But I digress. In today's throwaway one-time-use outa-sight/outa-mind society we haplessly find ourselves living in, ALL that throwaway stuff has been thrown away. Half of what you own today will be thrown away. Some of it as early as tomorrow! And just you wait till your parents die and stick you with their house. You will then and there proceed to, yes, throw away EVERYTHING of yours that they--for fear of breaking your little heart all these years--"kept" just for you. In that horde you will find: your toys from infancy; your baseball gloves, bat, and balls from Little League; ALL your freakin' textbooks from high school; your pressed-between-the-pages prom boutonniere; your high school diploma; your report cards; your playing cards confiscated from the back of study hall (that you wondered whatever happened to); your first car's license tags (unless you used them for Barkley); and, lordy, who the heck knows what the hell else? Oh. Oh wait. I know what else: your last one-use-only throwaway camera with that ONE remaining shot still on it. Good luck trying to develop the other eleven. So here, at last, is whatever the heck happened to those old single-lens spasmodic-reflex single-use plastic-and-cardboard foil-wrapped lightproof (sometimes waterproof!) throwaway cameras: they're now in your telephone. That's right. "Hold the phone" could actually now mean doin' yourself a "selfie." You hold your iPhone (or whatever) at arm's length, face the pinhole, and then click away for any or all of ten thousand highly pixilated digitally scanned images of you versus the scenery. And now-a-daze, just think: If you back your own self off the cliff, your "camera" will already be with you. In fact, you can take some REEL KEWL pics and even vids of yourself on the way down. ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour "your frenetic ancient trustless hulking thoroughly caffeinated lute-plucking song-and-dance man who once worked a drug counter as a soda jerk" Yankee Folly of the Day: If you do find some of your old prescriptions in the basement of your parents' house, could you still dart out for the drugs if you also find a Dart Drugs?'
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What Ever Happened To [...] #1025
[Welcome back to Bad Joke or--as I've been thinking lately--Negativity Friday. First, in other news of the universe, I see that next summer's "Last Annual" Vol-State Road Race is now COMPLETELY FULL! The projected field will be expanded by nearly triple, and it only took three weeks from the end of the 2013 version to fill up the 2014 version. So I guess, by ...
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4448
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[Awhile ago, somebuddy or somebunny noted--along with his or her training regimen, specimen, preferences, Garmin trackings, VO2-max vs. HR-extremities, nutritional intake vs. wastage outpour, etc., etc., etc., and, oh yeah, complete lists of all the races he or she has ever run vs. all the upcoming races he or she fully intends to do--that (are you still with me?) one of the things he or she liked to drink was de-fizzed Coke. ( x_x ) And THAT's what's prompted THIS.] The Carter Administraction Presents… WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO [De-fizzed Coke]? It used to be, back in "the glory days," that for your beverages you would go to the store. No, not the sporting goods store or the running store or the fashion store or the triathlon store or the online store or the racing specialties store or "wherever only the very highest priced accouterments for your kick-ass successes are sold." No, not THEM. The grocery store. Or, back where I come from, the supermarket. You'd push a buggy-basket down the aisle and snatch cans off the shelf. Or, back in the REALLY "back in the day" day, bottles. Glass bottles! Returnable bottles! For which you plunked down a nickel or dime and, hey, got the nickel or dime back when you returned the empty bottle! (What a concept! Imagine the lessened cubic acreage required by landfills in those days!) Whatever happened to glass "deposit" bottles of soda pop? Orange juice? Lemonade? Yoo-hoos? Hell, of milk!!! Nowadays your beverages have as many packagings as ingredients. Cartons, plastic, waxed cardboard, six-packs wrapped in plastic, cardboard cartons, six-packs of cardboard cartons wrapped in plastic… and inside of all that plastic each and every single plastic "squeeze container" ends up smooshed by your fist, pitched in a barrel (hopefully), and then into the landfill. But I digress. The point iz… da fizz. What you'd do is--for, during, or after training runs AND out of your drop bags in ultras--you'd drink a flattened beverage. And how you got that was by opening the damn cans or bottles a couple of days in advance. Put 'em in the fridge, or not. (Usually that didn't matter because by the time you'd be drinking it, it would be 95-degrees.) But it'd be liquid, eh? AND liquid that was very easily ingested! No bubbles, no fizz, no carbonation, no poppies, no poopers, no floaters, no whiz-bangs, no detergents, no powders, no soap, nope! Just pure liquified sugar you could GUZZLE. And… not fart afterwards. Or puke. Or pee out all kinda uncomfortable weirdnesses behind the bushes that folks used to use… before skirts. And those "she-funnels" and dude shorts with better elastic that lets you, literally, pee on the fly. Whatever happened to shorts with flies? But again I digress. What ELSE we all did was: we had to plan. There was no such thing as "instant gratification." No (more, yet more!) little wrappers containing, uh, stuff you could immediately eat or drink. No "gels" in those days. No GU. Not even fricking PowerBars! (We'd use Snickers. Same thing.) No, nothing doing. You had to PLAN your "stuff." You bought candy bars and soda pop at the supermarket, came home, popped open all the pop cans and (remember "church keys"?) snapped off all the bottle caps and then stuffed all the candy in your shorts. Or, yeah, there were things even in those days that could contain your "stuff" while you ran. We called them "fanny packs." Then. You. Waited. For at least. Two. Whole. Days. When wham! Bingo! Your soda was ready. All de-fizzed and ready to rock with nothing therein to upchuck you. You then had everything possible to be gained--except by the purists--from sucking down warm liquid SUGAR to keep you going or help you recover. Ah, but there were "purists" even then. The purists all drank juice. Right. Like Bernd Heinrich. He set world records by guzzling cranberry juice, which never did have any fizz. (What a concept, eh?) What EVER happened to Ocean-Spray? Oh, sorry. It's still with us. Only now it's apple-cranberry, cranapple, very-berry-cranberry, grape-cranberry, crangrape (?), raspberry-cranberry, apple-orange-raspberry-grape-cranberry-cranapple, and even cranberry to pour on your Fruit Loops. I will tell you WHAT the heck EVER happened to de-fizzed Coke. It is now zero-calorie fully-fizzed politically-correct gold-label Coke, which you STILL need to de-fizz. And in this age of instant gratification, nobody has TIME for that. And besides, it's COKE®! Regular versus Coke Classic. It's Vanilla Coke. It's Cherry Coke. It's Diet Vanilla Coke, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola Zero, Diet Cherry Coke, Diet Coke/Coca-Cola Light, Diet Coke/Coca-Cola Light with Lime, Caffeine Free Coca-Cola, Caffeine Free Coke Light/Diet Coke, Caffeine Free Barq's, Fanta, Diet Barq's, Diet Fanta, Caffeine-fricking-FREE Diet Barq's-Fanta-Inco Kola, and Mello Yello/Mello Yello Zero, Pibb, Minute Maid, Minute Maid Soft, Fresca, Monster (!), Java Monster, H2OK, Honest (!!!), Nestea, Nestea COOL, and of course that already flattened beverage (both carbonatedly and financially): the nearly disappearing PowerAde… with of course PowerAde Light, PowerAde Play, and PowerAde Zero. Oh but yea, woe yea, they had Dr. Pepper "back in the day" as well. In fact, none other than Barney Klecker himself set a world record for FIFTY MILES drinking *only* DIET Dr. Pepper. Yup. And all of exactly ONLY four-and-a-half ounces of it (he told me himself) THROUGHOUT THE ENTIRE RUN!!! Of course, he wasn't running for long (4 hours, 51 minutes, and 25 seconds at the time) and he did have the world record--until Bruce Fordyce came to that same old same place (Sweet Home Chicago's Lakefront) and broke it--and the Diet Dr. Pepper that Barney Klecker drank was, for sure, (eh? ya think?) de-fizzed. ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour "your friendly ancient trustless hulking rusty caffeine-full lute-plucking song-and-dance man who used to drink fifty gallons of regular Dr. Pepper in four-and-a-half miles." Yankee Folly of the Day: Silver-Label Decaffeinated Diet Monster Light Play Zero Quarter 'n' Three Quarter 50-50, no deposit/no return, with lime or without, with fizz or without, on shelves now or wherever fine toys are sold.'
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What Ever Happened To [...] #1024
[Awhile ago, somebuddy or somebunny noted--along with his or her training regimen, specimen, preferences, Garmin trackings, VO2-max vs. HR-extremities, nutritional intake vs. wastage outpour, etc., etc., etc., and, oh yeah, complete lists of all the races he or she has ever run vs. all the upcoming races he or she fully intends to do--that (are you still with ...
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Jul 26, 2013
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Jul 26, 2013
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4285
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[There seems to be some recent concern/inquiry/puzzlement over women runners who have attempted The Barkley Marathons--yea, woe yea--"the race that eats its young" (perhaps answering the inquiries right there). All those lovely young (hey, they are ALL young AND gorgeous) women runners were eaten. Yup! Hardbitten, chewy, and swallowed. And every single one of 'em has done better than me. I might've been "young" once (never lovely), but that damned Barkley spat me back out! And I've reminded quite a few of puke ever since. ( x_x ) All this has piqued my own wonderment, however, and so I have recently (within, oh say, the last half hour) wondered why we keep having so many *finishers* lately--of ANY gender or species!] The Bush Administraction Presents… WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO [UNfinishable Barkleys] ? Once upon a time, a long time ago in a land far away, runners would show up at some officially designated--but otherwise totally unknown--campground in eastern Tennessee and only reserve their campsite through Saturday night. Why? Because they knew they'd be "outa there" sometime Sunday. Why? Because finishing that dang Barkley race requires an extended stay into Monday, and, hey, nobody was finishing! What ever happened to THAT happy circumstance? We (those of us unfortunate enough to be having to be running, nah, crawling; OR totally fortunate enough to be "crewing"--ha ha--or smilingly standing by as bystanders) were always able to plan accordingly. If we had places to go or peeps to see, we could always promise: "Hey, see ya Sunday night!" We could break camp in the sunshine, not in the torrential downpour. We could leisurely re-pack our gear, load up our wagons, hang around the campfire, tell more lies, and *try* to choke down more Hughes' baked (and re-baked, always to the point of turning the can into a hod and the beans into mortar) beans. Any leftover not-yet-digitally-prepared Barkley chicken could also be leisurely slow roasted, skewered, and, yes, eaten. There was a certain relaxation about the camp. We all knew: 1) we had extra time, 2) the Park doesn't charge unless you're there the next day, and 3) pretty soon we'd be seeing the last of the quitters come dragging into camp after their: 1) fourth, 2) third, 3) second, 4) first, or 5) non-loop. Some stalwart beings of both genders have been known to take MORE than a day to find their way back after achieving minimal bookage. In fact, yours troubly held the record! Until some other stalwart being snatched this particular ignominy from the slack jaws of infame. (And I shall be forever indebted to Dan'l, no, not Boone--that other guy of similar age. :-) BUT… they never took longer than Sunday to get back! We were ALL… ALWAYS… out of there by Sunday midnight, for sure! Whatever happened to THOSE thrilling daze of yesteryear? Well do I rah-memba when a thoroughly (happily) downtrodden (up-cheering) and dejected (don't you believe it) Lazarus Lake would look up after blowing that bugle one final time and say, "Welp, no finishers agin dys year!" Which is precisely the same thing he said for these, the followingly well noted earlier years: 1986, '87, '89 (no 100-milers at least), '90, '91, '92, '93, '94, '96, '97, '98, '99, 2000, '02, '05, '06, and '07. Sadly--for the campers, dampers, scampers, gadabouts, hangers-on, and standers-by--every year since then has produced a finisher, or finishers (plural!), and lately even a MASS FINISH of up to THREE completely and totally-over-the-top EVEN MORE STALWART Barkleyites. "OMG!" as they say. "IT'S IMPOSSIBLE!" as I say. Just imagine a first, second, and third place… at The Barkley!!! Unheard of! Totally!!! And yet (I can attest, having witnessed AND having had to pay for another night of camping) that is exactly what happened in 2012. And this year in 2013, there was also a plural finish of two: Nick and Travis. These non-behemoths are giants among men! They set the bar. Which, of course, prevents the rest of us from getting to one before it closes. So. What EVER happened to those wonderful old glorious ancient times… of no finishers? I'll tell you what: Fashion. Yup! Suddenly it's become FASHIONABLE. Finishing Barkley now is "all the rage." There must be sponsorships! Big money! (Well, there is this dog, named "big," and he costs *something* to keep in business.) TV coverage! Well… hey… there's a movie!! And, trust us, we are ALL waiting for that release! For the premiere, we're all going to show up on the red (i.e., bloody) carpet wearing trashed and tattered dirty shoes, tights, jackets and ungodly colored running pants (and other circus clown outfits), wrapped in orange vests so we won't be shot, and lugging knapsacks and backpacks so we won't starve or die of thirst. So now it has become fashionable to finish The Barkley. Who knew? OMG!! Give these new boys a couple tattoos, no haircuts, ripped (to shreds) leggings by Sawbriar, Abbs by Beverly (Hills, eh? ;), jackets by Straight and Prison, and all the revitalizing mud you can pack on a body… and there you have it. Photos, mag ads, big city newspaper coverages, podcasts, TV news snippets, first-run motion pictures (for heavings' sake!) and--this just in--international radio broadcasts by the BBC!!! Yes, even yours troubly talked via international phone call (their dime--no, shilling--not mine) to the British Broadcasting Corporation, "live from London," with some Limey named Alex. OMG!!! But never mind; I gave the phone to Laz. Boy, that shook 'em up. But good! (Just imagine, "redneckspeak" versus cockney. Talk about your Tower of Babel! :-) ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour "your mid-evil lute-plucker in those Middle Ages who is, what, NOW all-of-a-sudden being summoned by London? Where have they been for the last 800 years?" Yankee Folly of the Day: Ya know (but this isn't really a folly) all y'all's questions about, for example, who all the women are who've run Barkley can be found in Frozen Ed Furtaw's book. (Except for the most recent years.) Yup! Everything about "the race that eats its young" up to and including 2009 has been published and is available through Amazon-dot-com. And ya know what? You'll be able to find it a heckuva lot easier than any online evidence of the BBC, OR of their supposed broadcast of the aforementioned telephone calls! (Which they promised me would be aired! Ha. So THERE'S the folly!!)'
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What Ever Happened To [...] #1023
[There seems to be some recent concern/inquiry/puzzlement over women runners who have attempted The Barkley Marathons--yea, woe yea--"the race that eats its young" (perhaps answering the inquiries right there). All those lovely young (hey, they are ALL young AND gorgeous) women runners were eaten. Yup! Hardbitten, chewy, and swallowed. And every single one ...
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May 11, 2013
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May 11, 2013
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4247
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[It doesn't seem much like it today, but Happy Bad Joke Friday anyway! Here's one I just heard (actually saw online) that may even pertain (to much of the country): "It's so cold today, I actually saw a Democrat with his hands in his own pockets." ;-) I should sell that one to… whichever of the five dozen late night talk shows now on TV that might be writer-starved enough to buy it. Eh? Nevertheless, all this TV News lately about Hoozits Pist-off-i-yuss is driving me crazy. What, now they're saying he might be "innocent" because the lead investigator is up on charges? Huh?? Since when does possible police misconduct have anything whatsoever to do with ANY suspect's murderous guilt or innocence? Oh wait. Hmmm… O.J.'s case was "botched," wasn't it. That and that damned shrunken leather glove got HIM off, didn't it. OK, never mind.] The Obama Administraction Presents… WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO [Heroes] ? Indeed. Didn't we always used to think that running heroes and heroines were somehow special? And other sports' champions, too? When in the "good old days" did any of us, you know, cheer the champion, buy the Wheaties with his or her picture on it, and then hunker down for the short wait for the indictment? Did we ever used to cheer and then wait, for example, for Jesse Owens to be arraigned? Or Edwin Moses or Carl Lewis or Sebastian Coe or Mary Decker Slaney or that Sergei-the-famous-Ruskie-pole-vaulter-guy, or even Bruce Jenner? Hey, even being hitched to the Kurvy Kardashian Klan shouldn't get Bruce in dutch. Or jail. Well, maybe looking at it another way… Never mind. None of those dudes and dudettes ever murdered anybody, or tried to, or were accused of it, or anything else---like, how 'bout shootin' up their own selves? Sure, Babe Ruth and Mickey Mantle used to "party" hard enough to still be hungover in the outfield in the ball park the next day, but by and large they weren't criminals! So, whatever happened to taking a bite out of crime, and keeping crime out of sports? Whatever happened to holding sports heroes to higher standards? Stan Musial just died. Betcha we'll wait a long LONG time before his reputation is ever tarnished. How 'bout Ted Williams? The only thing he's gonna feel "guilty" about is waking up in the 23rd century… to a dead planet! Heroes! Don't we need them? Don't we want them? Don't we make billion dollar industries out of whatever the hell they're hawking? So (as we can easily imagine Lance Armstrong, for example, wondering) what EVER happened to "my" endorsements? Maybe Lance is looking to get paid for Prednisone commercials (along with Ben Johnson and Marion Jones), and that South African Oscar should endorse cricket bats? Wickets? Home remodeling contractors that install bulletproof bathroom doors? What EVER happened to HEROES? Heroes specifically of athletic achievement? Tiger Woods? C'mon. His sleaze was plastered all over TV screens for years. Pete Rose? No Hall of Fame for YOU! (Recalling the Soup Nazi on Seinfeld: "No HoF for you!") Roger Hoosgotclemency, Hoozerry Bonds, Whutzisname McGuire, and on and on? On STEROIDS?? Puh-leeease. Quite a few some-kinda-bodies actually ELECTED Hoozis "Owl Bee Bach" Ahh-nold as governor of Cali-phrenia! And look what a sterling champion bodybuilder-cum-actor, cum… HE turned out to be! He has single-handedly dismissed the entire housekeeping industry from ever becoming IBBF fans. And we've not even touched on football. OMG! Isn't the fast-track-out-of-the-ghetto these days just how hard you can hit---nay, sack; nay, PULVERIZE---other human beings? How do you elevate thuggery to great athletic achievement? Give it an NFL contract. So, is now this Mister Oscar Pist-off-i-yuss about to become an "honorary" NFL "playa"? Izzie jus' playin' da game, sucka? And HIS hero was O.J.??? What EVER happened to the purity of sport? To "the thrill of victory and the agony of… de feet"? Now the whole entire damn activity (nay, industry) is tainted? Fast women use juice and faster men shoot them? Put them on Wheaties' boxes? No, they're already inside Pine boxes. And, in fact, Wheaties itself might well come under scrutiny for Genetically Modified something-or-others. Now the box glamorizing bad stuff is itself full of bad stuff. Heroes? Here's what happened to yours troubly's "heroes": They got old. Out of date. Passé. No longer hip, chic, hop, happening, current, popular, or TV-see-worthy. They all picked up their honor and went home. They refused to share it with the rest of the playground. They slunk off to that fantasyland of Disney's called suspended animation. The Big Freeze. We laugh at Ted and Walt and yet still hold fast to their sterling images, like wintertime tongues stuck to the flagpole. Nobody remembers Bob Cousy anymore, and Wilt-the-Stilt Chamberlain's reputation seems lame, compared with today's Gangland Battery of Assault, Porn, and Murder. And "schpeakingk of spwahts," where's Howard Cosell when we need him the most? "Oss-kar PIS-cah-tor-yee-us, that bright young glint on the cutting edge of running blades, the Maldive of drive, the thundering thighs of not much else, that frickin' African foot fetish freak. Oh, how sheemingly flimsy your rock-a-bye alibi is, Mister PIS-cah-notorious. If evah a schpawtsman's pedestal has cracked its plastah…. And now? Even le gendarme of the law's veneer is off. Blade Gunner, if only you'd've held the golden promise of Olympic gold in your hands, instead of that murderous weapon of 'ass destruction. Oss-kar, we hardly knew ye." Welllllllllll, "this IS John Cameron Cameron downtown. Things here are in chaos. Everything once heroic is now topsy-turvy. All that was sacred is now on its head. Maybe after the fog---and all these reporters---have cleared, people will see what comes out of this as a whole new hero. A brand-new embodiment of the very best of manKIND. And instead of those saps that only look good, run fast, and kill people, maybe now there'll be a new kind of sap: homo sapiens. A guy with the thickest glasses, most A's on his report card, and captain of the chess team. "Yes, the Nerd." Maybe the heroes we've been supposed to be worshipping haven't been sports heroes at all. Maybe they're the dufusses and dudettas who've reshaped the world, come up with new tools, and helped raise humankind off the playing---now battle---field to begin with. The Inventors! Maybe we should all start worshipping motherboards and collecting video cards. Maybe it shouldn't be Wheaties at all, but raw data that we serve for our brain salads. Maybe someday alumni will start buying season tickets to chess games, science fairs, and poetry readings, instead of what passes for glory on the gridiron. Personally, I'd like to cheer more for Steve Jobs than Oscar Pistorius. And please note that the former never killed anybody! Oh no---and O Woe!---he was taken from us waaaaay too early. Just like Reeva Steenkamp. ( x_x ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour "a one time mid-evil lute-plucking contender for adoration on 'French Idol'--a popular market square song-and-dance stage show centuries ago" Yankee Folly of the Day: So who's left that we CAN worship? Someone who isn't violent and hasn't shot anybody and doesn't 'roid himself up on rage just to win championships and IS smarter than your average 9-to-5 flunky and DOES embody everything we runner-folk could possibly ever hope for? Dean Karnazes?'
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What Ever Happened To [...] #1022
[It doesn't seem much like it today, but Happy Bad Joke Friday anyway! Here's one I just heard (actually saw online) that may even pertain (to much of the country): "It's so cold today, I actually saw a Democrat with his hands in his own pockets." ;-) I should sell that one to… whichever of the five dozen late night talk shows now on TV that might be writer-starved ...
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Feb 28, 2013
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Feb 28, 2013
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4490
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='["Blade Gunner"? So, eh? Whatever happened to Oscar Pistorius? Got Pist once too often? Or 'e yuss… forgot who he was living with? What the roommate smelled like even? What??? He "thinks" he's being invaded by some UNKNOWN INTRUDER at o'dark-thirty in the mourning WHO LETS HERSELF IN WITH A KEY??? He then EMPTIES his revolver into said "unknown" housebreaker-with-scent? C'mon. She's a model! OK, no. Let's not get into that "whole O.J. Simpson-looks-a-lot-like" thing. Let's move on by, um, trying to remember what-the-heck happened to something totally else. Like, this?] The Obama Administraction Presents… WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO [What Ever Happened To] ? It's been a long time, no? For THIS whack to be crowbarring its way into your Inbox? Y'all haven't seen the likes of this goofy diatribe since, what, before Christmas? Since, like, The End of The World ended??? What a buncha malarky. First the damn Mayans, and now this: Pist! (And we're reminded here of an old article that appeared in "Outside" magazine, describing the Hardrock Hundred. Its headline? "It's Gonna Suck To Be You." Kinda like today, eh? For that certain once-thought-exemplary-despite-the-handicap track athlete from South Africa? How 'bout: "It Already Sucks To Be Pist.") So, when are we ever gonna get our heroes back? Lance? What EVER happened to HIS whack? And now oceangoing cruises? What the heck happened to them, too? Balanced Budgets? National Debt Reduction? States of the Union? Hell, the Union!!! How about Illinois' former governors? Can't even hardly KEEP them in prison no more. How 'bout former California policemen? The Force was no longer with them? They turned? Murdered people? Just like, allegedly, peeps-you-look-up-to do in South Africa? Next up in Illinois (yours troubly's ecologically disastrous Foam Suite Foam and erstwhile "Land of Lincoln"---who's now, by the way, rolling, spinning even, TWIRLING in his grave!) is going to be the imprisonment of one Jesse Jackson, Jr., the erstwhile Congressman. Representative government in THIS crap-shoot (gambling is legal, sometimes) State? Are we kidding? What ever happened to THAT idea? No governors, while the current ones get impeached; no congressmen, while current ones pretend mental illness (hoping to throw off federal prosecutors); no recovery from the brink of bankruptcy, while those dufuses all dawdle in the statehouse; no even reverend dad of said congressman, while he plays with mistresses and fathers *other* "love childs"; and now: no Pope! Eh? What the frick ever happened to the papacy? The "heat" gets too hot from weirdo priestfolk taking after Jerry Hoozits Sandusky, so now Hizzoner, His Alibi-Holeyness, quits the game??? WHAT in the world ever happened to SANITY? Since THIS thingamajig that you're reading right now has been absent, the entire damn planet has gone psycho?? So what DID ever happen to this very series of treatises? Of arcane dogma? Dissertational dubiousness? Exegetical poppycockery??? Well, for starters, it got lost under the "circle of life" gimcrackery. The author's pop died and left his butt with a TITANIC MESS. And the gimcrack was provided by hizzoner the attorney who ostensibly set said parents up with some sacrosanct probate-avoidance gimmick called a "Loving Trust." Right. Now the recipients of said trust need to go back to said attorney and hire HIS ass to set them up with whatever is necessary to satisfy Probate Court! Hah! Who knew? Wellllllll, I'll tell you "who knew": The lawyer knew! That's who. And that's why this so-called sometimes-regular "bad joke Friday" column has been held on hold. Today, really, is the first day out of the past two months that THIS author has gotten---no, not an asthma inhaler---a breather. We see we have lots and lots of catching up to do. Bankrupt states. Bankrupt United States. Killers out of control (even well outside these States). Gangland violence… of which most of THAT is currently being waged in (pick one) the Chicago City Council, the Illinois Legislature, the Houses of Congress, or the National Rifle Association. "Blade Gunner" indeed. And don't y'all just find it deliciously *just* that Hizdufus O.J. is now (still, we hope) imprisoned somewhere in Nevada for robbing some other dufus at gunpoint in whatever sleazebag Las Vegas hotel room? And NOW Lance Q. Legstrong (for Questionable) wants back into athletic competition? Right. So, here's yours troubly's suggestion for Lance and Hertz: Go into business renting bicycles. TV ads could then show Lance embodying the highest ideals of all that's ideal, just like O.J., like this: Armed to the teeth with rifles and Pist-ols and orange juice, Lance could shoot himself off the airplane and marathon down the concourse and leap onto the "Orange Club" Schwinn of his choice, then bicycle the Tour de Illy-Noise faster than Abe (or Obama or Ryan or Blago or even Jesse Junior) ever did; then pedal right off Navy Pier, spinning his way through the Great Lakes out to the Atlantic via the St. Lawrence Seaway and then right over to Italy… just in time to be crowned new pontiff: Pope Dope the First. ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour "your mid-evil lute-plucking funeral-attending attorney-consulting-just-for-THEIR-song-and-dance man for easily the last 800 years" Yankee Folly of the Day: Just imagine four thousand Neanderthals adrift at sea inside some unpowered hull for nearly a week. The food's spoiled, the water's rank, and the toilets don't flush. Man in the cave with the biggest club wins, right? Yes, and civilization itself (judging only by Chicago, Illinois) is about to come full circle. '
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What Ever Happened To [...] #1021
["Blade Gunner"? So, eh? Whatever happened to Oscar Pistorius? Got Pist once too often? Or 'e yuss… forgot who he was living with? What the roommate smelled like even? What??? He "thinks" he's being invaded by some UNKNOWN INTRUDER at o'dark-thirty in the mourning WHO LETS HERSELF IN WITH A KEY??? He then EMPTIES his revolver into said "unknown" housebreaker-with-scent? ...
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Feb 19, 2013
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Feb 19, 2013
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4402
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4 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[Hey! We're all still alive today! So, welcome to BJF--and I mean, REALLY Bad Joke Friday. Damn Mayo (Mayonnaise?) peeps had us BS'd for over a thousand years. Or, something like that. Of course, I'm 800 and don't remember. I never did pay any mind to "Mayans," although methinks someone just re-minded that "Maya" is the people, while "Mayan" is the language. Very good! But they're both still full of sh*t. Today I wish to point you to this… http://youtu.be/PbZVs_P_6Lw …which is a composition composed by a talented friend I know, who's actually put some time in on allah dys end-of-the-world baloney. Click on that link (or copy into your browser) and enjoy!] The King William I "The Conqueror" Administraction Presents… WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO [The End of The World] ? Even HE (King Bill the First) got it wrong. And no, "The Doomsday Book" had nothing to do with it. That's actually a misspelling of "Domesday." Once William the Conqueror conquered England (in 1066 A.D.) and EVERYTHING we know and love today changed forever, he commissioned (no, not a ghostwriter like me) a frickin' tax collector to make a record--called "The Domesday Book"--of his entire kingdom for tax purposes. Right. So, what ever happened to HIS "doomsday" which was supposed to have happened waaaaay back, probably on January 1, 1000? The, uh, original Y1K day. Add another millennium, and we suddenly had Y2K--and none of us were supposed to survive THAT either. Then, the Mayo or Maya or Hoo-ever peoples got involved in calendar-fixing, and betting parlors have gone off the odds charts ever since. So, what ever happened to Mayo? (Besides growing rancid in our fridge.) Obviously, the world did *not* end at Y1K. Nor did it on Y2K. And not even--according to some whacktoast minister in Fooledyou, Caliphrenia--on May 21, 2011. This same whacktoast, by the way, had also previously predicted the planet's demise on: September 6, 1994; then September 29, then October 2, of that same year; and also on March 31, 1995. And, ya know, for a really REALLY interesting and remarkably full list of ALL the predicted Ends of the World throughout history, dig this... http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_dates_predicted_for_apocalyptic_events …and be amazed. But, doggone it, "they" just don't give good Ends of the World anymore. There used to be sackcloth and ashes, medieval wailing and gnashings of teeth, "raptures," whacked-out dweebs in white robes on mountaintops (besides at the Leadville Trail 100 ;-) standing transfixed with their arms up, just waiting for Cheeses and the Risen Crust. Even shortly after The Crust died, Pisa's most fervent followers expected a second coming. Then, a thousand years later, biblical scholars (if not short-order cooks) predicted that 1033 would be The End. In the 1960's, The Doors put out a song about it. But none of this, of course, had anything to do with good Italian food, nor even with The Guy who died in 33 A.D. somewhere in Israel. What ever happened to good Apocalypse? And, no, we're not talkin' about that old Francis Ford Coppola flick, the one about Vietnam with Marlon Brando hiding out in the sticks. Literally, the bamboo sticks. Living like Yoda in some kind of swamp. That was years ahead of the Jedi and decades behind what DIDN'T happen today, December 21st, 2012. Didn't we imagine waking up today (or, perhaps, NOT waking up) and seeing stuff like what that silly "2012" Hollywood movie tried to show us a year ago? Earthquakes, tidal waves, cities going up in flames (something like what Sherman did to Atlanta under Lincoln, which is now yet another Hollywood movie, eh?) and on and on and on. Were we or weren't we prepared today for some real tragic type stuff to REALLY mess up our run this morning? Probably we were prepared for… mourning? No matter. Didn't happen. Pope Sylvester II and his minions failed in their attempts to scare the bejesus out of my ancestors on January 1, 1000, (never mind that the new year used to start on March 25th) and, once found to be wrong, his minions tried again on December 31st. And then, lo and behold, "1001: A Spacial Oddity" came and went even without Hollywood noticing. Next up, my own generation thought the Antichrist would glom on the scene in 1184, and then again in 1186--because of some other weirdo, John of Toledo's calculations about weird planet alignments, which was probably due to Chuck of Cleveland's bad math. During those years, my entire beloved mid-evil era was to reek of rapture and be sucked into judgment. No can do. No could did! Once again, Did NOT Happen. Whatever happened to Chuck of Cleveland anyway? Probably croaked mid-rapture in bed with his mistress on February 30th. As I said, he wasn't very good at calculating stuff. So what if they gave all these predictions of The End of The World and nobody ever came? Never mind mid-rapture, how about NON-rapture? Nuthin'! Nix, nil, nihil, nunquam, da nada, zippo, zilch. The problem is inherent in the dufuses doing the math. Ain't a god among 'em. Things like The End of The World are more likely determined, and calculated, by such beings as started the World in the first place. And none of my relatives, or me--as old as we are--were around when that happened. I'll tell ya what happened. And here's why today's End of The World DIDN'T: There needed to be a permit, and it wasn't applied for in time. Every runner on the planet, for example, just automatically knows you can't have a race end without proper certification, insurance, and permitting. And this includes The Human Race. There is no "rapture" or "judgment" or "testing for blood doping" of every single Human in the Race unless ALL this paperwork has been taken care of in advance, specifically by The Race Director who is... who? Ya see? If we can't decide who our Human Race Director even is, how in heaving's name is he ever supposed to get all our Race's paperwork in to the USATF, the IAAF, the IOC, the IAU, the AUA, or even the BAA in time to certify the one true correctly calculated and exactly measured finish of our Human Race? My Gawk! It'll be argued for epochs. ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour "your mid-evil lute-plucking finish-line-hoping-for slow-as-molasses sometime runner who's been spectating species in races for 800 years" Yankee Folly of the Day: Ho ho ho. It's Christmas. And the only thing the Scribes and Pharisees are very, very sure of is that Cheeses did not just suddenly appear on Christmas Day.'
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What Ever Happened To [...] #1020
[Hey! We're all still alive today! So, welcome to BJF--and I mean, REALLY Bad Joke Friday. Damn Mayo (Mayonnaise?) peeps had us BS'd for over a thousand years. Or, something like that. Of course, I'm 800 and don't remember. I never did pay any mind to "Mayans," although methinks someone just re-minded that "Maya" is the people, while "Mayan" is the language. ...
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Dec 24, 2012blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='sys_update', rowValue=''
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5468
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[Welcome to Bad Joke Friday, and to antiquity. Today's joke, or rather subject matter, has to do with something we all were born with--some of us a loooong long time ago. Our ancestors were born with it (them) too. It's hard to say just who was in power when that scene all changed, but it probably had something to do with the discovery of cowhide. Dinosaurhide? Woolly Mammoth leather? Let's just take it back to sometime before our country was begun, and call it at that.] The King George III Administraction Presents… WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO [barefoot] ? Pretty tough to appreciate this concept in our present day and age, huh? When all about us athletic footwear outlets, websites, and stores are actually SELLING "barefoot" shoes! WHAT??? You mean, ya just can't kick off the "kicks" these days and frolic on the grass in the altogether of your very lowest appendages? Naked tootsies? WTF?? (What's The Footwear) I've always thought that, as runners, aren't we all something of foot fetishists anyway? So now, by some quirk of logic, illogic, or Madison Avenue hype, ya gotta BUY something in order to revert to the emptiness of what nature intended… long before there ever was anything possible to buy or sell? NOW ya gotta buy coverings in order to stay naked?? Holey mackerel! What ever happened to naked? Yes, we can understand the idea of a "cover charge," for example, in order to be ushered in to where some bodies are dancing naked (the cover charge is basically to prevent the house being filled to capacity, entertaining all sorts of drooling pervy dudes, and never making a dime) but… …this is ridiculous. If we ALL want to run barefoot, hey? Can't we all just remove whatever is covering our feet?? Boots? Take 'em off, baby! Galoshes? 86!!! Rubbers??? (Well, OK. Do I really need to get *that* specific here?) Just take it off! Take it ALL off! Even the socks! Especially the socks!!! How 'bout the White Sox? Them too. Those White Sox don't always stay up (in the standings) on their own anyway. They seem to prefer being "off." So indeed, whatever happened to bare naked foots? Today we have Bare Naked Ladies, but no foots? Whatever happened to feeling--yes, FEELING--the grass under our feet, squishing our toes in some Mudder race, or rockin' REALLY hard on the rocks? Why do we suddenly need Vibram Five Fingers, "Minimals," Vivobarefoots, Merrell Barefoots, and these other outrageous things called Xero Shoes? And have you priced this stuff lately??? Hoo-Grrrl! If I'm gonna spend this kinda cash just to *pretend* my girls are running uncovered? I'll pay the cover charge. And pretend that "dental floss" isn't there either (you know, girding their loins). So, what EVER did happen to "Born Free" and "Run Free" and dirtying your soles by collecting all the "sins" of the forest floor? I'll tell ya what happened. Ten thousand years ago, Java man first figured out that he needed help catching his sweet chiquitas. It's a proven fact (only I have the proof, of course) that women started out with superior running ability. They used to "chick" all the Neanderthals with regularity. So… maybe the future of descending generations was in jeopardy? Well then, aren't we all glad Neanderthal figured it out? He somehow, almost miraculously, reasoned something like this: "Hmmm, when I chase girls I get blood all under my feet. Too many damn Woolly Mammoth tusks and bones lying about. They hurt!" But of course he also was the first to conceptualize a zero-sum game. He realized that the girls all got bloody feet, too, and STILL managed to outrun him! So he needed to think awhile longer. He went: "WTF am I hunting big critters for? Why am I cutting 'em open, removing the insides, feeding all these chicks, and throwing away the tough outer covering? Huh? I'll put this tough outer covering all around my feet! And THEN I can catch these women when THEY start to bleed--and not me!!!" Yup. And for the next 10,000 years and right on up to the big advertising firms on Madison Avenue, New York City, no runners ever ran barefoot. In fact, if they have too much money and don't know what else to do with it, they still don't. ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour "your mid-evil lute-plucking bare-naked-ladies-appreciating fetishist who's been chiquita'd by stuff like high heels for at least 800 years" Yankee Folly of the Day: Ho ho ho. It's Christmas. So take off your stockings and hang 'em up by the fireplace where they belong, and hope that some body comes along some night and stuffs 'em with something else ya don't need.'
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What Ever Happened To [...] #1019
[Welcome to Bad Joke Friday, and to antiquity. Today's joke, or rather subject matter, has to do with something we all were born with--some of us a loooong long time ago. Our ancestors were born with it (them) too. It's hard to say just who was in power when that scene all changed, but it probably had something to do with the discovery of cowhide. Dinosaurhide? ...
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Dec 7, 2012
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Dec 7, 2012
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4714
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[Hello again! After all this *time*! Where did it go? Where does time ever go? Maybe it was never here to begin with! In any event, since it--once again--seems to be Friday and therefore full of jokes, bad or otherwise, AND since the running and ultrarunning communities have just received word that our beloved sage and desert hero, Dr. "Badwater Ben" Jones is apparently doing much better today in the hospital… maybe we can relax a little and tell a few. I was recently reminded about the following also near-disappearance :-] The Obama Administraction Presents… WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO [cotton race shirts] ? You know, the just plain ol' old-fashion darned cotton textile kind! The kind the entire South went to WAR for… for preserving them? For guaranteeing their whole weigh of life, by shipping bales and bales and tons and tons of the stuff… to the North (eh?) and to all those textile mills of greater New England? Right. Cotton! (Don't mind me. I just recently saw "Lincoln." No, not the 16th Prez, but the Steven Spielberg motion picture masterpiece of the same name. Interestingly enough, cotton race shirts made in New England were never mentioned, but the South was! And COTTON!! Which is why I was reminded.) What ever happened to cotton dang T-shirts that you used to receive, crammed in your goody bag, simply by showing up and paying for showing up at your footraces? Eh? In fact, whatever happened to goody bags? (Oh, they're still around. I just needed another corollary argument there to follow rhetorically from the cotton T-shirt thing.) In my last goody bag, I got a T-shirt jammed in there, of course, but it is no longer plain cotton. No, it's a "Zorrel® athlete series Syntrel™ RN# 113897" shirt! And in Canada it has Number 34783. Holy Smokes! Does this mean there are at least 34,783-up-to-113,897 different trademark-protected varieties of frickin' T-SHIRTS??? And I just now found one in my closet stack that's "Made in Laos. Fabriqué en Laos." OMG, where's LAOS?? (No wonder New England is largely out of work.) Let's see. In some of my other previous goody bags, I have personally received the following wildly various short- and long-sleeved shirts produced under such wildly diverse trademark protections as "Dri-Fit," "XDri," "sport science 101 edition smarter performance wear," "Dri-Release," "Wet-Dry," "100% Polyester (machine wash cold)," "Sticki-Klingi," "Won't Shrink," "Good 4 U," "Breathe-Lite," "Wonder Cloth," "Plasti-Grab," "Poly Dent," "Wicking Wicking and More Wicking," "Urtits," and… well, OK, some of these have been enhanced for dramatic effect. But you get the picture. If you don't, go see Spielberg's. What ever happened to still pictures? Black and whites? And, yes, shirts that you DO have to throw in with the whites? Hey, I'll take shirts that you DON'T need to "specially" launder every single day of the week. Whatever happened to soap and water? Even good old-fashioned detergent, like Fa-breeze or Cheer or Wisk or Breeze (with the free towel wrinkled inside)? What ever happened to Tide? (Before it was shrunk-wrapped into gel packets and tossable also into your dish washer.) "Hand wash in cold water only." Nobody loads up their Maytags with race T's anymore? We're all expected to either use "special handling" or just throw them away? And does anyone even realize what this is doing to the quilting industry? Have you ever saved up and shipped off thirty "special memory" T's to be made into a nice sweet quilted bedspread, only to have them all come shipping back with a note: "Sorry, but we can only make quilts out of cotton T-shirts." Apparently, when the quilter goes to press stuff under a hot iron, all this synthetic non-cotton weirdness just shrivels and dissolves like the Wicked Witch of the West. "I'M MELTING! I'M MELTING! You horrible little girl! Look what you've done! All my beautiful wickedness… aaaaaiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee…" See that? All this modern-times wash-day sewing-basket horribleness could totally be avoided if only we still used cotton. If only the New England textile mills hadn't had to lay off half their workforce. If only… if only… if only the South had won the war, eh? So what EVER happened to good plain old cotton running race T-shirts? I'll tell you what the heck happened. They have now all become rags, and you use 'em to wash your equally synthetic modern-day whiz-bang made-overseas trademark-protected cars! ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour "your mid-evil lute-plucking washer-woman appreciating old-fashioned cloth-wearing song-and-dance man who still sometimes beats his bundle in the creek" Yankee Folly of the Day: I tried buffing out my 1968 Ford Galaxie with one of today's race T-shirts, and not only the wax but the paint-job dissolved. Or, maybe it turned to brown and fell off due to some other reason. Water perhaps. Or some witch's curse.'
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What Ever Happened To [...] #1018
[Hello again! After all this *time*! Where did it go? Where does time ever go? Maybe it was never here to begin with! In any event, since it--once again--seems to be Friday and therefore full of jokes, bad or otherwise, AND since the running and ultrarunning communities have just received word that our beloved sage and desert hero, Dr. "Badwater Ben" Jones ...
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Dec 1, 2012
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Dec 1, 2012
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5565
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[Good Aftermourning, my fiends! Hey, it's almost Halloween; and so, boos & ghouls, y'all must be "fiends," eh? Anyway, again it's Bad Joke Friday and I have nothing for ya. Which is precisely why I'm upchucking the following instead. Happy All Hallows' Eve, everyone! And wherever you're running tomorrow, just remember: I won't be running with you. I'll be sauntering. Toting my trick-or-treat bag and wearing my "special costume" of an overweight frumpy white lute-plucking song-and-dance man still stuck in the Middle Ages.] The Reagan Administraction Presents… WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO [watches] ? Not that they don't still exist, or anything, but today's timepieces are all completely and totally goofy. They're all digital! They don't--none of 'em--look like watches at all. A watch has a dial! (Just like a phone did, which kids today have no clue about, which is the origin of the expressions: "Dial 911" or "Don't touch that dial!" or even this from an oldie-but-a-goody tune: "Jus' pick up yer telephone an' dial now six-three-four-five-seven-eight-nine... if you neeeeeeeeed some lovin', call on me.") A watch also has a face. You used to watch the dial on the face. And on the face of it, that's how you used to tell time. What ever happened to time? Or, more to the point, timekeeping? With a watch, you could watch (yes) the second hand "sweep." You could tell at a glance just exactly how much past the full minute your sorry ass was draggin', or what kind of a time chunk you still had left before the next whole minute would be up. Today, with digital, you have to be a mathematician! You have to FORCE yourself to add and subtract, basically in a base-60 system. Quick: this digital whackpiece on my wrist says "3:09:23." I'm 30-something and trying to beat 3:10. How much time do I have left? Or how 'bout this one: How much time do I still have to qualify for Boston? If I had a good analog timepiece--instead of this damned Timex whack--I could see at a glance. In an instant! I've either got until the second hand is straight up, or until that hand sweeps a whole 'nother time around the dial! (You forgot that Boston allows you the next 59 seconds of the cutoff minute, or it certainly used to! Or else I forgot. Or I never did have to remember. Hell, I've never run a 3:10 in my life. Never been 30 either!!) So what EVER happened to "analog" timepieces? To "chronometers"? To those oft-touted "Swiss watches"? ("She's got more moving parts than a Swiss watch.") How about what ever happened to "stopwatches," for heaving's sake! You know, the round kind with the stem on top? They looked like your grandfather's pocket watch. You'd say, "On your mark, get set, GO!" Then immediately depress that stem. Then, you'd watch. Yes, both your watch and your runners. You'd also generally have to count the laps. (And for that, conveniently, your grandpa's generation had invented lap counters, which looked very much like their pocket watches; and you'd simply depress *that* stem at the conclusion of each lap and the next higher number would display.) And then finally, at the very instant that some bodypart of the lead runner "crossed the plane"--imagined to extend straight upwards from the leading edge of the goal line itself (just like in today's football)--click! You'd hit the stem of your stopwatch the second time. Boom. Race over. Read it and weep. Those clock hands on the dial told you without even blinking just EXACTLY how much time had passed between stem clicks. Wham. Bam. Slam. No need for anything further. Everybody following behind your lead runner just lost the race. Pretty basic, huh? Hey, whatever happened to basic? Today they try to tell you/sell you that "chronometers" are what the race timers use. And those things look like little U-Haul trailers on stilts! You've seen 'em: great big ungainly black-and-yellow or black-and-red digital "readouts" like on the side of a boxcar. Click, click, click, or flap, flap, flap. Each second supposedly makes a new "digit." You read a display like this: "4:38:11" all supposedly strictly in keeping with a base-60 mathematical system. But once in Mississippi I saw a big digital "readout" at the finish line that looked like this: "6:79: 84." I went, "HUH???" [If you'd care to log-on and search around the official Carl Touchstone Mississippi 50 Trail Run's website, I'm sure you could find my incredulous "discussion" on this with Running Bear. Hey, might as well have, huh? Run bare, I mean. No watches. 'Cuz it certainly doesn't matter when you're timed at the finish line using a base math system that probably isn't even valid on Mars!] Which brings us back to the main point: NONE of this confusion could possibly happen with a damn stopwatch that looks like a watch instead of neon windows on the side of Boxcar Bertha. What ever happened to those gigantic old timepieces you could see for blocks? Like what used to be mounted in front of Marshall Fields on State Street, Chicago? Or, how 'bout chronometers that can be read for miles, or furlongs, like Big Ben in London?? Didn't they used to have THOSE kinds of clocks at race finish lines??? No, huh? Yeah, well I'll tell you what happened to legitimate, readable, recognizable, dial-face clocks and watches and stopwatches: Betamaxes happened. Yes, and VCRs and programmable televisions and alarm clocks and stereos and tapedecks and then right on down to today's damn CD and DVD thingies and iPads and iPoohs and iDontknowwhats. None of those things can tell frickin' TIME, ya see? They cannot tell from squat what it "says" on a watch dial. Moving parts? Hour hands? Minute hands? And second hands? Are you kidding? They don't even teach that anymore in kindergarten!! No. Everything we see on the planet today is "linked" by clickable frickin' digits to cause something else to happen. When the damned "thing" says "6:30A," your coffeemaker comes on. When it clicks to "4:30P" (PDT) your Tivo starts recording last night's World Series game. And when those ugly yellow goofy things suddenly change to "3:11:00," hey, you ain't runnin' the Boston Marathon next April. (But only if you're 30, of course. If you're my age, you can qualify even if the clock battery's shot, it's the next day, and you just write a big fat check. Which of course means you can't be 30, because when you're 30, you're broke.) Not that I ever was, of course; 30, I mean. It goes without saying I'm still "broke." ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour "your ancient Middle Age lute-plucking costume-donning reveler on All Hallows' Eve who once showed up wearing a cauldron on his head and pretending to be: The Man from Space" Yankee Folly of the Day: What did I just read on the Internet: Halloween candy causes Alzheimer's Disease? Whoa! So, is it too late to read the riot act to my dad for snarfing up all those Baby Ruths, Mary Janes, and O Henrys every October 31st during the Roaring Twenties?'
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What Ever Happened To [...] #1017
[Good Aftermourning, my fiends! Hey, it's almost Halloween; and so, boos & ghouls, y'all must be "fiends," eh? Anyway, again it's Bad Joke Friday and I have nothing for ya. Which is precisely why I'm upchucking the following instead. Happy All Hallows' Eve, everyone! And wherever you're running tomorrow, just remember: I won't be running with you. I'll ...
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Oct 31, 2012blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='sys_update', rowValue=''
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4458
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[Welcome again to Bad Joke Friday, hey? Anybody got one, besides "Lance"? Sorry to say last week's entry in this particular category had to be postponed, on account of me riding the highway then at this time; just like, uh, in those immortal words of one Jim Morrison: "Ride the highway east, baby. The east is the feast!" Or, something like that. Anyway, even though my entry for October 5th garnered lots of feedback, no one correctly caught my biggest error: that old Chicago Bears' "Punky QB" (and another Jim) McMahon's white headband had written on it "THIS SPACE FOR RENT"--not what I'd said. I was also apparently mistaken about other facts as well; namely, such headbands are still available! They're still being handed out occasionally at marathon expos, and our very own *young* Listmember Andrew Siniarski actually wears one!! So, I apologize all to heck for your factual inconvenience, and will try to do better the next time, like, today! :-] The Obama Administraction Presents… WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO [playgrounds] ? No, not exactly that they've disappeared entirely or are now extinct--no, that *would* be a tragedy. I'm not actually bemoaning the scarcity of playgrounds, per se; no, I'm wondering what the heck happened TO ALL THE KIDS!!! Really! The playgrounds I see today--like, for example, while running awhile out and back along my fave "rails to trails" bike path and passing quite a few bona fide playgrounds--well, THEY'RE ALL EMPTY!!! What, on a Saturday morning we suddenly no longer have children? No one swinging in swings? Sliding down slides? Monkeying around on monkey bars? Hurting themselves (and others)? Teetering off (or on) teeter-totters? What about sandboxes? Sandlots? Pick-up baseball games? Football games? Tag matches? Duck-duck-goose? Bullying sessions? Gangs? Rumbles? Cowboys and Indians? Cavalry charges and/or other types of friendly neighborhood warfare??? What ever happened to the kids? I don't see any!! Sometimes I have the urge myself to go off-path and "swing" awhile. But, of course, I can never quite find any married eleven-year-olds. [That's a joke!] But if I DID mosey into the playground and onto the swing-set, no one would see me! *I* could travel back in time and teeter off my own damn totter. *I* could monkey around the bars, and wouldn't have to show my I.D.!! Maybe that's where all the eleven-year-olds are… in bars! Drinking! (Lemonade?) Speaking of which, just this past summer while traipsing along that same old path, I happened upon a "scene" I have not "seen" for over 50 years: a lemonade stand. Yup! There were at least three delightful little entrepreneurs hawking their beverage of choice for, I think, a quarter a glass. (Fifty years ago it was a nickel.) They were so cute! "Hey, Mister! Cough up with the two bits, Dude, and take us off Welfare. We're part of that jobs-creating program of the new political regime." Sadly, I never carry cash when I run. I offered them advertising space on my headband in exchange, but they weren't buying it. They must've been VERY savvy children. Very unusual. But still, they were engaging in intercounty commerce and NOT playing in playgrounds! Whatever happened to *populated* playgrounds? The kinds with kids in 'em, fights in 'em; even joys, laughter, screaming, wailing, and the gnashing of teeth up against the monkey bars in them? Surely all those kids can't ALL be home watching TV… can they? Playing video games and engaging in offshore gambling? Engaging in video poker with their daddy's money and, worse, NOT paying any tax to the current political regime??? (It's offshore, no? I'm wondering if "Super Mario" or "Grand Theft Auto" is offshore, too.) Did those highly ambitious, though rare, lemonade stand kids report THEIR income on their papa's 1040? Huh? So why don't the media and the IRS lay off Mitt and go after the REAL scofflaws today--those kids!!! What EVER happened to all these wonderfully active and very playful--if combative--kids today? I have a theory. It's all Lance Armstrong's fault. When I was a kid, all the sports stars on my Wheaties boxes were standout individuals. Bob Richards? Mickey Mantle? Ernie Banks? Bob Cousy? Hey, nobody ever brought charges against Wilt Chamberlain, did they? Heck, Wilt never cheated! Hell, he never even took Viagra. It hadn't been invented yet!! Here's the point: when I was of playground age, I *wanted* to head outdoors and run around (the bases) just like Mickey did. I *wanted* to run like Roger Bannister or shoot hoops like Wilt. I wanted to do this because they were my heroes! Real! Unblemished! Could-do-no-wrong heroes!! They were uplifting not only as athletes but as humans, and I lifted up my eyes to them all!! Today? Whudda ya got? Pete Rose goes to prison, NFL players beat up their wives and girlfriends, and Lance fricking Armstrong CHEATED all those years!!! So, what's a kid do today? He and his sister throw up their hands, realize the utter futility of imitating criminals, and settle down in front of their televisions to worship… cartoons instead. ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour "your groovy mid-evil lute-plucking playground-loving monkey-bar-hopping 'swinger' who last watched television when it was still black-and-white radio" Yankee Folly of the Day: Yeah, and look at how far it's gotten him, too. Maybe we were all kidding ourselves. Sedentary *must* be the way to go, ya think?'
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What Ever Happened To [...] #1016
[Welcome again to Bad Joke Friday, hey? Anybody got one, besides "Lance"? Sorry to say last week's entry in this particular category had to be postponed, on account of me riding the highway then at this time; just like, uh, in those immortal words of one Jim Morrison: "Ride the highway east, baby. The east is the feast!" Or, something like that. Anyway, ...
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Oct 22, 2012
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Oct 22, 2012
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4754
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[So, in response to probably what nobody ever asked--like, what ever happened to What Ever Happened To?--What Ever Happened To is back. Which reminds me of an old "English Major" joke: Punctuate the following so that it makes perfect sense: John while Jim had had had had had had had had had had had been the right answer. No, DON'T feel like I'm challenging y'all to solve the puzzle. Just settle back this Marathon (all over the country, it seems!) Weekend and enjoy the return of whatever the heck this is that's being returned to. And no, I don't know whatever happened to the Garritson kids either (a little inside joke) but I'll bet they're probably running the Chicago Marathon on Sunday just like about half the known world's population is! Oh yeah, and welcome to BJF (Bad Joke Friday) as well!] The Carter Administraction Presents… WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO [white fuzzy headbands] ? Indeed, what the heck happened to 'em? When yours troubly started running, such things like sweatbands and headbands and wristbands were de rigeur. You couldn't even BE a self-respecting runner in a self-respecting footrace unless you stood there at the start line dressed like Cochise. Indians. Native Americans. Dark-skinned peeps comin' right out of the nineteenth century dressed for the war dance. Complete, sometimes, with those globs of black warpaint smeared under the eye sockets to protect from the glares of the sun. Or, the stares of the spectators. Maybe it was due to a generation raised on Disney, black-and-white TV, Fess Parker, John Wayne, and Hawkeye--and NOT that wiseguy surgeon on M*A*S*H. No, this was some television dufus with the musket and the faithful Indian companion. For some weird reason, the entire newfound world of "JOGGING" and 5Ks and whatnot all wanted to look like faithful Indian companions. And that's how the white fuzzy headband was born. What ever happened to that? And for that matter, what ever happened to jogging? And, worse, Native Americans themselves--who, as I recall, were all trying to live up to, or in, the white man's whirled and NONE of 'em ever wore headbands. Unless, of course, there was money to be made at tourist traps from white families on vacation watching Indian shows, who expected to see REDmen wearing headbands, carrying tomahawks, and riding stallions--instead of simply darker humans wearing Hawaiian shirts and driving Cadillacs. Like in Wisconsin Dells. I'll never forget my first experience as a child on a family vacation to Wisconsin Dells, sitting in the bleachers at the sunsetting "Wild West Indian Show" (or whatever they called it) and watching the STAR OF THE SHOW show up in a Fleetwood convertible. He leapt out, slapped on the bootblack, whipped out a hatchet, and started the war dance. Whatever happened to the war dance? Or, for that matter, Fleetwoods? Hey-yah hey-ya hey-ya-hey… hey-yah. Hey! Seriously! And why don't today's Native American tribes sponsor footraces? Or run in them? Are they feeling, like, "Screw the white-eyes. WE got the cash cows now!" (I.e., casinos; hey, on federal lands protected from wicked state governments… like Blagojevich's. And, hey, ain't HE now on protected federal land? VERY protected.) So, white-eye stole the land, the ceremony, the clothing, the leather, the feather, and the head-strap. He made it out of terrycloth (no offense to nice folks named Terry) gave it a little elastic and sold it at all major Expos. Sometimes running clubs would sell them, too. I got my first one from the Park Forest Running & Pancake Club. Probably after the same race after which I ate my first short stack of non-IHOPs-with-nuts-in-'em. What happened? Did suddenly all the poofy white headbands get soiled? Sweat-soaked beyond still being solid matter? Filthy dirty? And did they all suddenly--en masse--dissolve in a million washing machines? What? What if I wanted to wear a sweat-protective (ha ha) headband while running today? Do running clubs still have them? Can I buy one tomorrow at LE GRANDE EXPO inside the hugest square-footage building in the City of Chicago? 'Bama-Town? That little "my kinda" place on the prairie waiting over two thousand years for Emanuel to come? Guess what. He came. Oh brother, did he ever. And HE doesn't even wear a sweatband anymore. Guess why? He doesn't sweat! Whatever happened to headbands? I'll tell you what happened--and right here in Chi-Town, too! Da Bears' old "Punky QB" happened along one day and started selling advertising space. Yup! Remember THAT? Right there on the sidelines, right there in Soldier Field, right there on his head in (magic marker) black on (fuzzy) white: "THIS SPACE FOR SALE." Yes, that was the beginning of the end. No companies--or other egomaniacs--ever bought the space, shrunk down their corporate logos, or paid the man what he felt he deserved. And lately? Hah! He's suing the NFL for damages… to his head!! Actually what's happened is, running's just too poor a sport. Basketball, say for example, has become much more lucrative. And so guess where those spiffy fuzzy headbands have realigned themselves now? Weren't you watching the Olympics? Yup. To the biggest egomaniac now on the hardwoods ever to appear within the courts of London--upon whose nappy head now rides the very whitest, rich, poofy, sweat-protectingest headband of all… without any need whatsoever to advertise anything other than the ego that's under it. ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour "your runnin' (for his life now!) mid-evil lute-plucking fuzzycloth-loving sweaty-dood who used to jog every Saturday first past the Coliseum, then the jousting arena, and finally this above-mentioned Soldier Field" Yankee Folly of the Day: Well, hey, some young running man *did* just recently proclaim to the racing universe that he'd be showing up at some race sometime soon, wearing--I kid you not--"a plastic sweattube" around his head! Imagine that. So, again, HOW does a tube made of plastic absorb any sweat? Any at all??'
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What Ever Happened To [...] #1015
[So, in response to probably what nobody ever asked--like, what ever happened to What Ever Happened To?--What Ever Happened To is back. Which reminds me of an old "English Major" joke: Punctuate the following so that it makes perfect sense: John while Jim had had had had had had had had had had had been the right answer. No, DON'T feel like I'm challenging ...
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Oct 7, 2012
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Oct 22, 2012
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4580
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[Oh my heavings! Just LOOKIT what's goin' down deze daze. Our listservs totally have been *Alive with the Sound of Musings*. Or rather, of dismay… and argument and integument (sports heroes "covering up") and all kinds of other bewailments and gnashings of teeth over all sorts of unseemly sportspeeps. I don't want to have to replay or republish all kinds of Internet sites that contain all these horrors (but I will for those who ask via private email off-line) but suffice it to summarize that these are just a few of those aforementioned horrors: Lance Armstrong's been stripped of ALL his TdF victories, and more; some dufus named Kip Something---a rank amateur, for heavings' sake!---has been DQ'd and found cheating at a whole bunch of marathons; a few South African Olympians have been accused of doping; Facebook's been ablaze with sordid posts and other messages concerning the REAL women's record-holder for a full Triple Badwater Crossing versus a PRETEND one and all of THAT titanically poor sportsmanship; and even lately we learn that the CHARITY organization that Dean Karnazes ("Dean Dean the Media Machine") has been raising tons of money for, uh, hasn't exactly doled out much of that money to the charity. These things are all shameful, IMHO, and, well, just naturally lend themselves to another "Bad Joke Friday." So kip reedin'… ;] The Obama Administraction Presents… WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO [hey, Integrity] ? No, not *theirs*, YOURS!!! Don't you even see what real *heroes* all these sportsmen-and-women really are? And still continue to be? They get stripped of their medals and YOU are totally lacking in mettle enough to keep believing? What? Was Faith built in a day? Never mind Rome, this is Faith! You've invested your heart and soul into hero-worship. So a few black marks get sullied against achievements, and YOU sullenly wish to abandon all further worship? C'mon. Where's your fortitude? Your perseverance? Your INTEGRITY??? Lookit baseball! Roger Clemens was acquitted! Barry Bonds is even STILL "the home-run king." Have you lost your faith in the Cubs? The Cubs WON it all (in 1908). Surely your heartfelt belief can stand another century, right? Professional cycling. Gosh, who knew? You mean you STILL can't get past the apparent allegations that most of the front of the pack is hopped-up on jury-rigged blood cells? This is commonplace! EVERYBODY's doing it! Get with the program, will ya? Who are these idiots that always wanna *test* and *retest* and store the blood vials well into the future where brand-new *tests* can be used that haven't even been invented yet? Hey, enough is enough! Lance Armstrong has already PASSED every test!!! What are you missing here? What part of "stepping to the head of the class" can't you understand? In high school, for upchuck's sake, THE kid that scores the best on all the tests becomes valedictorian! Why can't you let Lance even be *on* the commencement program? He---not some dweefus with the potbelly and coke-bottle-bottom eyeglasses---should be giving the keynote speech! Just like Obama! Just like Romney! (Wait, did I miss it? Aren't there also big national conventions for, like, the Green Party? Socialist Workers? Libertarians? Is Ross Perot still alive??) We LOVE these peeps! So why don't you? Kip Hoozissface? C'mon. Who'd want to cheat in a marathon at which there's no prize-money? Who would actually (yes, this was found to be true--or, "alleged") go to all the trouble of actually creating an entire marathon Out West somewhere, complete with R.D. and website and names and finishing times for all 30 finishers, so that he could have himself shown as champion? C'mon. Hoozissface WON the thing? Welllllll, yes! It says so! Right on the Internet!!! And don't we all know that things just don't go on the Internet unless they're true. Of course. Why certainly. And the "Karno Kids" financial statements must be true, too, 'cuz they're on the Internet. No, wait…. Badwater. Just imagine the sheer buffoonery of "pretending" to have a World Record that's significantly short of the World Record. Why, that's crazy stuff! Who in the world would set out to NOT exceed the total distance, or whatever, AFTER that total distance---and the record---had already been established! Eh? What are you *not* comprehending here? Everybody just KNOWS you sign up for a 10-mile race only planning to run 9 miles, right? And then the World Record WILL just naturally be for 9 miles!!! Everybody with any sense knows this. So, whutza matta U? You don't appreciate how some (or all) of the greatest business (for example) achievements throughout recent history have been accomplished? Huh? The guy with the violin case comes into your shop, and you DON'T give him "protection money"? What? Isn't that insurance? And aren't just about all the tallest buildings in every city in America today owned by insurance companies? This is success, people! Why can't you just simply accept it? This is THEIR integrity! What's happened to YOURS??? I'll tell you what's happened to *your* integrity. It got gritty. Greedy maybe. You secretly want Lance's bike-riding trophies for yourself! Admit it! And you'd like all Dean's painfully earned contributions to be deposited in *your* bank account. *You* want the 9-mile world's record. *You* wish that YOU knew the guy who could inject your ass with all the best juice that no test can detect. Heck, you'd like to be standing in line asking for Clemens' and Bonds' and even McGuire's autographs as their attorneys hustle them out of the courtroom. Lookit Drew Peterson, for REAL upchuck's sake! THEY DID NOT PROVE HIM GUILTY! Just ask his attorneys!! After all, this is America, hey. Here we're all Integral until proven otherwise. Myself? I like "factions." ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour "your friendly mid-evil lute-and-other plucking comrade from the Dark Ages who still hurts from not being chosen as his graduating class's valedictorian---the, uh, Class of 1168 A.D." Yankee Folly of the Day: Do the "arithmetic"? Well, let's see, if I'm *pretending* as well to be 800 years old, I would've had to have been born in the year 1212, or some 44 years AFTER I'd already graduated from high school. Hey, no problem! Isn't this a math similar to how the United States' National Debt is planned to be paid? All those born around half-a-century AFTER this year's class will just write a check! Easy!!'
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What Ever Happened To [...] #1014
[Oh my heavings! Just LOOKIT what's goin' down deze daze. Our listservs totally have been *Alive with the Sound of Musings*. Or rather, of dismay… and argument and integument (sports heroes "covering up") and all kinds of other bewailments and gnashings of teeth over all sorts of unseemly sportspeeps. I don't want to have to replay or republish all kinds ...
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Sep 19, 2012
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Sep 19, 2012
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4882
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[Good Afternoon, or Evening, or whatever it is. Happy Friday the Thirteen and "The Return of Jason inside that damned hockey goalie's mask"! Nah, I just mean the return of yours troubly after such a long absence that I don't even know when I wrote y'all last. Maybe just before the Civil War. Or whatever it was. Most likely Uncivil. Anyway, today is also "Bad Joke Friday" but… probably its being the 13th shouldn't be joked about, ya think? Besides, there's waaaaay too much serious stuff happening today in ultrarunning to wanna make jokes about it. Here's clues and links: The Vol-State 500K, which got started yesterday, can be followed here: http://multidays.com/the-2012-last-annual-vol-state-race/ (or even here:) https://www.facebook.com/volstaterun. The Hardrock Hundred, which started this morning, can be followed here: http://multidays.com/hardrock-100-mile-race-2012/ Badwater Ultramarathon, which starts on Monday, can be followed here: http://multidays.com/badwater-ultramarathon-2012-event-info/ Annnnnnnd if all THAT wasn't enough, how about a 3,100-mile footrace inside New York City someplace that started, oh, a long time ago? That's here: http://multidays.com/self-transcendence-3100-mile-race-2012-day-17/ (As of today they're honing in on 1,300 miles, or, not even halfway.) Wow!!! Anyway, regarding the first choice selected above--since yours troubly once finished this himself (in 2009)--I've decided to preach from THAT text for my afternoon sermon. As follows :-] The Bush Administraction Presents… WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO [LAVS] ? Yes, we're talking about the Last Annual Vol-State Road Race, which is currently meandering its way diagonally across Tennessee--but in some kinda weird new almost unrecognizable incarnation--and which is, of course, NOT "the last annual." No, the reasoning there is: each and every single year brings *new* circumstances, if not different competitors, so obviously once any particular year's race is finished--THAT'S the last time THAT race will ever be run! Right. So. What ever happened to that kinda kewl-goofy thinking? Today's race is just chock full of all kinda brand-new weirdnesses that never were EVER encountered before. For example, today's reincarnation draws distinctions (and splits hairs) between "screwed" and "unscrewed" divisions. If you're "screwed," it means you are traipsing across, yes, "The Volunteer State" (Tennessee's motto, hence the race name) being accompanied by a "crew." Whether or not you're being "screwed" by the "crew" is T.M.I. and falls outside the purview of this particular race's rules. Obviously, if you're "unscrewed," you have no "crew" with you at all. (And, since that's so obvious, we don't have to further beat the dead horse by implying no one's "screwing" you either. :-| At least not that *we* know of! ;-) What ever happened to goods crewing? Back in the good ol' days, back when one of the Bushes was in office and one of the following life's alternatives was decidedly in place: war or peace; well, back then the Last Annual Vol-State was merely divided into two other--and much less complicated--groups: solo or relay. If you were solo, you could've been "screwed" or not, and nobody cared! You simply agreed to do the whole distance on your own two feet. Period! But if you were part of a relay team, the whole distance could be done on somebody else's feet--and yours too of course. But there also were--whoa!--somewhat "bendable" rules, at least insofar as the race director could also participate by moseying along in a chair. And whether he moved his chair strictly under his own power, or his crew did, or his screw did… ( O_O ) …we weren't ever too sure. But we do know the damn chair moved, 'cuz each time we saw it, it was farther down the road. Annnnd His Nibs was sitting in it! But that of course paid us no nevermind, because His Nibs never finished the race--under Bush; although he may well have finished it under Carter or Ford or Nixon or Eisenhower; but not much before Ike because His Nibs wasn't born yet!. And also His Nimble-Nibsness didn't ever INTEND to finish it either! No. Mostly he was only in it to blow the mind of yours troubly. And whatever happened to "Camelot"? Did we simply pass over JFK? Nah. JFK only required his healthy and "vigorous" citizenry to expect to be able to run 50 miles, not 314. But we digress. Yes, in those ancient days LAVS (as were lavatories) was simpler. If you had a van full of peeps following you, lifting your chair, and attending to your every need like as if you were some kind of god, or guru, or something, it didn't matter. Similarly, however a team managed its relaying also didn't matter. BUT… that's all gone now. Today (right NOW in fact) if you started out as an "unscrewed" runner and then later accepted something--anything!--from some dufus-on-the-street (even an STD?--we're not sure; the rules are unclear here) you all-of-a-sudden became "screwed." Maybe in more ways than one. Again, today's mega-ginormous newfangled hyper-geeked rulebook isn't clear on this. Because there's actually sub-clauses to these "screwed" versus "unscrewed" rules. To wit: If the dufus giving you aid is just "a man on the street" offering you, say, a sip of water (like that good guy in the bible did for Cheeses) and HAS NO CLUE what the hell you're doing (like that biblical pizza delivery dude), then that's OK. You are still considered "unscrewed." But IF, say for example, he first read the press release in the weekly village newspaper and THEN handed you the water, you're "screwed." No matter what's in the water! So you there and then immediately (!) have to report back to headquarters (the RD's rented bus and borrowed cell phone) a "Change of Category" from "unscrewed" to "screwed." Right. And there's more. If a coupla "good ol' boys" zooming by in a pickup pitch you a Bud Light out the window, for example, you are forbidden from popping that top and drinking unless and until you first can determine whether they read the paper or not. If they didn't, you're OK. Completely "unscrewed" and you may then drink. If you're parched, prostrate on the chigger-ridden roadside, and THISCLOSETODEATH, you still better not drink until you can determine the research capabilities and insidious intent of those good old boys. You must therefore leap to your feet and sprint to catch them, and then conduct your interview. If they haven't a clue what you're yammering about, you're good. But if they've seen the little American flag on your backpack, called into their local library's reference desk, done their homework, Googled your ass, and STILL flung you the beer can? You're "screwed." And today's relayers? Well, when the race first started yesterday, there were none. BUT… this afternoon we learn that two formerly "screwed" (that is, the runner and the crew) decided to Change Their Category and become the "screwed relay division." That, we suppose, is to distinguish such category from the "unscrewed relay division" which would require one runner to race ahead of the other runner, locate within some exchange point, receive the baton, and commence to slow down. The runner just handing off the baton, of course, would then need to speed up in order to get to the next exchange point before the other runner does, and so on and so forth 'til Georgia. All in all, today and until next Sunday morning at o'dark:thirty, most Vol-Staters are *thinking* they're gonna remain "unscrewed." And ya know? After they return to their spouses and HEAR the LITANY of ALL THAT WENT WRONG WHILE THEY WERE GONE… eh? …they're probably going to stay that way for a long, long time. ( X_X ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour "your friendly mid-evil pardon-my-French lute plucker and bike rider, who tried bicycling the course last year until the HEAT blew out his tires and caused the contraption to be stored in his livery stable ever since" Yankee Folly of the Day: Bush the Second ran marathons, ya know. But we'll bet even he NEVER contemplated anything so complicated as running across the entire State of Tennessee. It probably proved tough enough just to do "the run-around" around The White House.'
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What Ever Happened To [...] #1013
[Good Afternoon, or Evening, or whatever it is. Happy Friday the Thirteen and "The Return of Jason inside that damned hockey goalie's mask"! Nah, I just mean the return of yours troubly after such a long absence that I don't even know when I wrote y'all last. Maybe just before the Civil War. Or whatever it was. Most likely Uncivil. Anyway, today is also ...
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Jul 14, 2012
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Jul 14, 2012
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4952
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[Grittings and salivations, alla you gah-groovy guys an' groovy gals! And welcome back (me)--although your opinion may vary--from "vacation" to "Bad Joke Fridays" in general and to this weakly offering in particular. Since some of said vacation involved traipsing around Mayan ruins near Cancun, Mexico, I was thinking: "Whoa! This week's topic oughta be WEHT…the Mayans?" But on second thought, it's too obvious. The Mayans either all died off or became tour guides. But I shouldn't joke. "Our guide" was actually pretty terrific. For one reason, he solemnly assured us that December 21st of this year will NOT be the end of the world. No, it's merely the end of "The 4th Sun" (calendar) and the start of "The 5th." "Sun" in this case means about 10,000 years. So, we're safe. Let's bemoan something else's passing instead.] The Kennedy Administraction Presents… WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO [pull-tags and coat hangers] ? Remember when race bibs consisted of two (or more!) parts, one you pinned on and the other you (or the finish line volunteer) pulled off? Remember the instruction: "Do NOT pin this big round hole to your shirt"? Right. There were always four other little holes. Those you *would* pin to your shirt…or shorts…or skirt…or hat…or sleeve…or shoes (?)...or even your butt, bottle holder, or rucksack. But you would NEVER insert your little safety pin into or around or thru that "big round hole." Why? Because THAT HOLE was for the coat hanger. We realize this Stone Age technology is lost on today's Mayans, or footracers, but it all really did work quite well. Even I, when I first became old enough to enter the Stone Age, was impressed. Here's how it all went down…. Your name, address, Zip Code (this was before the "+ four"), phone number, extension, home or office, date of birth, age on raceday (they were quite often mathematically challenged), sex (we usually answered: "not in awhile"), marital status, occupation, medical history, blood type, health insurance policy number, next of kin, preferred kinks, excessive compulsions, allergies, aberrations, psychoses, neuroses, and whatever else could be squeezed onto a strip of stiff paper about 8 inches long by 1-1/4 inches wide. Hey, this was just the Dawn of the Information Age, not the full-blown Age itself--which is what we have now. And at the registration tables they always pronounced unto our meek and shivering selves: "CHECK AND MAKE SURE the printed information is correct!" Otherwise, we all assumed, the police department in whatever municipality we happened to be racing that day would mail our unpaid-parking-ticket-followup-notice to the wrong address. [For "neurosis" or "favorite parasite" I usually wrote down the same: "wife." No, wait. Sorry. That only applies to Barkley entry forms.] Never mind. Mostly all that pre-race personal info was "for data purposes only." For example: Suppose you had TWO racers that day, both with the same full names, addresses, phone numbers, sexual orientations, and having the exact same DOB. Wow. So then…in order to avoid confusion…the race officials could differentiate between the 26:08 5K finishing time of the one from the 38:57 finishing time of the other just by assuming the latter was me. ( -_- ) No. But that's when the health histories, insurance card numbers, eye and hair color, and the rest of it would come into play. My finishing time could always be distinguished from, say, Theodor Geisel's (yes, same birthdays)--even though both bibs would be full of identical wisecracks--because his would show "Grinch" for employer, and mine would just say "it Hertz" (being careful to omit the apostrophe-"s"). Never mind, again. So what EVER happened to the coat hangers? The coat hanger was used at the finish line--after it was cut, bent, and un-twisted in order to make a kind of wire loop--by one volunteer who would collect all those aforementioned pull-off bib tags and THEN put the hanger thru all those "big round holes." The idea was to place them, face down, in the exact order that all the runners crossed the line. In the case of ties, it was always a "judgment call." And you could NOT argue with the umpire! Later the printed-out "tape" from the other volunteer operating the Chronomix machine (whoa, whatever happened to those, eh?) would be matched, each to each, with all those pull-tags on the coat hanger. The winner would be the very first tag on the hanger and the very first clock-time shown on the machine tape. Easy, huh? And forever and ever afterwards…each successive tag would be matched to the next printed number. This all worked pretty cool, of course, up until right about the time that races started having finishers numbering in the tens, if not hundreds, of thousands. Invariably, the guy at the timing machine couldn't push the button fast enough, and the other dufus with the coat hanger would drop a few…and the order would be lost forever. Ah-ha. And still even later on, after the awards ceremony was over and most of the cars (with or without tickets on their windshields) were gone, that coat hanger had another great purpose: it could be used on the cars belonging to the runners that locked their keys inside. So now, whatever happened to those fat capped buttons on the other side of the glass above the door handles? The ones that looked like golf tees? Right. Those too have all disappeared. So ya might as well throw away your coat hangers, huh? I'll tell you what's happened to ALL THAT STUFF: "chip timing" happened. That's right. The Information Age is now also The Electronic Age and your bib today might only have a printed number and a "thing" stuck on the back of it. All the info that's possible on your ass no longer has to be carried on your ass (or shirt, socks, whatever). It's all pre-programmed into "the machine" (computer, actually) that identifies your data immediately upon receiving "the signal" from that thing (chip, actually) you're wearing at the EXACT SPLIT MICROSECOND when you first "cross the plane" by stepping on that mat right there behind the precise finish "line"--whether it's painted on the ground or not. [Whatever happened to PAINT, as in that stuff you could always piss off the parks department with by leaving it there after the race? Hmmm….] Other possible pull-off tags that might still be attached to the bottom of your bib numbers even today *could* include a gear check I.D., a "raffle" entry, a ticket to the post-race "food fest," or a $2-off coupon good at whatever business is sponsoring the bib numbers, eh? And, oh yes, today in The Electronic Age, police departments chasing down parking ticket scofflaws can also pinch you ('cuz you're in the database!) for stop light violations AND issue you speeding tickets, no matter what kind of wisecracks you scrawl on your race entries! ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour "your friendly mid-evil pardon-my-French lute plucker and bike rider, because his motorcar has been impounded for scoffing the law these last 800 years" Yankee Folly of the Day: We don't think even JFK could have envisioned global databases, handheld (or even desktop) computers, cell phones, and timing chips. But his parking tickets were probably all "fixed" for him anyway. Marilyn's too! (For a while.)'
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What Ever Happened To [...] #1012
[Grittings and salivations, alla you gah-groovy guys an' groovy gals! And welcome back (me)--although your opinion may vary--from "vacation" to "Bad Joke Fridays" in general and to this weakly offering in particular. Since some of said vacation involved traipsing around Mayan ruins near Cancun, Mexico, I was thinking: "Whoa! This week's topic oughta be WEHT…the ...
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Jun 26, 2012
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Jun 26, 2012
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4979
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[In keeping with, or trying to restore, "the spirit of Bad Joke Fridays," I've decided to chip in the following "take" on all these currently wildly exotic--and damned expensive!--versions of excursions that equally wildly exotic race directors are now concocting. Never mind just Badwater and MdS, now sullenly we have this: http://g2gultra.com/. Click on RACE > ENTRY DETAILS. But you'd better sit down first. Welcome to Bad Joke Friday.] The Eisenhower Administraction Presents… WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO ["Footraces"] ? Yes. What ever happened to, you know, scratching a line with a stick in the earth, standing behind it along with a dozen or so of your worst enemies on Earth, agreeing on a destination some two or three hundred yards (or miles) hence, somebody saying "on your mark, get set, go!"--and then indeed all going, at full speed (or ultra pace) toward that destination? And then, forever afterwards, claiming bragging rights for getting there first? What has happened to THAT idea? Race-running at its purest. At its most basic. At its gut-level, Neanderthal, cavepeople best. Just pickin' out the four-legged critter y'all wanna eat, then runnin' like hell to "get there first." Then killin' and eatin' it. And to hell with all those other worst cave-settlement enemies on earth. During those joyous and tra-la/tra-la carefree Eisenhower years, we had track meets and Wheaties boxes and Sir Hoozits, Roger Somebody, who first broke the four-minute mile. Then it was Som Otherbuddy who broke the 10-second barrier for 100 meters (we used to call it the "hundred yard dash") and still Sum Other-Marathoner-Bud who then broke this, then that, and lately the other World Record. Boom. (Running Boom!) All to the good, and we all rejoiced. Boom-shaka-laka, boom-shaka-laka, boom-boom-boom. AND THEN, I suppose, hippies got involved and running and racing haven't quite been the same since. THEN, sullenly, you had "ultramarathons." And owe-my-gaud what a travesty THAT became. Now there were goofy things like running across cities, counties, even countries! And oceans (aboard ship)! And running around the world!! Oh, wait, a hundred years before that (which we forgot about, sorry) you had "pedestrian events"--like walking (in leather shoes!) for six days inside something like a "velodrome." And you-gotta-be-kidding-me oh-what-a-travesty THAT was. So NOW whudda ya got? You've got races across deserts and races over mountains and through canyons and in swamps and stepping over alligators and rappelling down buildings and wading through rivers and zip-lining at The Barkley and (OMG, did I hafta mention "Barkley"?) and…and…and…. And it all started out first from that line in the dirt towards that lone dinosaur over yonder--for FREE! But not any more. Now if you want to test yourself against a few dozen of your best strangers, ya gotta COUGH UP. Pieces of eight, baby. Cash on the barrelhead. Ante up the credit card. Most recently: THREE THOUSAND TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS and what does that buy you? A bus ride, shared tent space, water, and motel/hotel for the (2 only) days before/after. Planefare? Fuhgeddaboud it. Aid stations with soup and sandwiches and all the M&Ms you can grab? Ya gotta carry THAT stuff with! Gawd help ya, but don't worry; good insurance has CYA'd the race management against any Neanderthal feigning injury and greedily hiring some fancy-ass 21st century attorney to SUE 'em. What EVER happened, for example, to "race-day sign-up"? You just showed up in your non-leather spongy-rubbered light-weight waffle-soled running shoes, plunked down your ten bucks, pinned on your bib, and you were ready. "ON YER MARX, GIT SET, GOE!!!" You could be out there for a lap or two, ten minutes or days, one mile or three-hundred-and-fourteen! And beyond…. Interestingly enough--and bucking ALL the trends--the very latest incarnation of the 314-mile footrace costs absolutely nothing. Well, ya do gotta pay the ferrymen for the initial boat ride both ways. Oh, and now there's a bus fee. But compared to $3,200 apiece for a bib number and four safety pins??? OMG, the Last Annual Vol-State Race is a ridiculous bargain. A joy and a re-joy. Joi de vivre! Boom-shaka-laka, boom. Invented, methinks, by an old tryin'-not-to-be hippie. Sure beats being REQUIRED to apply first, pay an application-fee-just-to-ask-to-be-invited, then get "invited" and pay MORE and have to guarantee not one but TWO separate vans with ice and supplies and CREWS--and pay all those folks for THEIR travel and living expenses!--and finally, you know, outfit yourself in the very latest of high-tech hot-desert high-fashion adornments, look pretty, smile a lot, and finally, yes, when the cheap bullhorn cackles and sputters some signal--start running. THAT total "investment"? We're talking five figures, my friends, not just four. So whatever happens now? Where is all THIS going and when will it end? I'll tell you when it will end, and then…how it will continue. It all ends when the country does. When the democracy is totally bankrupt and the dictator arrives "to fix everything." And the peeps and the sheeps will all be fed up enough to support such a one, and so will all the sailors and the soldiers and the peeved people with the ships and the guns and the drones and STUFF. Shortly after that, there'll be no disposable income OR high-tech "toughest" races on Earth, and THEN ya know what happens? The poor (but athletic!) peeps start scratching lines in the dirt with sticks again and sayin', "Hey! I'll race ya to the fence! First one over without getting shot wins!!" And my relay-team-family will race your relay-team-family to the dinosaur! Nah, mutant six-legged three-horned two-headed buffalo. We'll run him down like our ancestors did. ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour "by the time my Middle Ages came along, of course, all the dinosaurs were gone; so, I've decided to replace one" Yankee Folly of the Day: Hey! Race ya to the iPhone with the instant electronic banking withdrawal app so the loser can pay the winner in pseudo cash! And Tomorrow's Illogical Yankee Corollary: When ATM machines are small enough to fit in iPhones, the value of the buck goes down, too. And so much for high-fashion purses and wallets. They'll be too small for anyone to see 'em. '
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What Ever Happened To [...] #1011
[In keeping with, or trying to restore, "the spirit of Bad Joke Fridays," I've decided to chip in the following "take" on all these currently wildly exotic--and damned expensive!--versions of excursions that equally wildly exotic race directors are now concocting. Never mind just Badwater and MdS, now sullenly we have this: http://g2gultra.com/. Click on RACE ...
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Jun 12, 2012blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='sys_update', rowValue=''
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4401
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[So. Here I was all set to post up yet another abomination of rhetoric, language, and good taste, when WHAM: I spied an email in my Inbox from Tim Butterfield. And OMG! This has entirely forced me to change plans, scrap the rhetoric, and concoct new "language." Right. And, yes, I do want to show y'all what he was talkin' about--maybe I'll append it to the bottom of this "thing"--but really and truly? Today's revised topic was first suggested by our friend Chase Williams, who six days ago wrote: "So I think the real question is: What ever happened to Chivalry?" Indeed. So thanks be to Chase and Tim, and now without further ado…] The Washington Administraction Presents… WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO ["Chivalry"] ? Really, ya know? Bein' nice? Opening store doors and car doors for fair maidens in diss dress? Bowing at the--or in spite of--waste. I mean waist. Taking off your frickin' polar-tech high-gloss thermal-lined running jacket and placing it ever so nonchalantly across the mud puddle before m'lady's tootsies. Indeed. And what ever happened to "m'lady"? My lady is fine. Yours is questionable. It's all about "me" anyway, not you. Please re-read last week's epistle. Anyway, we're yakkin' up chivalry today, and no further sudden emails are gonna distract yours troubly from his topic. So, what DID happen to chivalry anyway? It isn't commonly known in this day and age, of course, but centuries ago--before asphalt was invented, or even cobblestones--nearly every street of every city in the world was just, like, you know, MUD. During and after the rain especially. Sometimes even during and after the snow. And sometimes the entire civilized planet simply resembled your typical trail in the Kettle Moraine. (But not Massanutten! That's only rocks. Rocks repel mud. Just like these spiffy running jackets do, which you are NOT taking off and putting down so the ladies can step on 'em.) Where was I? Oh, centuries ago. Right. Centuries ago there actually were inventions that the ladies could slip under their shoes which would in fact help keep them out of the mud. They were called "pattens." [http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Patten_(shoe)] I kid you not. But it was kinda like walking on stilts. Milady oft fell off her perch, twisted her well-turned ankle, and spilled directly into the waiting outstretched arms of her squire, footman, or troubadour. I kid you not. [See below.] But this, too, is an "I digress"shun. We'll return to our regularly scheduled topic immediately… right after an uninvented commercial for "troubadours" and why you should hire them to sing for you and, while they're at it, compose brand-new medieval poetry." Look among those particularly who already are in the Middle Ages. For today only an ancient off-tunesmith and literary hack could possibly still be wearing a "cloak"--fer heaving's sake!--of the kind that could easily be removed and splayed across a puddle. Every other male is wearing Gore-tex. [Yes, its registered trademark is duly noted, but ask Steve Jobs where the hell he put that type of symbol inside his iMac "Mail" program, huh?] So, WHAT the heck EVER else happened to CHIVALRY??? Did the gals all refuse it? Did your typical "lady-in-waiting" get damn tired of having to STOP all the time and WAIT for some gallant clumsy frumpy knave to strip off half his "body armor" and splash the wrinkled threads down in front of her? Were these distressed damsels THAT anxious to continue on their way? Did they wish not to be hampered, or slowed, or unduly encumbered by ANY pompous frilly overdressed pretty boys who were ten times less physically fit than they were? Did they wanna "chick" dudes even then?? "Yes, ma'am." "Thank you, ma'am." "Would you like me to dry you off with this towel, ma'am, or do you prefer the au naturale air drying?" Whatever happened to today's men saying THOSE things? Eh? I'll tell you what happened to chivalry. Chevrolet stole the concept. [Yes again, the "R with the circle around it" is duly accredited.] Chevy built the Corvette Stingray, and women (and men) have been ruined ever since. Men simply can't catch up with women long enough to hold ANY doors open or protect their pair of Air Nike Pegasus [Yup, trademarked] from street water, creek crossings, or rainy trails' going to hell. Women have simply learned how to do *without*. Chivalry is dead because all the damn male fat asses proved to be too freaking SLOW!! And women have wisely chosen to keep their youth and vigor from now on, too. And, oh yes, lose weight. I believe that in today's day and age, most gals will agree that they look their very spiffy underdressed best *after* they've shed between 180 and 310 pounds of unwanted weight... …at the courthouse. ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour "your Middle Age song-and-dance-'meister' ever since that first stringy dweeb decided to pluck his lute" Yankee Folly of the Day: ALL of the following, courtesy of Tim Butterfield: Congrats! You're the M-W Word of the Day. **************************************************************** Play Merriam-Webster's free word games -- Word Sudoku, Deep Sea Word Search and more. http://www.merriam-webster.com/game/index.htm?&t=1294087108 **************************************************************** The Word of the Day for May 25 is: troubadour \TROO-buh-dor\ noun 1 : a lyric poet or musician who performed chiefly in southern France and northern Italy in the 11th through 13th centuries 2 : a singer especially of folk songs Examples: The small coffeehouse includes a performance space where troubadours from all over can come to play music for the other patrons. "A tango diva and modern troubadour, [Maria] Volonté is an ardent singer-songwriter who lives true to her spirit, a spirit that has sent her on a lifelong expedition across countries and cultures through myriad musical styles." — From a review by Milton D. Carrero in The Morning Call (Allentown, Pennsylvania), April 20, 2012 Did you know? In the Middle Ages, troubadours were the shining knights of poetry (in fact, some were ranked as high as knights in the feudal class structure). Troubadours made chivalry a high art, writing poems and singing about chivalrous love, creating the mystique of refined damsels, and glorifying the gallant knight on his charger. "Troubadour" was a fitting name for such creative artists; it derives from an Old Occitan word meaning "to compose." In modern contexts, "troubadour" still refers to the song-meisters of the Middle Ages, but it has been extended to cover contemporary poet-musicians as well. Test Your Memory: What word completes this sentence from a recent Word of the Day piece: "Aunt Mabel claimed she had the magic touch to __________ a cranky baby, and indeed, as soon as she picked up her infant nephew he settled right down"? The answer is ... http://s.m-w.com/IXccpz [Yo. I haven't looked, but my guess for filling-in-that-blank is: "pacify." How'd I do?] '
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What Ever Happened To [...] #1010
[So. Here I was all set to post up yet another abomination of rhetoric, language, and good taste, when WHAM: I spied an email in my Inbox from Tim Butterfield. And OMG! This has entirely forced me to change plans, scrap the rhetoric, and concoct new "language." Right. And, yes, I do want to show y'all what he was talkin' about--maybe I'll append it to the ...
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Jun 12, 2012
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Jun 12, 2012
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4829
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[And now to try and go back to take up the slack…] The Lincoln Administraction Presents… WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO ["After You"] ? Because today, it's all ME. Me first! You AFTER me! What I get out of life is most important to ME! Not you. The heck with YOU! It's like "me radio." WMEE-AM & FM. "All me all the time." Friends, the Commandments must surely have lately been rewritten. Toadally (remember those Egyptian plagues?) reviled. Oops, I mean revised. "Love thy neighbor as thyself" now reads: "Love thyself and, in fact, make thy neighbor love thyself." Neighbors--indeed whole 'hoods--be damned! You're the guy! You Da Man! Your life's mission, therefore, is only to acquire ev-er-y-thing-pos-si-ble-up-on-the-face-of-this-Earth-to-put-you SO far-a-head-of-your-neigh-bor… …that… ...he quits the club, retires from the game, wishes to leap off the planet. "HEY!" you say (perfectly self-justifiably), "you *must* refund MY money! What the heck's the problem here? I'm more important than you are or the rest of this race field is!" "I don't care if it's now weeks past the refund deadline, that your race has a no-refund policy, that I SIGNED my name to the agreement and waiver--and BTW I'll sue alla y'all's asses anyway if I wanna--and also that everything was clearly stated in writing upfront--on web or on paper--I DON'T CARE! You owe ME!!!" I… …that is… …***ME***… …am so much MORE (more of importance, more of a good thing, more of a joy to be around, more of an inspiration to more and more people--both living now and yet to be born) than your own silly stupid piddly little weasly measly self could ever even possibly totally hope to be… …so that… …you need to worship! No, not only ME in church (sure, The Beatles were once more popular than Jesus, but *I AM* even more popular than The Beatles) but everywhere! You therefore *must* fall to your knees whenever we meet, whenever my name is mentioned, whenever you're even within earshot of somebody else being within earshot of someone--anyone, everyone--even WHISPERING of my divinity, my godlike abdominals, my PRs, my latest finishing times, my NAME!! First name, surname, middle initial, prefatory titles, suffixatory numerology (the second, the third, junior, whatever)… it does not matter. For *I* (ME!!!) am the be-all and the end-all, the side-all (whether stitched or VO2-maxed or plain or peanut) the know-all, the see-all, THE single most important compilation of protoplastic ick ever to slime the hallway, skid the base path, or trudge the woods. I am grate! I spill perfect! I even speek bettern you. Indeed. What EVER happened to "after you, ma'am" / "you go first, sir" / "I can wait for the *next* subway train"? "We're all in this reservoir together." "It makes no difference whose thumb plugs the dike." And "if mama ain't happy, AIN'T NOBODY happy." Huh? Where did all THAT preposterous civility go? I think Lincoln took it. To Springfield, Illy-noise, with him after he "passed." He advised, "Bind up the nation's wounds," and so Wall Street recently made everybody sore. He said, "With malice toward none and charity for all," and now gangbangers just shoot everybody, whether they're on welfare or not. And finally he said, "Mary Todd, yea whither hast thou put yon dramatis personae programme?" And then an early gangbanger shot HIM. "Me! Me first! Thus always!" he hollered as he jumped down onto Ford's Theatre's stage. "Let ME get the hell outa HERE!!!" Yup. I gotta think ol' John Wilkes Booth is The Father of Selfishness. He's your hero--IF, that is, you're still thinking like a scalawag and demanding that impoverished race directors pay "restitution" to *YOU* with money they no longer have. ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour "waiting over 800 years, in fact, for the next subway train" Yankee Folly of the Day: Ah, ya can't hardly blame alla young-uns for selfishness. I mean, lookit all the trophies they won as kids from their doting parents for not winning anything. They totally grew up feeling completely precious, right? And now look: they even have *i*Phones and *i*Pods and *i*Macs. Meanwhile U-Haul, I'm told, is nearly bankrupt. It's not *You*, after all, that hauls anything! It's Mom. PS: There's a Great new race in town (my town!) See it here... http://www.runrace.net/findarace.php?id=12182IL&tab=a3 ...and see you there!!!'
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What Ever Happened To [...] #1009
[And now to try and go back to take up the slack…] The Lincoln Administraction Presents… WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO ["After You"] ? Because today, it's all ME. Me first! You AFTER me! What I get out of life is most important to ME! Not you. The heck with YOU! It's like "me radio." WMEE-AM & FM. "All me all the time." Friends, the Commandments ...
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May 21, 2012
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May 21, 2012
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4208
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[And now for something completely different :] The Warren G. Harding Administraction Presents... WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO [Wheaties] ? Yes, and for that matter, what ever happened to WHEAT? "The Breakfast of Champions" is very likely on the brink of extinction; just like normal wheat, healthy wheat, wheat grown in non-genetically-mutated fields by as-yet un-brainwashed seed-planting farmers. [You think we're kidding? Check out: http://www.cnbc.com/id/46809807// and http://www.amazon.com/Wheat-Belly-Lose-Weight-Health/dp/1609611543/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1334942035&sr=1-1.] And as "for amber waves of grain..." what EVER happened to THOSE? The last real "champion" to appear on a Wheaties' box might have been Muhammad Ali, or Bruce Jenner--and what in the hell ever happened to HIM? He's now a Kardashian? Bruce Kardashian?? Puh-leeeeease. We're told that a new-kinda sport's champion (in the, what, "halfpipe"?) way back in 2002 actually REFUSED Wheaties' offer to appear on their box. "I don't think I've ever eaten Wheaties in my whole life," the kid said. "If I was on something like that, I'd probably want it to be like Count Chocula or something cool." Which now begs the question: Did even Muhammad Ali, Mary Lou Retton, or Tiger Woods actually ever suck down a spoonful of Wheaties? Did Bruce Jenner? We think Bruce's main staple in recent years has been "Love Potion Number Nine." If they ate today's Wheaties, made with today's wheat, they very likely wouldn't--and couldn't--EVER have been champions. They'd most likely be unstoppably obese, unwittingly cancer-prone, and sick quite a bit of the time--with all sorts of digestive, "gluten," and colonic issues. Why have "they" (meaning Big Pharma) come up with so many medicines (and "cleanses" and "colonics") today that our grandparents never heard of? Because grandma and grandpa ate genetically UN-mutated wheat. And, by the way, what ever happened to grandparents? They're now raising all their kids' kids and feeding them Count Chocula "or something cool." When I was a boy, I loved my grandparents for feeding me Sugar Pops--because of the really cool toys you could send for. Grandparents, I discovered, are about the only ones who will order toys for you through the mail. Today, of course, they do it online. Or, kids can just "borrow" grandpa's credit card and order the junk themselves. National Obesity Epidemic? Sure! It can't be helped! Because EVERYBODY's eating mutated crops! Insect (and human?) proof? Stuff just "Chocula"-stuffed full of stuff manufactured in gigantic chemical plants rather than yielded from God's green plants in fields free of chemical engineering. Whatever happened to farming anyway? Farming now gets its seeds from chemistry, not from growing plants that can no longer grow on their own, and from gigantic multi-billion-dollar agribusiness "plants" that make farmers all sign up for *their* seeds exclusively. And, what's worse, these agri-outfits have SPIES that snoop around farmers' crops, so that, if you haven't signed their deal and they do find their seeds (carried in by wind, dropped by birds, whatever) in your fields, they SUE YOU. What ever happened to just being nice? So we should all, by now, be X-Men: freakish (fat?) mutants but without any super-powers. And that, of course, now presents itself as a way to save Wheaties. Put Wolverine on the box! Or, better yet, that blue character that Rebecca Romjin played in the movie totally in the buff--but bodypainted, of course, all blue. THAT oughta sell a whole lotta Wheaties' boxes! Never mind the junk inside, of course. I'd suggest swapping the contents out for "something cool" like, maybe for Kix, Cocoa Pebbles or Lucky Charms. ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour "waiting for over 800 years to see a famous ultrarunner on a Wheaties' box" Yankee Folly of the Day: Once the bugs all "adapt," the mega-ginormous agribusiness chemists get working on brand-new insecticides and other "cides" which, if those old "Twilight Zone" and "Outer Limits" episodes have told us anything about our future, will result in 40-foot beetles or the eggplant that ate Chicago.'
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What Ever Happened To [...] #1008
[And now for something completely different :] The Warren G. Harding Administraction Presents... WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO [Wheaties] ? Yes, and for that matter, what ever happened to WHEAT? "The Breakfast of Champions" is very likely on the brink of extinction; just like normal wheat, healthy wheat, wheat grown in non-genetically-mutated fields by ...
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Apr 22, 2012
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Apr 22, 2012
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4665
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2 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[Having returned from Tennessee and, of course, "That Event" which took place over the past 3-day weekend, I've been convalescing in my shellshock ever since. I have struggled mightily to understand the phenomenon, but have ultimately given up in despair of ever unraveling the "mystery"; and so I now give you this, as follows, which is to serve both as fair warning and good reason to turn to Zen. There is, after all, no sound possible coming from the mouth of a Barkley runner screaming.] The Reagan Administraction Presents... WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO [The "Unfinishable" Barkleys] ? Yes, back in the day and for years and years and YEARS, no earthling on that Tennessee earth was ever quite able to finish 100 miles. In fact, it took three years before any human could manage 3/5ths of that total. Right. So... What ever happened to *that* stuff? The Barkley Marathons (plural, note, because there always have been more than one to be run consecutively) were "inspired," I suppose, by one tremendously notorious DNF: that perpetrated by one James Earl Ray, who in 1977 escaped the "maximum" (?) security prison there and fled for his life into these very same mountainous woods where the current event is annually held. We believe Mr. Ray--who, if anyone had reason to be successful, HE did--traveled all of about 5 or 8 miles in 54 or 56 total hours (even our beliefs disagree) before he was recaptured. Whatever happened to Ray? [No secret there. He died in prison.] So the whole idea stemmed from how TOUGH such mountainous woods must surely be if an escaped con could only run a few miles in them--unable to get out!--in well over two days' time. Ah ha! And bingo! What a perfect place to hold a footrace *expecting* runners to make 100 miles in two-and-a-half days' time! And the idea worked...for years! Although most (not all, yours troubly included) runners *did* do better than Ray did, absolutely none of 'em could make it 95 miles farther. From raceday One in 1986 (yes, during Ronald Ray-gun's time in office) until raceday Nine in 1994 (Prezdit Cluntun's tahm) NO ONE ever made the full 100 miles. What EVER happened ta doze daze? Then, the impossible happened. For race Ten, some dingleberry from ye merry ole Land of Eng(land) just forgot to stop...and did indeed complete the full race. We'd be tempted to say THAT, therefore, opened the mythical floodgates and thereafter hundreds would go on to do it. Not so. Whatever happened to those mythical hundreds? Apparently they were thinning themselves, culling the herd, and queuing up for the next century. In wondrous efforts to make the *course* harder and ever-harder and more and more difficult, the race director himself (self-appelled as the "Idiot"--don't ask us why) failed to do it, and in 2001 (the very dawn of the third millennium) TWO runners actually managed to get to the finish line. But none thereafter...until 2003, then 2004, then 2008, and then Pandora's Box lid blew off. There've been finishers every year since. And in 2012 THERE WERE THREE!!! What the heck happened during all those intervening years? Apparently, da nada. Except of course the ever-continuing wickedness of the "Idiot." But what happened to the effectiveness of his evil? Why can't the "no finishers syndrome" simply continue? The *course* is harder! Now runners are expected to traverse two counties, cross a highway twice, climb and re-climb more ugly hills than old James Earl could ever see from his cell, AND lately--upon the official closing of that selfsame prison--NOW runners are expected to actually go there during the race, slog through the sludge of the sewer underneath, AND then climb that very wall that Ray went over! What in the *F* is up with THAT? Can't even razor wire stop this onslaught of finishers? What in the name of all that is holy (and the Tennessee Department of Corrections) is somehow enabling MORE runners to do 100 miles rather than LESS? We miss those days when the whole camp could break camp early and return to our wives (husbands too, ladies, we're not forgetting your failures either :) and SO's and children and relatives we went camping in the first place to get away from.... In all those happy years of nobody finishing, we were marginally less sad. But now? Now, year after year and no matter what the "Idiot" throws at those that line up to start, we are all having to pay more in camping fees because ain't none of us gettin' otta there early. But here's one thing our beloved, though idiotic, race director CAN do for the rest of us: feed us more Barkley chicken! Gosh knows us real chickens gotta refuel somehow. ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour "your somewhat annual 'Volunteer State' park visitor for nearly 800 years, who is actually rather appreciative of the 'real' originator/sponsor of this *event*--not Ray, but that 'scruffy unkempt Tennessee chicken farmer named Barry Barkley'" Yankee Folly of the Day: On the evilest mountain/jungle course yet, we get three finishers. At this rate, future evolutions of impossibility will doubtless produce so many finishers that chutes will have to be set up, there should be a big clock and chip timing, and volunteer Yankees will need to pull tags off bib numbers and string them on coat hangers (as a back-up).'
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What Ever Happened To [...] #1007
[Having returned from Tennessee and, of course, "That Event" which took place over the past 3-day weekend, I've been convalescing in my shellshock ever since. I have struggled mightily to understand the phenomenon, but have ultimately given up in despair of ever unraveling the "mystery"; and so I now give you this, as follows, which is to serve both as fair ...
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Apr 9, 2012blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='sys_update', rowValue=''
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4545
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[Wow. What Ever happened to Winter in the Midwest? It left early this year! And in its wake it left all this trash in my yard that the snow used to hide. Reminds me how ultras in the woods have changed, too--for the worse. Too many peeps, methinks, have been counting too long on snow hiding their refuse as well. Well, it's pretty bad. And I've decided to take up my quill against it, hopefully without spilling all the damn ink and causing my clothes to have to go to the landfill also.] The Johnson Administraction Presents... WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO ["Not Littering"] ? Yes. "The Great Society" and "Keep America Beautiful" and "Just Say No" [To... stuff]. Right. What ever happened to all those things, especially the non-trashing part? Having recently slogged, bogged, and quagmired my way thru the titanic (sinking) mud of a gigantic gorgeous forest (in Mississippi), I could not help but notice all the garbage. Wrappers, cups, styro, plastic, paper, rinds, empty water bottles, half-empty water bottles, FULL water bottles, bottle caps, and squeeze tubes. Squeeze tube tops only! Socks (yes). Shoe parts. Gloves. STUFF! Sleeves, leavings, and leaves. The stuff from nature is OK, but the junk from man un-kind isn't. So. Man unkind is now endowed? Privileged? And totally *entitled* to some body ELSE having to stoop down, scoop up, stash away, and empty at the next proper receptacle farther down the trail? Sullenly, within the last many years, we no longer have to do this ourselves? Gosh. Who knew? If I'd've only known earlier, I could've been making a whole lotta back-breaking work for some other dufus all these decades when it had previously been brainwashed into me: "Pack it in, pack it out. Leave NOTHING behind but your footprints." What ever happened to THAT kind of reasoning? Surely it's old-fashioned. Today's whippersnappers haven't ever felt whips snapped. Their mothers have picked up their rooms for them ever since their very first tantrum. Dads too. Parents have seemingly built up such guilt at being "away" from their kids all the time, that the number one lesson each junior learns is how not to have to do anything. Instead he learns how someone ELSE will do everything! In my old-fashioned day, we were taught such antique jazz as "doing your good deed for the day." "Go ahead," everybody's parents would encourage everybody's kid, "pick up that wrapper. It won't kill you. And if you get it off my lawn in the next ten seconds, I won't call the cops either!" Church youth groups, the Boy and Girl Scouts, and sometimes even whole Little Leagues would scour neighborhoods on Saturdays doing "spring cleaning." We got pretty used to the idea that leaving garbage all over the ground was a pretty bad idea. So what EVER happened to that idea? We used to even cheer when the city's street-sweepers rolled into action. You know, those big huge contraptions that looked like horizontal car washes. Gigantic swirling brushes...brushing...and vacuuming. They used to suck up everything off the street including little kids! Sometimes we had to stop, look, and holler to the driver to let our pal's arms go! What's needed now is some sort of single-track trail-cleaning machine. It could roll along just like mommy does, sweeping up everything little junior has laid down before her. The driver could feel like Moses, dividing things, like the wheat from the chaff. The mommy could feel even guiltier. And precious junior could continue feeling nothing at all. Yea, woe yea, we are surely very near to the end of civilization as we know it. Look what happened in history: after the spoiled-rotten Roman kids started leaving their togas and Forum bar wrappers all over the Appian Way, the Empire fell. Ancient Greece the same thing. I cannot tell you how many of Plutarch's chronicles are devoted to the capturing and rounding up of trailer trash during Alexander the Great's march to the sea. Or, wherever he marched. Chances are pretty good those ancient troops slogging through THEIR woods simply did not tolerate plastic crap and paper wrappers being tossed around and left behind. Probably because they didn't have any. ( O_O ) So maybe after another two or three thousand years, our trails won't either. Yours troubly, The Troubadour "your fiendishly 'friendly' ancient Crusader who used to MAKE slaves pick up the garbage BEFORE they could even hint at throwing a tantrum" Yankee Folly of The Day: We remember Lady Bird with "tch tch" on our breath and a tongue in our cheek. "The Great Society" never had a sweeter nor more ineffective spokeswoman. Maybe there wouldn't be so much trash today if Jane Fonda had gotten her priorities straight, and had her picture taken on top of a garbage truck instead of an anti-aircraft gun.'
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What Ever Happened To [...] #1006
[Wow. What Ever happened to Winter in the Midwest? It left early this year! And in its wake it left all this trash in my yard that the snow used to hide. Reminds me how ultras in the woods have changed, too--for the worse. Too many peeps, methinks, have been counting too long on snow hiding their refuse as well. Well, it's pretty bad. And I've decided ...
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[Freshly, or UNfreshly, back from my special "treat to beat my feet on the Mississippi MUD," I feel UNspired today to rap about PAVEMENT--and thank the good load for it, too! And thanks otherwise to today's listserv chatterings on this very topic as well. ;-] The Reagan Administraction Presents... WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO ["Road Races"] ? Right. What ever happened to 'em anyway? Having just slogged and trudged and extracted my shoes out from over 30 miles of soggy sole-sucking quicksand, I find myself missing that good old-fashioned CONCRETE. You know, the stuff "they" used to put the feet into of double-crossers and loan deadbeats and attempters-to-skip-out-on "The Family," so that then The Family would simply be forced to toss them overboard. I'm told there are currently lots and lots of metal tubs filled with concrete with two conspicuous holes in them lying at the bottom of the ocean. Well, I, for one, would like all that concrete back. How about asphalt? What the heck ever happened to running on *it*? Today only woods are valid? Jungles? Forests? Trails? Little skimpy pathways that only the deer used to use? The kinds of enticingly attractive ways to wander all over all kinds of dirt that, after just a few Mississlippery monsoons, for example, turns into all kinds of slime? And y'all wanna now try to RUN in THAT?? What *ever* happened to running on civilized ROADS? Used to be, you could charge around neighborhoods, highways and byways IN THE POURING RAIN and barely pick up a speck of slime, or mud. All's you got was soaked--but it was clean soak. When you got home, you'd set your jog-togs, tube socks, and "gym shoes" out on the back porch, and the next day you could wear 'em again. Whoa. Yo! These days, when you finally do MUDDLE thru to the finish line, you can't even get back inside your car without first having to do a very public striptease. And everything you peel off needs to go inside some big plastic bag and then into the trunk. And what do you do with it if you're staying at a hotel? Even if you do succeed in lugging it through the lobby, what do you do with it in your room? The maid will think it's garbage (which, when you think about it, it is) and pitch it the next day while you're hobbling down to breakfast. Leave it all out to dry? Where? Under the sink? Then what do you do with all the inevitable dried dirt that unavoidably spreads itself all over the floor? Put those putrefying shoes up on the heater unit? Puh-leeeeease. Hotel management will charge you a pet deposit. After you check out, they'll have to fumigate. And then they'll charge you for that, too. Road races. What the heck *ever* happened to 'em? Where'd they all go? In Mississippi alone I've got precious historical evidence that, for example, a now-famous Carl Touchstone and a now-infamous Gary Cantrell both once cruised around the Leland town square (I think) for umpteen obsquattamatillion laps to make 50 miles in the now-astonishing times of about 7 hours or less. Yes, all on pavement. Today? In dys Mississucky Mud of da DeSoto National Forest? A sub-7-hour 50M would be deserving of a world record! Personally, I only knew of maybe ONE modern ultrarunner who could do it--DeWayne Satterfield--and he mostly did it on those rare (very, VERY rare) occasions when the whole DeSoto Forest was DRY. ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour "your friendly neighborhood-missing (for nearly 800 years) wretch who in horseracing terms would be called a 'mudder'" PS: And DeWayne used to lap me at the exact same place (new-growth pine trees by the "clean" creek after the 6-mile mark) each and every time! Yankee Folly of The Day: Sure, there were road races before President Reagan, but not all that many ultramarathons! They seemed to start thriving along with the rest of "the running boom" shortly after Shorter did his Olympics marathon thing (under Carter), and nearly all of those too were on ROADS. ____________________________________________ To Which Is Now Added... Monday Sometime [was: Morning] Quarterbacking [Re: WEHT #1005] Posted: Monday, March 12, 2012 5:29 PM About WEHT #1005 and "Road Races" and, well, what was written about slogging along in the rain and the mud (on TRAILS :(, J.C. wrote in to say: "Your stanky descriptions sound like (smell, to be accurate) what our gear smelled like after a week of backpacking in the Smokies. Our last trip out was to Mt. LeConte, where a 1930's era lodge is the popular half-way point of some pretty impressive up-and-down trail runners, and an even more impressive octagenarian lady who walks the walk once a week (used to do it more often)." Nevertheless, my friend J.C. admitted to spending 20 years worth of spring breaks hiking in the Smokies, so… rancid gear smell from trails is not apparently enough of a drawback to cause hikers, for example, to prefer hiking instead on pavement. H.S. said, "Come on, Rich, either you love it or you have severe masochistic tendencies. I could understand 3 or 4 times hoping it will be better, but if I can count it has been 16 times so far." Again my friend is enumerating (mutual) years of attendance at the Mississippi 50/50/20 race. Guilty as charged, I suppose. And just like J.C. above, I guess my own trail "stankiness" hasn't been enough either to keep me from keepin' on keepin' goin' back. D.B. was kind and offered: "I do find this funny. Very funny. As I mentioned to the list and other places that I was planning to run a barefoot 100 in a controlled environment, I got a lot of flack. Yes, I prefer the serenity of the forest. But . . . I personally enjoy running on all surfaces. Mostly." Privately D.B. admitted that this planned upcoming barefoot ultra is NOT going to be on gnarly, nasty, rocky or muddy trails. "Controlled environment" means "indoors"! There hasn't been a single year in Mississippi when I regretted running with shoes on my feet, although there was one year when the mud was actually so bad that it sucked the SOLE OFF my shoe, not the shoe off my foot. Man, I wanna tell ya, that is some kinda powerful MUD!! Finally, C.W. said: "My opinion, and this is just my opinion so it's probablly wrong, about road races is that the medical community along with shoe companies are convincing us that our bodies are broken. So they provide us with a 'cure,' [which] will prevent injuries and allow our broken bodies to run on these unnatural, manmade surfaces, and do it faster and more efficency! "Then these 'cures' don't work as advertised. So the companies that came out with the original 'cure' decide to up [add-on, improve] with additional pieces that are required since your human body that has evolved over millions if years isn't capable of performing this type of task. Then that doesnt work. So people say to themselves, 'hmm... Self, I don't think we should run on these hard surfaces anymore. Let's just run on trails and other non-manmade surfaces." "All the while," C.W. writes, "I blame the 'cure' for the bad music in the 80's and for peoples' fear of roads. That said, I love roads and trails and briar patches and broken glass." Good analysis, C.W. Thanks! My only note: Wasn't The Cure itself a rock band in the 1980's? Whudda ya s'pose they played their concerts barefoot? ;-) My own latest theory on today's preferences for trail vs. road races is because of, yes, MONEY. Most urban and streetwise races have to pay for such things as street closures, barricades, and traffic and crowd control by police--who are generally "off duty" and must be PAID for their services. And this goes hand-in-hand with "speed." Most ultramarathons are entirely too poor to have to pay for such services all day--and all night--long. So? Secure a woodsy permit from the park and/or forest service and let the fools run for days on end! Eh? Ya think? Happy early spring, y'all! Yours troubly, The Troubadour Yankee Folly of The Day: Did ya notice that Mr. Redneck Wisdom wishes to visit Chicagoland? Heck, never mind "visiting"; I'm tryin' to get him to stay here and run for office!'
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What Ever Happened To [...] #1005
[Freshly, or UNfreshly, back from my special "treat to beat my feet on the Mississippi MUD," I feel UNspired today to rap about PAVEMENT--and thank the good load for it, too! And thanks otherwise to today's listserv chatterings on this very topic as well. ;-] The Reagan Administraction Presents... WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO ["Road Races"] ? Right. What ...
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Mar 12, 2012
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Apr 22, 2012
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[Oh joy, oh rapture! It must be Bad Joke Friday again. Firstly, I'd like to thank all you most excellent peeps who've been so helpful, both in public and private, and sympathetic with my pathetic titanium tribulations with trying to sync my titanic new Macintosh machine. Thank you. And, secondly, I will get back to you all in due time, especially if I find that your helpful suggestions work / especially if I find that they don't! ;). But in the meantime:] The Carter Administraction Presents... WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO ["Speed"] ? Indeed, what the heck ever happened to it? You know, lining up at the start of an ultramarathon, say, all fidgety and nervous and watching the second hand sweep across your wristwatch, and then--when "the guy" shot off his pistol or shouted out "go!"--you WENT! And FAST!! Not like today where the hubbub in the lineup is so abuzz with biz that the signal to begin is barely perceived above the hobnobbing. It's almost like an entreaty: "Please, people, begin! I'd like to get home again sometime before Monday." Nowadaze the surge is more like the trudge. Peeps hear the air horn and THEN finish tying their shoes. "Here, hold this," the guy next to me once said. And I dutifully STOOD THERE holding his goddamn handheld while he unzipped his vest pocket, extracted a plastic baggie, poured a powder from the baggie into his OTHER (empty) handheld, and then finally after hardly anyone had started yet anyway, he took back what I was holding and poured its contents into this powdery-needing-mixing one. Wow. All that. And then, of course, he had to refill the bottle I'd held for him before he could actually move. (I didn't stick around to see what he did with the empty baggie.) What *ever* happened to SPEED? That balls-to-the-wall elbows-to-the-face take-no-prisoners kinda jive that all our heroic old ultra forefathers and foremothers seemed to just ooze from every pore? And when their pores opened up--and sweated!--they could charge even harder. Oh, and there was no "pouring." Most of the time these heroes of ours didn't even drink! Imagine running a world-record 50-miler on four-and-a-half measly tiny ounces of Diet Dr. Pepper. Hey, Barney Klecker did it! Whoa. There was once--and not ever again since--a "show" that went on every year along the banks of Lake Michigan that made every onlooker gulp hard in disbelief. At a time when big city marathons were just getting started, there were studs and studettes zooming up and down Lincoln Park blowing the doors off even bicycles! World records were set, and reset, in damn near each distance LONGER THAN the marathon. Sometimes world record holders were almost run down by other world record holders for longer distances even during the same event. Hey, Bernd Heinrich did it! Who can imagine today anyone running SUB-5 HOURS for the 50-mile distance? Besides Dr. Klecker, I can think of only three others who've done it--Bruce Fordyce, Don Ritchie, and Allan Kirik--and those guys basically did that before Reagan was Prez. Or, maybe during his first term. Nothing since. No one else has done it in ALMOST 30 YEARS!!! Today we got dufuses running for office that couldn't run a step. "Peanut farmer" Jimmy ran; also "Bubba" the sax man. And I suppose (to be fair) so did Bush, Jr. Hellfire and damnation anyway! Dubya's best marathon time beat my best marathon time! Oh, and that too was quite a few centuries ago. I can't run like that anymore. So? What in *the hell* ever happened to MY speed?? I think, in my case, its because all the way-fabulous babes I used to chase have retired. Don't ask who they are, even they don't know. Today we have, of course, the "fast girls" who can manage 7 hours for the 50M (those I never see) and back-of-the-packers who can barely squeak it in under the 12-hour cutoff. I never see them either. I now have to be careful and sign up only for 50-milers within 100-milers that allow the same time for finishing the fifty as the hundred. With any luck, I too can make it home by Monday. Hundred milers! So, who among us ever watched--slack-jawed and salivating--perhaps the greatest speedster-plus-endurance-king of all time? Yiannis Kouros! Once I was watching (volunteering, I like to call it) a 24-hour race enfold around a circle (a pond methinks) somewhere in Ohio. Mr. Kouros was there. There was one aid station and one portapotty (OK, a few of 'em) and I witnessed, over the course of 24 hours, The Amazing Mr. K use both--once. OMG!!!! [To be fair, however, The Y-Man did have his own crew (his wife methinks) who handed him "stuff" as he zoomed around the pond. Kinda like "Charlie on the MTA," who--because he didn't have exact change to get off the subway--depended on his wife standing daily in the station, handing him a sandwich through the open window "as the train came rumbling thru."] Whatever happened to THAT?? Will there ever be again in our lifetimes an ultrarunner to equal the feets of Kouros? Check his Spartathlon record. It's hours ahead of how fast even a Moped can drive it. And, by the way, whatever happened to those? (Even I had to sell my old motorcycles. They were too fast.) ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour "your friendly neighborly 800-year-old 'speedster' in motorized wheelchairs only" Yankee Folly of The Day: We wanted to use John F. Kennedy's term in office to highlight how Maryland's JFK 50 got started; but that wasn't about speed, just distance. Besides, it wasn't Jack's feet that were "fast"; it was his hands. ____________________________________________ To Which Is Now Added... Monday Sometime [was: Morning] Quarterbacking [Re: WEHT #1004] Posted: Monday, March 12, 2012 5:29 PM [Happy Monday, everyone, and day-after Daylight Saving Time kicked in! Not so super terrifically overwhelmingly ecstatic at my end, however, mostly on accounta iWanna "Indian-give" BACK dys damn iMac!!! Which reminds that the last time I did this feedbacky type commentary, we Listereans got all kinds of hung up on computronix and veered way-way-way-WAY off the main topic of running. Don't wanna do that anymore. Today I'm just gonna try and catch up with feedback on both of my last *two* running-type topix: Speed and Road Races.] Regarding (gosh, it's been over a couple of weeks ago now) WEHT #1004 and "Speed," it seems quite a few friends were willing to share rather pointed hyperlinks addressing this very issue. J.B. shared the following-- http://c3401786.r86.cf0.rackcdn.com/Pearl%201cover.png --which is an advertisement by Pearl Izumi, that states in part: "The marathon used to be an elite athletic contest. These days, it's an all day affair where some people mosey across the finish line seven hours after they started," and adding, "we are fairly certain that Pheidippides wanted people to beat more than the sunset." [Just as a side note: yours troubly on 3/3/12 took approximately 8 hours to complete 26 miles :-( Of course, it was IN A SWAMP!! :-)] Our friend J.B. also asserted as to how he himself was once doubtful of being able to finish long-distance races, but still… he raced them. And rightly so! [Yours troubly, too, STILL "races" these things. Upon finishing that "grueling" footrace alluded to above--and convinced that I was DFL or tied for it--you cannot imagine the joy (that's not quite the right word) I felt upon learning after the official results were posted that I WASN'T last! So, I still wanna be competitive, even if I just end up racing against (some of) the trees and flowers. ;-] Then M.M. wanted to know if I was faster than Sarah Palin, whose 3:59 marathon is recorded here: http://athlinks.com/result/6623/8598/1358940/7142827. She was 41 years old at the time, and well, yes, when yours troubly was 41 ( shortly after World War I) yours troubly ran his very first marathon three minutes faster than Sarah's time. D.B. then attested much the same, saying, "Yes. I ran faster than that when I was 10 years older than she was at that race." Neither D.B. nor I myself, however, thought this might qualify us to run for Vice President. But of course, to be fair, Sarah probably didn't think this about herself either. At least to my knowledge, she never bragged about it, eh? M.M. further attested concerning one of my cited "all time greats" in both the speed and endurance categories: "Kouros doesn't run 100 milers because they aren't real ultras. A real ultra is when you are still running after dark." And he provided the following link as proof: http://www.facebook.com/note.php?note_id=376768724209 After editing out Yiannis's long-windedness, his Facebook page nonetheless states (incredibly) the following: "Other long distance running activities-–but not real Ultras [are]: a) 50km/mile to 100km/mile and 6 to 12h events; b) Stages [stage races] or etape running category; c) Trails; d) Solo runs; e) Fan or Fun-running; f) Collecting races and/or training mileage; [and] g) Relays." So, from this it seems Yiannis Kouros would not even count Western States as being a "real Ultra." Hmmm… but let's move on and not get all hung up on semantics here, shall we? J.G. wrote: "By his definition, I'm not sure that the Spartathalon counts as an ultra... he seems to dismiss races under 200 miles…." And M.M. responded: "Just barely. He has won it 4 times in 20:25 to 21:57. These are also the 4 fastest times ever run on the course. The race starts at 7:00 AM. So all of his finishes were between 3:25 AM and 4:57 AM. I guess that's close enough to running after dark to be considered worthy." M.M. added this curiosity, too: "Also, his course record pace was 4:59 per km, which as everyone knows, is just below the internationally recognized criteria of 5:00/km (8:00/mile in the US) that separates running from jogging." Wow! This must now also mean that yours troubly has ONLY and always been "a jogger." Hmmm… again. And finally R.M. wrote the following: "yes, I have been similarly bemoaning the sloth pace--albeit at shorter distances--unless, of course, there's money involved, in which case Kenyans will flock in some speedsters. Marathons used to be about qualifying for Boston, or at least come in close; anything over 4 hours was either due to injury or incompetence." And he adds: "but I still give a lot of credit [to slow finishers], even at lethargic pace, because they had to have had a goal, and they pried themselves away from their nacho platters long enough and often enough to plan for and train for their extended perlambulatory effort. [Nevertheless] I think there should be strictly enforced cutoff times. An event cannot be held without volunteers, so while I may admire the plodding participants, the volunteers get nothing from the event other than perhaps a hearty handshake, with the hand proffering a trash bag to clean up the litter." Amen, eh? Yours troubly, The Troubadour'
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What Ever Happened To [...] #1004
[Oh joy, oh rapture! It must be Bad Joke Friday again. Firstly, I'd like to thank all you most excellent peeps who've been so helpful, both in public and private, and sympathetic with my pathetic titanium tribulations with trying to sync my titanic new Macintosh machine. Thank you. And, secondly, I will get back to you all in due time, especially if I find ...
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Feb 28, 2012
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Mar 23, 2012
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4497
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='The Washington Administraction Presents... WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO ["Pen and Paper"] ? So, what in this world is ever happening to pen and paper? That's right, the implements by which the chronicling of civilization on this planet has forever been accomplished. Do we mean to say these tried-and-true tools are OBSOLETE? All paper disappears--including footrace entry blanks--so that if you're not pointing-and-clicking and "keyboarding" on thousand-dollar machines, you're just not happening anymore? You ain't civilized!? You're NOT entering any races and you AREN'T receiving any "live feeds" or "real time" progress reports (Tweets?) from all these events that, in fact, no longer take paper. What *ever* happened to THAT stuff? We have just returned from the computer store. At the computer store we learn amazing things. Not only is paper and pen (which have survived the ravages of time for centuries; and pencil, graphite, and hammer-and-chisel before that for millennia) currently obsolete, but the computer itself from 2003 A.D. and all of its software is also obsolete! Even CASH REGISTERS are obsolete!! Yes, in order to purchase this very new, very "hip" and most up-to-date cybertronic gimcrackery, I first had to "log in" via email, create a "user I.D. and password," whip out a credit card (which was "swiped") and SIGN the purchase agreement WITH MY FINGER directly *on* (yea, oh yea) the screen of this other (more portable) hip gimcrack thingy [OMG, I SIGNED A LEGAL DOCUMENT WITH MY FINGER!!!] and then, poof: some magical almost toilet-paper-like strip came curling out of yet ANOTHER (less portable) gizmotic printing press as my "receipt." Whoa. What ever happened to "styluses"? Are those otherwise electronically useful things called styluses ALSO OBSOLETE? So now all you need in order to buy something is give them the finger??? Here's a question. For the several years now that we've all (unfortunately) been forced to sign up for racing events on-line, when you would get to the bottom for that "waiver" thingy [THE very thing required by lawyers to help persuade race directors that they can't be sued; when, in fact, they CAN--and ooh, how the lawyers all love THAT]...well, since computers won't generally allow you to SIGN a legally-admissible paper agreement with a ballpoint pen which the lawyers--at great billable hours and expense--can then submit to a court in a courthouse, all these online cyber-waivers have simply been allowing you to click with your mouse that radio button called "I AGREE." So, how come that's no longer good inside an Apple store? Now you are expected to SIGN a non-existent cybertronic digital facsimile of some purported legal agreement [you agree to PAY, they agree to a one-year warranty] which, in fact, doesn't even legally exist in "real time" and cannot therefore be attaché'd and/or brief-case carried into a courtroom. Aye, *there's the rub* (and never mind the pun on finger friction across some damn plasma screen): UNTIL the entire judicial branch of this government (and others around the world) gets together and AGREES that these whiz-bang sigs-on-plasma are legal and binding, almost nothing you "sign for" electronically has any validity. It can ALL be argued in court, and that's why the lawyers still love it and the post office stays in business. Once the Law no longer requires stuff like Registered or Certified MAIL, the United States Postal Service perishes from the earth... ...just like pen and paper. Centuries ago, pencils were used. We shouldn't exactly gloss over pencils (especially not the No. 2 kind) because until Apple, Inc., completely re-does how standardized tests are taken, your teenagers are still gonna need pencils. This, too, ties in--miraculously, no?--to our discussion today relating instruments of WRITING to running, footraces, and (for example) the printing out and posting ON PAPER on the sides of buildings the nearly immediate RESULTS of all these soon-to-be obsoletely "scored" footraces. One of my all-time idols and champions in the sport, still living in the Northeast, went himself and followed in the footsteps of Henry David Thoreau and built--from scratch and using only hand tools--his very own cabin in the woods. So, how does all this tie in? Henry David Thoreau's family business was pencil making. (Betcha dint know dat, huh?) In the early-to-mid 19th century, the Thoreaus had a, yes, "pencil factory" in Massachusetts from which young Hank rebelled and said, in effect, "take this job and shove it; I ain't workin' here no more," and then he went out to Walden Pond and built him a house--out of the same stuff as pencils are made of: wood (OK, and graphite). My fondest souvenir from college is--no, not a Thoreau pencil--a copy of "Walden Pond." And it sets my mind a-wondering what good ol' H.D. might say today about the Apple store: "The mass of customers lead lives of quiet electronical desperation. In the long run--after hour upon hour of wasted effort--men hit only what they aim at. Here, use this pencil." "In wildness," Thoreau wrote, "is the preservation of the world." How do I know this? Because the Boy Scouts carved that very quote into a wooden signboard and stuck it alongside a non-existent trail up on Jury Ridge along the Barkley Marathons course. But, just like the foibles and other follies of modern men--their Scoutmasters--they missed Jury Ridge and planted it somewhere else (yes, where even I have been lost). ( O_O ) And while we're at it, what ever happened to "wildness"? Yours troubly, The Troubadour "800 years ago it took some real woodcarving skill to sharpen a pencil; is that, too, a dying art?" Yankee Folly of The Day: What you possibly didn't realize is: General Washington, before his presidency, used an eye, Mack, to plot his battle plans in three dimensions over topologically accurate fully motion-simulated (by rattling) maps that his password-successful site users had gigglingly oogled in real time. ____________________________________________ To Which Is Now Added... Monday Afternoon [was: Morning] Quarterbacking [Re: WEHT #1003] Posted: Monday, February 20, 2012 6:05 PM [I'll try to contain my enthusiasm. This--right here, right now--represents my first-ever public post as concocted on my brand-new Mac machine. You know, the one replacing all pens and papers and other implements of construction hanging around my desk. 'Tis troubly a momentous occasion, no? It surely must rank right up there with teething, busting out of my playpen, and figuring out how to "con" ma for the first time. I feel liberated. Free as a newly lain babe--then leaping out of the manger, ripping clear of my swaddling clothes, and crawling ass all over the stable and barnyard. Otherwise, of course, these cybertronic rites of passage are just miserable. It's taken me all day to learn how to send and receive messages on this titanic S.S. Jobs' monstrosity. Please bear with me….] Regarding feedback from my Friday's post (and fortunately there wasn't a lot, thereby giving me more time for the computing while saving some on the editing), my friend M.B. said it most succinctly: "I couldn't agree more. We're all doomed. And obsolete." D.B. asks: "Why would anyone pay $1,000 for a computer? I'm sitting here at my 15.6 inch, 4 GB, Windows7 Home Premium laptop with Wi-Fi, USB, 250 GB hard drive, free software that equals Microsoft Office, other free software, CD/DVD read/write, software that will copy almost anything, and more. All for about $500 a few years ago." Ahh, but I've been told by countless other intelligences (both of this world, and others) that Macs get no viruses. So, when I factor in all the wasted time--and ALL THE EXPENSE--that my old "Windows" machine cost me by always having to go into "the shop" for all manner of virus repairs, a thousand bucks is a bargain! "There is paper to my left and pens and a #2 pencil (with eraser) to my right," adds D.B. Yes, here too. I was mostly exaggerating about the obsolescence of old-fashioned writing materials. Of course, didn't they also once believe that--since now civilization has finally invented them--telegraphs, typewriters, mimeographs, and pay phones would never disappear either? Regarding those Number 2 pencils and whatnot as required of today's kids trying to get into college, J.C. informs that "the so-called 'SmartBoard' set-up also provides 'clickers' for students to give responses to their clever teachers' on-the-spot T-F or M-C questions" and "instantly graphs who's right and who is stupid (just by graph or pie-chart . . . ). I assume Scantron (use #2 pencil only) technology is long a thing of the past, except in community colleges and in subject area depts. who have so far kept its existence a secret from the administrator." Wouldn't ya know: my own teaching experience best remembered was as a sabbatical fill-in (i.e., a substitute) for one year only at a community college. So, that's why I've been thinking kids will surely have to hang on to their pencils. But I do like J.C.'s agreement-by-inference with this cool statement: "Hate to sound Glenbeckian, but when the apocalypse does come, in ways we didn't ever anticipate, and the Big Grid in the Sky comes down, those who can't write with a stick and their own blood are screwed." Which, I'm thinking, is yet another argument for public schools to KEEP TEACHING cursive writing to the kids. R.M. agrees in principle with my "wonder and bemusement and consternation at the foibles of this electronic age--an age which people 50 years our junior readily accommodate." "Remember rotary dial phones and TV's without remotes?" he asks. "The young'uns would find these to be of Neanderthal vintage which [justifies] . . . paper entry forms phase-out." And he noted something else about those paper entry blanks: "the most recent race in which I participated offered no option other than 'sign me up sports' which required I submit, electronically, information to unknown parties, who might use said information for identity theft. They offered no paper entry alternative, so my credit card info is going to endlessly be in cyberspace readily accessible to hackers. Surprisingly, on arrival at the race, there were raceday entry forms for which they would accept untraceable cash--a factor not advertised on their website." And this: "your experience at the cyberstore is, indeed, sad commentary on what will befall us" and "pencils were once a useful tool 'for constipated accountants.' Let's see your tax preparer try that with his keyboard, and the 'associates' at the Apple store as well." C.P. said, "I thought this might be of interest to you. Sort of along the same lines. . . . A quote from Michael Moore from his latest book, 'Here Comes Trouble'--a book I highly recommend: 'This is my first volume of such short stories. I wanted to commit them to paper while paper (and book stores and libraries) still existed.'" And regarding my assumed losing of woodworking skills over the millennia, J.B. noted: "There still are some carpenters that can sharpen a pencil with a jackknife: the old ones. I asked the older superintendent, who carries a BlackBerry and an iPad." Me personally? Deze daze I seemingly have no real use for pencils, since i am (unlike certain accountants alluded to above) rarely, if ever, constipated. Have a nice evening, y'all. Yours troubly, The Troubadour "800 years ago our lutes were all acoustic, unplugged, and made out of wood; but today you make music by Wi-Fi" Yankee Folly of The Day: It's no longer afternoon. In fact, it's probably not even Monday.'
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What Ever Happened To [...] #1003
The Washington Administraction Presents... WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO ["Pen and Paper"] ? So, what in this world is ever happening to pen and paper? That's right, the implements by which the chronicling of civilization on this planet has forever been accomplished. Do we mean to say these tried-and-true tools are OBSOLETE? All paper disappears--including ...
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Feb 17, 2012
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Feb 24, 2012
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4794
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='The Reagan Administraction Presents... WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO ["The Poor Man's Sport"] ? So, what in the whirl of marketing wizardry has ever happened to "the Poor Man's Sport"? You know, the sport where all it ever took was (yes) gym shoes, white socks, sweats and sweat band, a dial wristwatch, and out the door you'd go! You could do this six-days-a-week if ya wanted, and on the seventh either rest like Cheeses or run your butt off in some equally no-frills footrace three counties from home? What *ever* happened to THAT sport? Back then you could show up the morning of, pay your five dollars (sometimes even get change back), fill out the form, sign the waiver, and they might or might not give you a cotton T-shirt, a one-size-fits-all ball cap, or a pair of knit factory surplus gloves. But they'd for sure give you a bib, you'd grab safety pins (if there were any) off the card table (or saved in your gym bag), pin it on, and stand near the start line. Then some studly with a starter's pistol would holler NOT to take the short-cut across Farmer Wenceslaus's cow pasture ('cuzza the bull), fire the gun, and you'd be off. Sometimes the stud would fall-in and run with you, sometimes even holding the gun the whole time. And once in awhile (to be "funny") he'd point it at your ass and shoot another blank. (Or, the dogs.) Not much different for a marathon or ultra either. I distinctly remember signing up for the Chicago Marathon during the Expo, which once was held in the basement of a small downtown hotel. In Las Vegas (ooh, road trip!) you'd be signing up outdoors in a parking lot of a casino a mile off The Strip that doesn't exist anymore. Oh, but it was fun watching all those people RUN that mile (maybe two!) to get to the start--because they all thought ALL casinos were ON The Strip within just a 15-minute walk of every other casino. Then, for your sign-up money of, say, 30 bucks, they'd give you a bus ride 26.2 miles out into the desert and drop you off. Saddest sight I ever saw was all those empty busses in single file over to our left somewhere--while we trudged--all driving back on the Interstate. (What *ever* happened to thirty buck marathons? Or, for that matter, five dollar all-you-can-eat buffets in Las Vegas? And $1.99 for breakfast?) Now-a-daze Vegas looks like Disney Whorreled, and your basic trimmed-down all-inclusive weekend stays (including marathon entry) START at nearly two thousand bucks. And the Chi-Town Marathud sells out in SIX DAYS! Forty-five-thousand runners!! (Except, of course, for the, what, 20,000 entry slots held aside for all the "charity runners"? You know, charity! It's where you either hassle every friend and relative you ever had by phone or email OR you whack up the three grand for charity all by yourself. THEN you can still get in--amazingly enough--to a sold-out event, sometimes even within a week of race day!) In my next life, I want to be rich (never mind the authorship) so that I can afford to run again. What *ever* happened to trimmed-down, essentials-only, running a RACE? You know, trying no matter how futile it is, to actually GET TO the finish line FIRST? Today, apparently in order to run, you need to be all tricked-out with high-tech absorbean-junior tank and "skorts" from Nikita Athletikka, neon air-cushion color-coordinated motion-stabilizer shoes, cool wicky maximum mini sox, blue-tooth/headset, the latest-generation iPhone/iPad combo gizmo that tucks in your sleeve for totally hands-free running "comfort" into which you can now put two hand-helds for carrying your max-burst 8-hour energy chemistry drink with all the GU lashed to your waist (along with replacement energy drink) in order to safely get you from aid station to aid station which are now even less than two miles apart? And please don't forget the way-cool bib number you've snapped onto your GU belt with the automatic throw-away transponder inside that will instantly (in "real time") relay your progress electronically over tracking maps via live feed to a website accessible from the farthest known corners of the universe! Astronauts can tell how long you're taking! You are two thousand dollars worth of fashion and functional design as you stand there...waiting for the 44,999 runners in front of you to start walking. THIRTY-TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS just to sign up for some kind of ultra stage-race American des Sables? Almost like Badwater? AND the rules say you not only *must* trick yourself out in the latest cosmic gizmology, but you *must* also have a crew and a van and back-up plans and vans and supplies and nobody but NOBODY connected with the race is going to give you a goddamn thing? Not even a pair of knit factory surplus gloves, and (furshur furshur) no change back from your five dollars? So, what DID ever happen to our beloved "Poor Man's Sport"? Ah, methinks 'tis now in that same place with the five-and-a-quarter interest once paid on my passbook savings account, whereby just by depositing a fin a week from my paper route, I could buy my musical instrument that I played in the band with, my full set of Wilson Staff golf clubs that I still have, and my first motorcycle that I sold to help pay for college. All of which, taken and added together, cost less than it would take me today to even *try* and be worthy enough for deze Sables. ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour "all's it took 800 years ago to run was being caught filching at Scarborough Faire" Yankee Folly of The Day: Oh yeah, and this "thing" today doesn't have much to do with Reagan either. ____________________________________________ To Which Is Now Added... Wednesday [was: Monday] Evening [was: Morning] Quarterbacking [Re: WEHT #1002] Posted: Wednesday, February 15, 2012 6:04 PM We're sorry, but due to technical difficulties BEYOND THE CONTROL OF ALL HUMAN BEINGS, Positivity Wednesday is being postponed so that we can now bring you up to date with what was supposed to happen Monday morning. This computer that I'm writing on has been *INSIDE* the damn iApple (iSore) iStore ALL THIS TIME--due, of course, to *iPROBLEMS*. WHY ARE THERE ALWAYS PROBLEMS? I'll tell you why: It's because the iSalesmen always promise "i" more than the iTechy "genius" dweefuses in the back room can deliver. They could *NOT* in fact transmogrify, transubstantiate, trans-fricking-plant THIS data on THIS machine over to THAT machine of theirs which cost me a grand-and-a-half THAT I was willing to spend in the first place because the iSales division of the iApple jungle ("miTarzan, uJane") assured me THAT "hey, dude, once we transfer all your data, you can pitch your old Microsoft monstrosity into that dumpster out back." Yeah, right. And now...you have some clue...about this coming Friday's WEHT topic. Nevertheless, last Friday's topic was apparently received exceptionally well. Some folks, as they said, "loved it." Others "agreed 100%" or were benignly tolerant, and still others offered additional additions and/or commendable comments...as follows. J.E.S. wrote: "When I was 30 ... one summer a group of my friends ran to the Dairy Queen in New Martinsville ... and back every Saturday as our long run. It took us all day but it was fun. Years later, I looked it up on a fancy GPS thingy and saw that the distance was 52 miles. We drank out of water hoses and laughed all the way. There was no such term as an Ultra. It was called running." L.J.S. wrote: "Thanks for the flashback, Rich. Remember Adidas Gazelles for $19.95? And, much later, $8 with a shirt, $6 without? And pre-Moving Comfort shorts were Adidas men's shorts?" Actually, even these may just possibly have been before my time. Truthfully, though, I know of several races here locally that do still offer a "shirt/no shirt" option, charging less money for declining the shirt. D.B. wrote: "I still have some Sub 4 running shorts. My latest pair of running shoes cost me $20." D.B. also says he knows how to home-make his own energy foods and his own (although he doesn't call it this:) electrolyte-replacement drink as well. "I could do ATY for the rest of my running life for the cost of 1 American des Sables. Hell, I could do the Silverton 6-Day for the rest of my running life for that much money." He and others commented on the Las Vegas Marathon, back when it was indeed run one-way from way out in the desert to back into (the outskirts of) town. Two runners ran it in 3:57. I personally clocked a finish time of about 5 minutes slower, and I remember being CRUSHED 'cuz I didn't break 4 hours. J.C. observed: "Thus my interest in international marathons. Last time I looked, Seville (Espana) has a marathon mid-February (next year!) that costs about 40 euros. But the swag--omg--a wool sports jacket, a complete track suit--singlet, shorts, pants, medal, plus wine & cheese party after, etc. Gran Maraton in Mazatlan, MX, sponsored by Pacifico beer NOT CORONA ("swill" in Mexico) first weekend in Dec., is still less than $100 (that's 1000 at least pesos, or is it 10,000?). ... If you wish to travel, throw in a marathon--as long as they remain cheaper than American ones. CHICAGO--as Yogi Berra would say about his favorite restaurant: 'It's so crowded, nobody goes there anymore.'" B.H. wrote: "Absolutely. The 'profit' motive--money ... spoils everything in the long run." M.S-P. wrote [about Chicago]: "I am absolutely certain that at the time the Marathon Fathers never envisioned the silly race ever costing the average runner $150 for the privilege of a few hours of hell. ... How the hell does it sell out in 6 days at 150 bucks a pop????? I still don't understand." According to E.F., "You have a good point about our sport moving in the direction of big and expensive. However, the Poor Man's aspect of ultrarunning is still alive in the El Paso, Texas/Las Cruces, New Mexico area, courtesy of long-time ultrarunning stalwart Mark Dorion. Mark organizes several free events each year, mostly in the winter because of the heat in that area for most of the year. The next such event is the Elk Ridge 11-hour and 50-kilometer run on Saturday, Feb. 25. You can go there and run for free and even have a chance of winning, because there are usually only about a dozen runners. For some reason, the vast majority of runners are somewhere else running in a big, expensive race." And there's your sweet "free plug" for Dr. Dorion's events, which, yes, he himself has written to me personally over the years to invite me to attend. Ah, but sadly the travel costs are what usually do me in--or deal me out. T.M.S. observed: "I get a kick out of these people running in charity events...seeking donors.... And after the new bike, rubbery swimsuit, travel, meals and hotels...everything goes to the charity. Who says our utes [youths] aren't generous?" And C.T. [who I happen to know personally to be an excellent singer] chimed in with: "Amen, Brother. I remember those days... I'm still in them. I do not go to any of these mega events. ... Want a joke--try self sufficiency--huh???" And he sings: "I'm Joe in 'Old Man River'-- "Old man C.T. he keeps on runnin',. he jus' keeps runnin' alone. "he don' get faster,. he jus' gets slower'. he keeps on runnin'. he jus' keeps runnin' alone. "I'm past the cutoff,. an' I don't care,. the race director,. just stands and stares. "Old man C.T. he keeps on runnin',. he jus' keeps runnin' alone. "...an' I likes it that way!!" A.C. [whom I happen to know to be quite young] wrote: "People always ask why I don't run more races and the answer is always that it's too expensive. I've run expensive with frills and inexpensive no frills. Much rather pay less. I don't need to be shown on a big screen crossing the finish line." F.M. recalled: "My first race was a 20k on labor day 1978 in New Haven. Bill Rodgers won. It cost about $5. I ran a race in Mystic in 1979 with Amby Burfoot that was free. Also the New London 11.5 mile race was free. And they served beer at the end. In 1982, while a poor grad student at Penn State living on the $110 a week (the university paid me to teach English to freshman), I ran 20 races 5-miles to marathon. Total cost about $150. All in cotton. With a pair of Tiger Montreals. Good times and I ran a lot faster. That same $150 would get me about one fancy marathon now." Others noted a few current exceptions to the "high priced spread": J.B. said, "Thought about your comments while running down the highway yesterday. Pretty much the same route for the past third of a century but it's the no-cost option. I ran into town, well, it used to be the edge of town when I was a kid. My turnaround point was across the street from the park. There was a 5 or 10K going on. People looked at me like I was off course or just some homeless guy. "Cheap races: ran a 50K last June for $9. Got a fancy ball point pen worth more than $9. They had gallon jugs of big dill pickles packed in ice at the finish line. "Whatever happened to simple? On the Superior 100 app at the top it read: 'No wimps. No whiners!' I thought that applied to all ultras. I remember a VT100 aid station that was some jugs of water with a cardboard box with some cookies, fig newtons, Coke and a jar of Vaseline. No table or people in the middle of the night. And in a second email later, J.B. added: "Early bird price: Med City Marathon $25, Memorial weekend. Last year included a performance T and a good hat. The RD gave me a hat a week after the race. Rich, you just need to hang out with cheaper folks. :-)" J.D. wrote: "But they [cheap races] do still exist. One of my most favourite races (albeit in the UK)-- http://www.acoventryway.org.uk/acw_chal-next.htm. £12 pounds and a home cooked meal afterwards--you can't beat it :)." P.L. remembered: "Well, last year I showed up at the Presque Isle Endurance Classic 15 minutes (or less) before the start, filled out an entry form, gave them $ (15, I think) and paid a few extra dollars for a shirt (another 15, I think). Put on the number, lined up and ran 53 miles. They even had an aid table set up with lots of food and a high-tech timing system to count the laps." T.H. said, "Good Thread; Terri Hayes puts on a series of 5 or 6 annual ultras in South Carolina: http://ultrasontrails.com/. All decent races, no entry fee, donations accepted. I ran her Enoree 40 in 2010 and it did have aid stations. Good solid event. I think it is going to take a conscious effort to keep ultras and pockets of ultras 'inexpensive.' The sport is growing very fast and when companies see an opportunity like this $3200 desert stage race to make such a profit, they are coming along. I don't believe Triathlons started out on the high end of the expense scale, and big marathon fees have tripled since 2004 or so. "All that said, my non-racing ambition is to put together a 1-time ultra, race direct it becoming inordinately wealthy, and fund the rest of my running adventures from it." ( O_O ) T.MG. wrote: "Terri Hayes?!?!? Wowwwwww. I almost talked her into coming out for the ($20?) Knobstone Trail weekend in mid-April, but she was tied up/busy, as I recall it. This was after I'd paced her for a bit in her attempt to set a Mohican 100 record for 60-y/o females. She had to quit the attempt, as I recall it, because her legs were a bit played from her RACE the week before--some upty-downdy thing in South Dakota? Badlands 50M maybe? Dunno. But she gave Mohican a game try--I'll attest to that. I said, 'Terri! A fifty MILE??? Before trying to set a RECORD??' She was all casual with, 'Hey, you know, I've just been busy, and there was a lot of driving the week before...' (She had come from Hawaii, picked up a camper-top pick-up, and was ultrarunning her way back across the country. Livin' cheap, running long. Frickin' huge.) "My new bumper sticker: Live Cheap, Run Long. "Barkley's new bumper sticker: Live Cheap, Run Long. Won't Do You Any Good." Finally, R.M. wrote: "I remember the days of $5.00 races, the days of numbered tongue depressors to take to the volunteers at the finisher tables; and for your $5.00, they had much the same fare as they do nowadays following the finish, and also for your $5.00, as you well note, you received a shirt (almost every time) or other handout. "I have in my possession a cancelled check for $10.00 payable to Americas Marathon for my entry fee which provided me with shirt and 'goodie bag' and post race munchies, and a certified, supervised 26.2 miles of rambling the streets of Chicago. I have in my possession a cancelled check for $20.00 payable to the Boston Marathon for my first running thereof, which included shirt and assorted amenities to run from Hopkinton to downtown Boston. Nowadays it costs $150.00 to run Chicago's marathon, and within a few days, they've filled their field capacity. Boston costs even more (but it includes bus fare) and fills up within mere hours. Add in travel expenses, lodging, meals, the per mile cost for that same 26.2 excursion is way in excess of what I had previously spent for the entire event. Certainly your couple-of-grand estimate is not an overstatement. "As an old person on a fixed income, I've been priced out of the market, even for a local 5 mile race; but I can still put on shirt, shorts & shoes & run around the block a few times for no extra charge." And R.M.'s most brilliantly insightful comment: "Maybe we need Congress to set up a marathon or other race to fund the national debt." Bingo! I couldn't've bespoke this bespeaking any better myself. ;-) Yours troubly, The Troubadour "800 years of oftentimes honest reporting; but before the Gutenberg Bible got printed, I was sometimes kidding"'
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What Ever Happened To [...] #1002
The Reagan Administraction Presents... WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO ["The Poor Man's Sport"] ? So, what in the whirl of marketing wizardry has ever happened to "the Poor Man's Sport"? You know, the sport where all it ever took was (yes) gym shoes, white socks, sweats and sweat band, a dial wristwatch, and out the door you'd go! You could do this six-days-a-week ...
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Feb 17, 2012
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Feb 17, 2012
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5300
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[Happy Day, Friends and Playmates and Hopeless Romantics All! Today in honor of "Bad Joke Friday" we wish to launch a whole new Bad, or Joke, or Pre-weakened Festivity. We wish to call it WEHT (with numbers doubtless heading into the thousands, hence the number). And we also want to say that this whole thing was inspired in the first place by my good friend and sometime training partner Lora Mantelman, who once during a lakefront (by the shores of Gitchee Almost Gumee: Lake Michigan) sojourn sometime this past year, suggested it. I never forgot, but, of course, it could appear today to be rather more heavily embellished than she might otherwise remember. Which is good, of course, in case she forgot. So without further ado...] The Eisenhower Administraction Presents... WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO [Gym Shoes] ? So, what in the whirled ever happened to gym shoes? You know, the foot shoddings we had before Adidas, Asics, Brooks, New Balance, Un Balance, Off Balance, Reeboks, Reekrates, Rykas, Rongas, Nikes, Yikes, Free-Shipping-on-All Zombie Shoes, trail shoes, trial shoes, road shoes, huaraches, and all these shoe-non-shoes like Vibram FiveFingers and Unshoes and Bedrocks and Thick Sox and Hot Sox and even Snowshoes? What *ever* happened to gym shoes? Back then we had maybe Converse and U.S. Keds and basic "canvas" shoes that almost never saw gymnasiums. We were poor and didn't have many gymnasiums. Gymnasiums were for basketball almost exclusively, and we were too young to play basketball. So we wore them outside, where they were called "tennis shoes." Or, "tennies." The reason being, perhaps, was because we were also too poor to join tennis clubs, but still most of the tennis courts we knew were outdoors. Which is why we wore the gym shoes outside to play tennis. (With mom's old wooden racquet and a can of dad's old threadbare--fuzzy stuff all gone--tennis balls.) What *ever* did we know anyway? Most of us ran outdoors in the first place--barefoot. Or, during recess, with those clunky Oxfords on. I remember things called "white bucks"--popularized, I think, by Pat Boone. Come to think of it, what *ever* happened to Pat fricking Boone? Huh? Hoo?? And we didn't buy our gym shoes in upscale shopping malls with pseudo-psychotic-specifically-demographically-targeted-marketing gleaming neon locker room decorated open-door storefronts where nobody working inside knows anything, except, of course, how to talk on a cell phone. No, we always bought our gym shoes in places like Topps or Woolworths or S.S. Kresge's. You either had to have a bus token to ride downtown to Woolworths or Kresge's, or have your mom drive you to one of those new-fangled "shopping centers" where there'd be a Topps or Gaylords or E. J. Korvettes or sometimes a Monkey Wards. Although Wards was usually downtown, kitty-corner from Sears Roebuck or Kresge's. So what ever happened to Topps and Woolworths and Kresge's? (We think Kresge's morphed into K-Mart, Woolworths was replaced with various drug store chains--although none of them got the lunch counter right--and almost nobody alive today knows what the hell ever happened to those other stores--even Roebucks!--or gym shoes either, for that matter. Even Sears, I can assure you, "ain't what it used to be.") Sears, by the way, absolutely DENIED me my first credit card--and I was working FOR Sears at the time! How about that? So, my very first department store credit card came from Monkey (you thought it was Montgomery, dintcha?) Wards. My very first gasoline credit card came from Enco. Remember Humble Oil? What the heck ever happened to "Put a Tiger in Your Tank"? And my very first gym shoes? Well, my bride thinks I still have 'em. So, what DID happen ta dem doggone gym clods--and all those other nondescript white (or black) canvas rubber-soled stinky tie things that went under-the-cuff and over-the-ankle with the patch on the side which we all played sandlot baseball in, or pick-up basketball, or backyard touch football, or chased girls down the block? Huh? RUNNING??? Who ever thought shoes were *just* for running? Well, I guess they were good for back alleys, shattered glass, steel bridges, and sewer grates. But of course the barefoot girls could always outrun you. As a matter of fact, what *ever* happened to THEM??? Ah, methinks these wonderful shoddings and those wonderful sweet feets of strength have all...all been stored away somewhere where my bride (or me neither) can't find 'em...right along with that other item in the attic in the shoebox called "youth." ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour "just another average 800-year-old lute-plucking song-and-dance man who's still in those damn Middle Ages" Yankee Folly of The Day: Oh yeah, and this "thing" today doesn't have much to do with the Age of Eisenhower either. ____________________________________________ To Which Is Now Added... Monday Morning Quarterbacking [Re: WEHT #1001] Posted: Monday, February 06, 2012 2:36 PM Good Morning (or Mourning, depending on how your wagering fared over yesterday's Big Game) to anyone who reads this! In spite of Madonna's "worser judgment" (by which she apparently both hired this, um, M.I.A. character--I never heard of her until this very morning--AND didn't do much to prevent her from flashing "the bird" to a worldwide television audience during halftime), I'm taking a cue from, um, this M.I.A. character and incorporating initials into the following ostensible work of gratitude. Following the initiating of WEHT just three days ago, I've been overwhelmed with responses--both public and private--and now feel inadequate to thank everyone individually who rah-sponded; for, indeed, the responses have been overwhelmingly positive. This bodes well and, of course, I'm not used to it. (I used to merit "pissed off" reactions all the time, so all this warm/fuzzy feedback is a little nerve-wracking. But anyway....) So I've decided [*after* the fact, notice, which is really what "Monday Morning Quarterbacking" is all about, right?] to try and acknowledge those who wrote back by using initials only--both to imitate this goofy singer "M.I.A." and, by so doing, to keep everyone's true identity private, both to satisfy my attorney friends and to head off the kind of TOTAL FLACK that BOTH the National Broadcasting Corporation and the National Football League are about to heap upon the multi-platinumed--ditzy blonde?--head of Madonna. First, both R.M. and J.C. (and others!) pointed out to me a glaring omission: "Sneakers." They were called sneakers! OMG. Well, thanks, fellas, but I personally didn't call them that all that often. Mostly I used the term "gym shoes" or "tennis shoes" (and both L.L. and G.C. said they were ONLY called "tennis shoes," nothing else) although I did know (and date) women who only used the term "sneakers." One of them I (disastrously) married, which--to my mind--explains why I for all these years have avoided the term. And to further complicate things, E.F., F.M., J.C. (and others) reminded me of "track spikes" and "racing flats" and "PF Flyers" and "high tops" and "Jack Purcells"! Whoa! "Track spikes." Who's old enough to remember cinder tracks and those stretched-across-the-finish-line strings attached to analog stopwatches? (To say nothing of analog wristwatches!) How about a damn CLOCK--with, you know, a second hand, a minute hand, and an hour hand? I digress. D.M. reminded me of Zayre's and Community Discount Stores. L.L. pointed out how I omitted Grants (department store) and Ben Franklin (perhaps THE original 5-and-dime store). Here's another digression (sorry): In 1976, in honor of those beloved Ben Franklins, I called the Bicentennial of the United States the, uh, Buy-Five-and-Ten-Centennial. Who remembers what "bicentennial" means, or meant?? D.M. also reminded me of this ancient fact: "their stores [Tom McCann] had a feature which would not be allowed nowadays: they had x-ray machines. You put on your proposed shoe purchase & placed your tootsies in an opening at floor level and looked through a viewfinder some 3-4 feet above floor level and could see how your feet filled (or nearly filled) the shoe." I remember just such a machine in a downtown Joliet, IL, shoestore that sold Stride-Rites (however spelled). My old man would only buy those because of "the extra arch support." Like for polio, some parents under Eisenhower entertained similar fears about having their kids come down with flat feet. Apparently those Florsheim (was that the manufacturer?) x-ray machines helped prevent that. Pat Boone's demise, or infame, or why-I-forgot-about-him-in-the-first-place was graciously hyperlinked by K.S. Also J.C. reported: "Re: Pat Boone--he's with the birther crowd last I heard; Rev. Billy Graham disavowed him as God's second son for being a whacko [to the] right of Buchanan and Huckabee." And then S. [d.k. surname] reminded me of "slingshots"--thanks!--which now reminds me of BB guns. And *those* remind me of my damn cousin...oh, never mind. "Nike Waffle Trainers"! Wow! Thanks to E.F. for that reminder, but I never wore them. THE very first "running shoes" I ever saw in my life were enclosing the very young feet of my favemost "busgirl" (nothing to do with busses, everything to do with cleaning off tables) in the grill room of this country club in Maryland for which I tended bar while working my way through grad school. To this very day, she knows who she is. ;-) Several other rah-sponders told me stories. Here's my fave: "We had a CLOSET (yes, an entire closet) stacked with various sizes of sneakers (they weren't gym shoes in the '60's). As our feet grew, we got new sneakers (and they weren't called 'sneaks' either!). Mom washed them when needed in the washing machine, they were hung to dry and then polished with white shoe polish in the bottle (oh, did I mention the entire closet held white Keds?)." And thanks to J.R. for that! P.M. was kind enough to provide this time-machine link to the, um, Sixties: http://objflicks.com/TakeMeBackToTheSixties.htm. Thanks! Finally, there were at least three cool remembrances of "barefootin'." J.B. noted how he did "get passed by Barefoot Ted going up Hope Pass in 2010. When he stubs a toe he can see the blood." Woe! D.B. delighted in telling me how all the girls are "still barefoot and still outrunning you." And J.C. lovingly (I guess ;) reported: "I caught my barefooted girl (or at least she let me catch her---part of the rules, right?)." Right! [He thus gives reason to believe he later married her, eh?] Oh, but here, without a doubt, was my most fave rah-sponse ever to this brand-new series: "I LOVE IT!!" And thank you, H.E.G.! I'll take her over M.I.A. any day of the week and twice on Sunday! (Especially yesterday! ;-) Yours troubly, The Troubadour "800 years of mirth-posting to social media (via fence posts)" Yankee Folly of The Day: Not only isn't "Ike" Eisenhower involved, it's no longer Monday morning.'
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What Ever Happened To [...] #1001
[Happy Day, Friends and Playmates and Hopeless Romantics All! Today in honor of "Bad Joke Friday" we wish to launch a whole new Bad, or Joke, or Pre-weakened Festivity. We wish to call it WEHT (with numbers doubtless heading into the thousands, hence the number). And we also want to say that this whole thing was inspired in the first place by my good friend ...
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Feb 6, 2012
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Feb 17, 2012
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4767
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[Merry Holidays, Everyone! We bring you grave tidings of mediocre joy. This series is about to end, like, NOW. We're taking the rest of the day off and will see you again after New Year's, just jam-packed with fresh (read: raw) new material. Oh, how can you stand to wait? (It's easy; go for a run instead.) For the final RM/WoG, we're about to--for the first (and obviously last) time ever--name a name. How could we not? We not only feel that HE is ultimately responsible for all this, but that also we're fairly confident of being immune from prosecution--since the dude's been dead 2,501 years--and likely safe as well from any legal action by his relations, heirs, partners, employees, representatives, agents, or assigns. Besides, they'd probably have trouble with the language. Here he is, the real genius who started IT ALL, and to whom most of us are dubiously indebted. See y'all next year!] Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we salute you, Mr. Ancient Freaking Greek Φειδιππιδης (Pheidippides) Who Started All This Running Nonsense. {THAAAAAAAAT's the dweeeeeb who star-teddddddd it ALLLLLLLLLL!!!} So, they didn't have horses in 490 B.C.? No camels? Boats? Ships? Elephants? Was there nothing you could hop on and ride? {"Mussss-stang Sal-ly! Ya-bet-ter-put-chur-flat-feet on the grouuuuund!"} Not even large trained dogs with collars around their necks to which you could attach your regiment's messages? {Yoooooooooou ne-ver-heard-of-a Saaaaaaaaint Berrrrrrrrrr-nard?} No. You just *had* to run, didn't you. You just had to survive that goofy Battle on the Plains of Marathon, lay down your armor and helmet, chuck your spear, lace up your huaraches--after first checking the tire treads--hitch up your britches, and RUN. All the way back to Athens, no doubt previously wheeled and certified to be EXACTLY 26-point-two miles from where you were standing when your commander first gave you his command. {"Taaaaaaaaaaake theeeeeeeeee to a nunnnnn-er-y!"} It never dawned on you, did it? To tell your commander to shove it up his loin cloth. He'd've killed you right there and saved you considerable hours of exhaustion. {"It probbbbbbbb-bab-bly WON'T be a Bos-ton qual-i-fiiiiiiiiiiiii-er."} But then when you got finally arrived and shouted out to the half-dozen assembled water-bearing women at the village well your one word--"Νενικήκαμεν!" (Nenikékamen, "we were victorious!")--THEN what did you surprisingly up and do? You croaked. Bonk! Down, gone, and bye-bye. Must not've been in too good of shape, huh? Twenty-six-point-two miles today barely kills anybody, except maybe firemen with preexisting heart conditions and idiot bystanders who cross police barricades in Central Park. {"Maaaaaaaay-be a few GU pac-kets could-d've saaaaaaaaaaaved meeee?"} So crack open an ice-cold twenty-five-hundred-year-old Bud Light up there on Mount Olympus, O Forerunner of the Garmin and every other athletic accessory we can no longer do without, because likely unbeknownst to you there are now more followers who have paid twenty-five hundred dollars to fly to Greece and run in your footsteps than there ever were invading barbaric hordes of Persians to begin with. {Mis-terrrrr AAAAn-cient Freeeeak-ing Greeeek Φειδιππιδης (Phei-dip-pi-des) Who-Star-ted-All-Thissss Run-ning Nonnn-sense!} Bud Light beer: we don't care where they brew it; we just dig their commercials. ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour "your basic 800-year-old French lute plucker who's actually too young to remember The Golden Age of Grease, unless of course you're talking about fast food" Yankee Folly of The Day: Right at the moment I could probably just run back from the restaurant and die, especially after the lunch THEY attacked my ticker with.'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #115
[Merry Holidays, Everyone! We bring you grave tidings of mediocre joy. This series is about to end, like, NOW. We're taking the rest of the day off and will see you again after New Year's, just jam-packed with fresh (read: raw) new material. Oh, how can you stand to wait? (It's easy; go for a run instead.) For the final RM/WoG, we're about to--for the first ...
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Jan 2, 2012blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='sys_update', rowValue=''
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5230
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[Happy "Bad Joke Friday" once again! Here, possibly, is the best joke: yours troubly is taking a little time off for "Da Hollydaze," but is also thinking of trying something brand-new. Hence this particular RM/WoG shtick may very well be phased (fazed?) out...to extinction? After all, Bud Light is no longer doing its RMOG (anybody ever notice its LACK of RWOG?) and in fact (who's noticed this?) that GUY whose voice just throttled this series with sarcasm out the ying-yang has since been hired to do radio ads for Miller! How 'bout THAT??? "Man Up," I think, is how they stoke this gimmick. Anyway, we here at Ultra High Life are thinking maybe our own version of this "genius" brew is getting stale. Eh? But first, we just gotta do this one. :] Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we salute you, Mr. Completely Whacked-Out Overcrowded Footrace Entrants' Lottery Inventor. {THAAAAAAAAT is a work of REEEEEEEEEEEEE-AL geeeene-yuss!} Nothing like tossing your hat in the ring, huh? Or plucking slips of paper with people's names on them OUT of that hat? Oh no. That would be too easy. {"Wellllllllllllllllllll, it's bet-ter than drawwwwwww-ing half-a-mil-li-on strawwwwwwwws!"} Not even numbered ping-pong balls inside a squirrel cage, eh? No. What works for nine-tenths the states of this Union won't work for your footrace. You have "criteria" and "weighted wait lists" and, good gaud, "ALGORITHMS!" {"Weeee COULD just-raise-the-en-try-fee untilllllll on-ly two-hun-red could af-ford it!"} Let's see if we've got this straight. If you've entered the race before but didn't get to start, you're one notch above rock bottom on the bell curve, Galton's board of probability, the periodic table of the elements, or, of course, your ALGORITHM. {"I just loooooooooooooooooooove al-ge-BRA, donnnnnnn't yoooooooooou?"} But if you've qualified, having run some race somewhere sometime before now, you move two notches sideways from dead left on the curve and your name may or may not be selected--completely at random, of course, by your blind little chimpanzee who cranks the cage and reaches in to fetch a number which is then cross-referenced to the trigonometrical formula used to determine the declination of Earth's axis at that time of day which then, via painfully developed flow chart, points to whether or not your name will likely ever be drawn to begin with. {"And wee con-tiiiiiiiiiin-ue to mod-i-fy the pro-ceeeeeee-dure to make it fair for EV-ER-Y-BO-DY!!!"} So crack open an ice-cold Bud Light during the ceremonies, O Calculus Graduate of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, because there are twenty thousand--at least--gawkers and cybertronic glommers-on to your mathematical formulae for accepting their 500-dollar entry fees, so that at least one percent of them can actually go to Somewoods, USA, and run your trails some three years hence. Or you could, of course, just do it like The Barkley does and pick only those YOU want in your woods in the first place. {Mis-terrrrr Comm-pleeeete-ly Whacked-Out O-ver-crowd-ed Foot-race En-trants' Lot-ter-y In-vennnnnnnnnnnnn-tor!} Bud Light beer: we don't care where they brew it; we just dig their commercials. ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour Check out this new outlet: http://www.trailrunevents.com/ul/stories.asp. Resource: http://thefuntimesguide.com/2004/10/bud_light_real.php. Yankee Folly of The Day: Don't listen to me. I was just selected by a lottery, yes, based on yesterday's closing Dow Jones average on the New York Stock Exchange. I kid you not!'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #114
[Happy "Bad Joke Friday" once again! Here, possibly, is the best joke: yours troubly is taking a little time off for "Da Hollydaze," but is also thinking of trying something brand-new. Hence this particular RM/WoG shtick may very well be phased (fazed?) out...to extinction? After all, Bud Light is no longer doing its RMOG (anybody ever notice its LACK of ...
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Dec 16, 2011blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='sys_update', rowValue=''
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4657
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we salute you, Mr. "Cyber Monday Only" Millennial Shopping Runner Who Just Can't Wait To Spill The Beans. {"Looooooooooooook at alllllllllllll-the-gas-mo-ney-I'm-saaaaaaaaaaaaa-ving!"} "Amazon is having a limited sale on Gummy Bears," you post up and tell us. "And I just bought a Garmin Forerunner on sale--till noon--which I'm giving to my great-grandmother for Christmas!" {Weeeeeeeeeeee think she'll just looooooooooooooooooooooooove it!} Please. By the time we read our email, the limited sale you're wanting us ALL to glom onto will have been over with by a day and a half. And really, your great-grandmother? Uh-huh. We see right through that. You're hoping she'll kick off soon and leave "her" running accessories to *you*. {"You caaaaaaaaan't blame a guy for beeeeeee-ing thought-fulllllllllllll!"} We wonder what "finds" you're discovering for your non-running parents, and all your sedentary siblings as well. Is Holabird selling Reeboks cheap? How about double-water-bottle waistpacks? Sure, your mother will be surprised. {"I so don't know what-to-get my girrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrl-friend!!"} Please tell us if the sale is still on for track spikes' polish and cleat cleaner which you'd like to give your sister. And maybe some online apps store has a topographical mapping program--complete with 3-D vistas and cross-sectioning through every mountain pass in the world--which your bowling-only brother might like. And do tell us after the holidays, won't you? Just how overjoyed your family all was to receive everything you bought for yourself. {"Don't-you-ap-pre-ci-ate-myyyyyyyy tellllllllll-ling yooooooooooooou?"} So crack open an ice-cold Bud Light while you shop at your monitor, O Bargain Hunting Blabbermouth of the Millennium, because what you're probably going to have the hardest time realizing is that most of the rest of us already bought everything we need on Black Friday. And most of what you order now will be listed on all those little "packing slips" inside your UPS deliveries, saying: "Back-ordered. Temporarily out-of-stock." {Mis-terrrrr "Cyyy-ber Mon-day On-ly" Mil-len-ni-al Shop-ping Runnn-nnnner-Who-Just-Can't-WAIT-To-Spilllllllllllllll-The-Beeeeeeeans!} Bud Light beer: we don't care where they brew it; we just dig their commercials. ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour Check out this new outlet: http://www.trailrunevents.com/ul/stories.asp. Resource: http://thefuntimesguide.com/2004/10/bud_light_real.php. Yankee Folly of The Day: If it weren't for the last minute, nothing would get done.'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #113
Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we salute you, Mr. "Cyber Monday Only" Millennial Shopping Runner Who Just Can't Wait To Spill The Beans. {"Looooooooooooook at alllllllllllll-the-gas-mo-ney-I'm-saaaaaaaaaaaaa-ving!"} "Amazon is having a limited sale on Gummy Bears," you post up and tell us. "And I ...
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Dec 2, 2011
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Dec 9, 2011
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4694
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[Today we give thanks--tanks?--to Stu "Stu-man-Fu" Gibeau, who suggested today's RM/WoG topic some weeks ago, when I was either weak from eye surgery or recovering from the weak before. In any event, Stu has considerably suffered himself--due to the unfairness of illness which has plagued his niece in the UK--so this is my little effort to help cheer him up. Besides, it's his birthday!] Ingelhook Wineries present... REAL WOMEN OF GENIUS {Re-al gals of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we lift our goblets to you, Miss LOUD Ultra-Event Bystander Who Has Only One Cheer In Her Repertoire. {"IIII LOOOOOOOOVE YOOOOU-and-do-you-want-a-date?"} "You're looking good!"? Or "It's all downhill from here!"? Or "You're almost there!"? Or again: "You're looking good!"? Or "It's all downhill from here!"? Or "You're almost there!"? And yet again: "You're looking good!"? Or "It's all downhill from here!"? Or "You're almost there!"? {But yoooou have nooooooooooo i-de-a-where-you-e-ven ARE!} We realize it might possibly kill you to expand your vocabulary, but--by the 85th time we've heard the exact same chant--we are also thinking we're asking too much. {Itttttttttttttttttt's a good thiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing you-don't-have-to-spell-out what you're shou-tiiiiiiiiing-out!} During the out-and-back section? Please. We get to hear "You're almost there" at mile 4 and again at mile 7; and again at mile 16 on loop 2 and once more at mile 19 on loop 2; and yet AGAIN your exact same cheer is repeated at the exact same positions during loops 3 and 4 as well. {"I just KNOOOOOOOOOOOW the runnn-nnners all apppp-preeeeee-ci-ate meeeeeee!"} During a 50-mile race we not only get to hear "You're looking good" EIGHT TIMES for ourselves, but 8 times for all the peeps through twenty-five places ahead of us AND at least for ALL those equally behind. This ultimately amounts to several thousands of cheers at full voice without any need whatsoever for, say, a PA system or even a megaphone, and all without changing your tune one single teensy iota. {"You'rrrrrrrrrrre not hav-ing trou-ble hearrrrrrrrrrr-ring me, are youuuuuuuu?"} So pop out that cork quickly from your warm--by now--full bottle of White Zinfandel, O Fully-Clothed Dallas Cowgirl Cheerleader, and take as many swigs as your sore parched throat might require, because one of these loops you're going to holler that same message to a really ugly guy, who then hollers back that it's UPHILL all the way, he is NOT almost there because he's a full loop behind, and he WILL be pulled from the race at the very next aid station. {Missssssss LOUDDDDDDD Ul-tra-E-vent By-stan-der Whoooooo-Has-On-ly-One-Cheer-In-Herrrrrrrrr Re-per-toire!} White Zinfandel yuppie wine: we don't drink it ourselves; we'd rather guzzle beer. ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour Check out this new outlet: http://www.trailrunevents.com/ul/stories.asp. Resource: http://thefuntimesguide.com/2004/10/bud_light_real.php. Yankee Folly of The Day: We're not used to cheerleaders here in Chicagoland anyway, so when we watch Dallas Cowboys plowing into them on the sidelines during Thanksgiving dinner, we give even *more* thanks--that their skimpy outfits remain unruffled, their makeup unsmeared, and they themselves are not hurt.'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #112
[Today we give thanks--tanks?--to Stu "Stu-man-Fu" Gibeau, who suggested today's RM/WoG topic some weeks ago, when I was either weak from eye surgery or recovering from the weak before. In any event, Stu has considerably suffered himself--due to the unfairness of illness which has plagued his niece in the UK--so this is my little effort to help cheer him up. ...
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Nov 25, 2011
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Dec 9, 2011
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4838
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1 hr ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[Bear with me. I'm trying to post this as close to 11-11-11-11:11:11 CST as possible. Sure, it's nuts. I admit! And probably just as nuts in my way as dressing up in a costume to run a marathon is in *his* (see below). Oh, and by the way, please notice the number of today's offering--with which, by this posting, I believe this series now surpasses the total number of ads in the original Bud Light series of radio commercials. Ha! A dubious achievement at best.] Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we salute you, Mr. New York City Marathon Runner Covered From Head To Toe COMPLETELY In Some Kind Of Yellow Costume. {Fee-fie-fo-fam-ma, ba-nan-a-ba-nan-a-bo-bammmmmmm-ma...} You're not making a "statement," are you? Does this somehow tie in with the Wall Street protests, or with the quality of our government's response? {They'rrrrrrrrrre all yellllll-lllllllow an-y-waaaaaaaaaay!} Puh-leeeease. What we see is a kind of stretchy yellow-colored gauze, apparently opaquely transparent, leaving your head, EYES, ears, nose, and mouth totally covered--and not much to the imagination elsewhere. {Arrrrrrrrrrrren't you e-ven wear-inggggggggggg a thong?} Hanging loose, are we? Hoping to attract members of, well, which sex? Except how will you SEE them? Talk to them? Exchange saliva with them?? {Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat a-bouuuuuuuut a jock strap?} In fact, how do you see where you're going? Not to mention: how do you breathe? Take in fluids? Get the insides of that GU packet they hand you inside your body? Are you making a protest against long-distance running itself? This is a suicide mission! {Maaaaaaaaaay-be the wa-ter-stops can re-plen-ish you in-tra-ve-nous-lyyyy?} So crack open an ice-cold Bud Light, O Fab-abs-ulous Bananaman, after you cross the finish and your friends and family struggle mightily against the Central Park crowds to meet you--unless, of course, you have no friends or family or any means whatsoever for actually getting that beer into your mouth. Maybe the police will solve the problem for you by ripping that obscene costume off your body and giving you a nice striped jumpsuit--equipped with a hole for your head--instead. {Mis-terrrrr New-York-Ci-ty-Mar-a-thon-Run-ner Cov-ered-From-Head-To-Toe COMPLEEEEEEETELY In-Some-Kinda-Yel-low-Cos-tuuuuuume.!} Bud Light beer: we don't care where they brew it; we just dig their commercials. ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour Check out this new outlet: http://www.trailrunevents.com/ul/stories.asp. Resource: http://thefuntimesguide.com/2004/10/bud_light_real.php. Yankee Folly of The Day: On the distaff side, I stopped counting at two full dozen runners in Wonder Woman costumes.'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #111
[Bear with me. I'm trying to post this as close to 11-11-11-11:11:11 CST as possible. Sure, it's nuts. I admit! And probably just as nuts in my way as dressing up in a costume to run a marathon is in *his* (see below). Oh, and by the way, please notice the number of today's offering--with which, by this posting, I believe this series now surpasses the total ...
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Dec 9, 2011blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='sys_update', rowValue=''
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5113
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[By the way, once again, none of this is pointed at anybody. ALL of it is fiction!] Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we salute you, Mr. Big City Marathon-and-other-footraces Runner With A Halloween Costume On. {Arrrrrrrrrrre YOUUUUU Sven-goooooooo-lie OR Mis-tress El-viiiiiiiiiii-ra?} Rhinoceros costume? Carrot-top vegetable? Super hero? Carrier of a whole PHONE BOOTH for twenty-six-point-two entire miles!? {"Annnnnnnnnnnd I'll be pro-po-sing to my girrrrrrrrl-friend at the half-way marrrrrrrrrrrrrk!"} Please. Are you hoping to be seen on television, or do you just content yourself with incredulous stares and blocking traffic? {"My girrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrl-friend is go-ing as a sub-ma-rinnnnnnne!"} And where DID you come up with all that green spray paint to turn yourself into The Incredible Hulk, or all that black shoe polish to go as "Linc" from "The Mod Squad"? {"IIIIIIIIIII bor-rowed my cos-tuuuume from one of her kiiiiiiiids."} Of course, no one but no one running or watching you today is old enough to remember "The Mod Squad." You're completely on your own, Big Daddy, and dicing with the ratings in the process. {Weee just LOOOOOVE that guy jug-gling those bas-ket-balls the whole waaaaay!} But if you're going as Ed "Big Daddy" Roth, no one alive today remembers THAT character either. {Did-n't heee in-vent the hot-rod? And-is-THAT-a-"fun-ny-car"-cos-tume-you're-wearrrr-ing?} So crack open an ice-cold Bud Light once you reach the finish line--if it's still daylight--O Marvelous Master of Modern Disguise, because the only thing more annoying than you today is that "thing" made up of twenty sewn-together tie-dyed table cloths and about fifty other geniuses just like yourself who are pretending to be, what, a centipede? {Mis-terrrrrrr Bigg Ci-ty Mar-a-thon-and-oth-er-foot-ra-ces-Runnn-ner-With-A-Hal-lo-weeeeeeen-Cos-tuuu ume-On!} Bud Light beer: we don't care where they brew it; we just dig their commercials. ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour Check out this new outlet: http://www.trailrunevents.com/ul/stories.asp. Resource: http://thefuntimesguide.com/2004/10/bud_light_real.php. Yankee Folly of The Day: The, uh, usually televised New York City Marathon is coming up, folks, so if ya don't believe any of the above-written silliness is true, just watch!'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #110
[By the way, once again, none of this is pointed at anybody. ALL of it is fiction!] Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we salute you, Mr. Big City Marathon-and-other-footraces Runner With A Halloween Costume On. {Arrrrrrrrrrre YOUUUUU Sven-goooooooo-lie OR Mis-tress El-viiiiiiiiiii-ra?} Rhinoceros ...
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Oct 28, 2011
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Dec 9, 2011
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4497
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='Ingelhook Wineries present... REAL WOMEN OF GENIUS {Re-al gals of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we propose a toast to you, Miss iPhone-overloaded-with-Apps Big City Marathon Runner. {"OMG!!! U2? LOL!! I-M-2222222kewl44444444wurdz!!!!!"} You have "it" tucked right there inside your little half-sleeve pocket, don't you? And your iPod is there in your other pocket? Well, baby, you are totally "wired for sound," aren't you! {"IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII-am-soooo-read-y-to-ROTFLMAO!!"} It would be hard to imagine any emergency for which you wouldn't be ready. Bad song choice? You can change it. Need to know where all your girlfriends are in the race? You can call them. Each and every single one. And put them all on "speakerphone" too. Even if--gaud forbid--you suddenly had to stop and empty a stone out of your shoe or something, you could phone ahead to warn them of your ninety-second failure to maintain pace. {It's-a-good-thing, maaaaaaay-be, you'rrrrrrrrrre NOT a-pace-team-leeeeeeeeeeeeead-err?} Is that a damn phone we hear ringing off your shorts? Never mind "off the wall." And WHO, for heaving's sake, could be calling you every damn five minutes? Boyfriend? Mommy and Daddy-o? Crank callers? Incessant telemarketers?? {"IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII would-nnn't DARE leeeeeeeeave home with-OUT my cellllllllllllll!"} Please. If you have that kind of energy to waste by answering, "dialing," and yakking, just think how much better your finishing time *could* be if you braved the race au naturale, and actually RAN the race! And left the phone in your gym bag! {"Buuuuuuuut I aaaaaaam hav-ving sooooooooooooo much FUN!!"} "Hello? Yes, this is Candy. No, I gave at my cube. Yes, I know my subscription just ran out. Ralphie? Is that you?? You're at the half-way balloons? Oh Em Gee! Why-Em-Em-Vee. I'm like having to re-tie my shoe. I heart U 2. So totally rad! U Arr my Bee-Eff-Eff! C-U!" {"Thaaaaat's my trannnnnnnny grrrl-friend! She is so like fiiiiiiiiiind-ing him-self?"} So have HIM suck his cork out quickly from that post-race bottle of White Zinfandel in his gym bag, O Miss "Rolling On The Floor Laughing My Ass Off," because your new iPhone will also allow you to text him (her?) en route. And with all these new apps on your cell, you can do that by voice--while you also scroll down your Inbox, reprogram your iPod, recheck your GPS, update your Facebook, zap out a fresh Tweet, do a little online banking, and I.D. the song that this sleepy rock 'n' roll combo is blasting at you while rounding their corner. In short, you can do everything you could possibly ever imagine this fine weekend morning--EXCEPT run a decent marathon. {Missssssss i-Phone-o-ver-loa-ded-with-Apps Biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiig Ci-ty Mar-a-thon Runnnnnnnn-nerr!} White Zinfandel yuppie wine: we don't drink it ourselves; we'd rather guzzle beer. ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour Check out this new outlet: http://www.trailrunevents.com/ul/stories.asp. Resource: http://thefuntimesguide.com/2004/10/bud_light_real.php. Yankee Folly of The Day: It might be possible one day to (in addition to always having your phone) run with a portable electronic sub-sub-compact collapsible car AND solar-powered generator to recharge it with while you're running, so you can always be assured of a ride--just in case you need it.'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #109
Ingelhook Wineries present... REAL WOMEN OF GENIUS {Re-al gals of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we propose a toast to you, Miss iPhone-overloaded-with-Apps Big City Marathon Runner. {"OMG!!! U2? LOL!! I-M-2222222kewl44444444wurdz!!!!!"} You have "it" tucked right there inside your little half-sleeve pocket, don't you? And your iPod is there in your ...
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Dec 9, 2011blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='sys_update', rowValue=''
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4306
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[Today's "Bad Joke Friday" contribution is based on an idea first suggested by my dear old (not so old, eh--she's my age!) college friend Therese Simoneau, who worked with me on the student paper. Over the years her commentaries, observations, and political analyses have been spot-on and priceless. Without her, I'd still be the News Editor at Normal, yes, Illinois. Thanks, Tess! ;-] Ingelhook Wineries present... REAL WOMEN OF GENIUS {Re-al gals of geeeeeene-yuss} Today we raise our glass to you, Mrs. "I Don't Wanna Run" Either For Office Or Far Enough To Finish A Marathon. {"IIIIIIIIII'm ha-ving toooooooooooooooo mulch fun faaaaaaaaaaaaaaak-ing it!"} You had to break our political hearts, didn't you? We were so counting on being led by your leadership. We just naturally assumed that anyone DNF'ing a first term in a state's highest office in order to better seek even higher office must've obviously known what's she's doing. {Butt weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee don't-have-a-cluuuuuuuuuuuuue!!} We were so looking forward to next November, and not just to fall in behind you at the New York City Marathon, but to cast our sincerest and most heartfelt ballot for one so obviously deigned by God--by God!--to, so help you God, re-pare dys county, refudiate da nay-sayers, and sleight-of-handedly clause the single greatest restivlution in the herstory of the whirled! {OWWWWWWWE MYYYYYYY GAUD!!!} And neither are you running the full marathon, are you, Our Dear? {"But I AM a runnnnnnnnnn-ner! I've been feeeeeeeeeeea-tured in 'Runnnnnn-ner's Worrrrrrrrrrr-rld!'"} "Cheese legs"? Doctored bibs? Swapping-out sweatshirts and headbands mid-race? Having a doting husband with a car nearby? Have you never heard of not only Paul Revere, but Rosie Ruiz too? {"Sheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee must haaaaave been be-fore myyyyyyyyyyyy time."} Photo ops with "Team Leukemia"? High school boys' cross-country? Please. Judging from the hundred$ you've raised--or enhanced--for your own "war chest," charity runners might be better served by having their pictures PhotoShopped with Goofy at Disneyland. {"IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII'm run-ning-hard-through-the-Maaaaaaaaaa-gic-KING-dommmmmmm!"} So wear your silver age-group-placing medal proudly and pop that White Zinfandel cork quickly, O Masterful Mistress of the Legerdemain, because while some of us at the after-party are just sipping tea, the rest of us are convinced that "The Thrilla from Wasilla" is THE best gorsh-darn non-running enterstainment dat wee have never sheen. {Misssssssus "I-Don't-Wan-na-Runnnnn" Eeeeeeeeeeei-ther For Off-fice Orrr Far Eeeeeeeeeee-nough To Fin-ish-A-Mar-a-thonnnnnnnn!} White Zinfandel yuppie wine: we don't drink it ourselves; we'd rather guzzle beer. ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour Check out this new outlet: http://www.trailrunevents.com/ul/stories.asp Resource: http://thefuntimesguide.com/2004/10/bud_light_real.php Yankee Folly of The Day: A combination of this: http://ozmud.wordpress.com/category/hey-sarah-about-that-marathon/ And this: http://abcnews.go.com/blogs/politics/2011/10/105741/.'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #108
[Today's "Bad Joke Friday" contribution is based on an idea first suggested by my dear old (not so old, eh--she's my age!) college friend Therese Simoneau, who worked with me on the student paper. Over the years her commentaries, observations, and political analyses have been spot-on and priceless. Without her, I'd still be the News Editor at Normal, yes, Illinois. ...
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Oct 7, 2011
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Dec 9, 2011
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5265
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='lst_viewed', rowValue='20170219043713'
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[And this, in "furtheration" of the huge current outcry to "refudiate" marathon world records, could be next: http://ozmud.wordpress.com/2011/09/29/running-with-sarah- did-she-or-didn%E2%80%99t-she-summary-part-2/] Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we salute you, Mr. Big City Backwards-Facing So-Called Marathon Judge Riding On Top Of The Media Truck. {"IIIIIIIII'm in a verrrr-ry priv-ill-eged poooooo-si-tion heeeeeeere!"} Comfortable, are you? Riding high up there in the stiff headwind right next to that infernal time-ticking backwards-facing race-timing timeclock? {"Tick tick, baaaaaaaaaaaaa-beeee. Time fliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiies!!"} And are you being observant? Are you noticing for the first half, for example, how the frontrunning men come equipped with their very own event-provided team of male "pacers"? And aren't they the very things some other judge will later disqualify the frontrunning woman for having? {"Butt allllllllllllllllllllllllll is faiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiir in love-and-war-and-bat-tles of the sexxx-es!"} And to think we--or they--owe it all to Julius Caesar and his old Roman Legions. Because in those days, the front-marchers formed a "flying wedge" made up of a V-shaped group of big dudes with long shields who could shelter those behind from foolishly charging Goths, Visigoths, Alt, Emo, or Punkrockers; and/or from vast onslaughts of arrows, chucked spears from spear-chuckers, and gale-force headwinds. {Werrrrrrrrrrrre they drafffffff-ted, or was it an all-vol-un-teeeeeeer ar-myyyyyyyy?} Of course you're being careful to allow the men this protection, but not the women. Women who employ this good old testosterone-dominated Caesarian section of elements-conqueration are apt to be disqualified. But *you* won't be seeing THEM, because--as it has lately been universally chauvinistically alleged--women are just plain slower than men. You're hoping THEIR infractions will be picked up by that backwards-riding motorcycle guy. {"IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII'm hap-pyyy to be HERE. It'ssssssssssssss too c-c-c-cold to-be-riiiiiiii-ding-mo-tor-cy-cles!"} So crack open an ice-cold Bud Light right after your ride, O Mighty Scholar of Warfare from the days of Pheidippides, because--just like in old Julius's time, the hero and leader of the pack MUST be protected at all times from: your face; this breeze; that truck exhaust; any spying cameras; and the frontrunner's constant, unceasing, never-ever-ending sight of your damned ticking big digital backwards-facing timeclock. {Mis-terrrrrrrrrr Biggg Ci-ty Back-wards-Fa-cing So-Called Marrrr-a-thon Judge Riiiiiiiii-ding-On-Top-Of-The-Me-di-a-Truck!} Bud Light beer: we don't care where they brew it; we just dig their commercials. ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour Check out this new outlet: http://www.trailrunevents.com/ul/stories.asp. Resource: http://thefuntimesguide.com/2004/10/bud_light_real.php. Yankee Folly of The Day: Just imagine taking away Paula Radcliffe's World Record because--gaaak!--she was running while surrounded by men. Well, duh! Would they allow it if next time she were surrounded by cheetahs? No, wait. She already is surrounded (and judged) by cheaters.'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #107
[And this, in "furtheration" of the huge current outcry to "refudiate" marathon world records, could be next: http://ozmud.wordpress.com/2011/09/29/running-with-sarah- did-she-or-didn%E2%80%99t-she-summary-part-2/] Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we salute you, Mr. Big City Backwards-Facing So-Called ...
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Oct 3, 2011
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Oct 3, 2011
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5341
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='Ingelhook Wineries present... REAL WOMEN OF GENIUS {Re-al gals of geeeeeene-yuss} Today we propose a toast to you, Miss After-The-Marathon In The Family Meeting Area Clothes And Jog Bra Changer. {Misssssssssss Ohhhhhhhhhhh Myyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy Gawwwwwwwk!!} You just can't resist--or wait--can you? You're feeling all hot and sweaty with a huge compunction to change your clothes--right then and there amidst at least twenty-five thousand of your closest friends...and their friends...and all of your families...and all the reporters...and all those cameras. {"I haaaaaaaaaaad-n't reeeeeeeeeeeally no-ticed?"} Off with the shoes, off with the socks, the compression socks, the singlet and shorts (retaining the thong of course)...then also the gloves, the ear warmers, the ball cap, the iPod-and-wires, those Velcro thingies, your bib, your chip timer, your scrunchie, and--lest you or anyone else in the city forget--that jog bra. {"Noooooooooooo-bod-y will miiiiiiiiiiiiiiiind, willllllllllllllllllllll they?"} It doesn't take long--or much--does it? Just flip, over the head, wiggle a little, and reach into your gym bag for that flimsy T-shirt and the rest of your "street clothes"--which at this point might not look all that different from your running outfit. {"Buttttttttttttttttttttttt ev-er-y-one ELSE iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiis chaaaaaaaaaaaaaang-ing too!"} Stripteases like this could make you famous. You are actually illustrating the real-life real-time equivalent to all that graffiti scratched inside all the porta-potties and men's rooms throughout the United States. "For a good time, watch Sally. She's right outside this door, sitting over there in the grass. Just walk out this box and gawk." {"I reeeeeeeeeee-al-ly AM verrrrrrrrrr-ry qui-et and shyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy."} So *tease* that cork out gently from your White bottle of Zinfandel, O Gypsy Rose Lee, when you actually do meet up with your friends; because if you haven't found a boyfriend by now, you will suddenly have around twelve thousand five hundred just before you zip up that gym bag... and at least six million more after they watch the Evening News. {Missssssss Aaaaaf-ter-The-Marrrrrrrr-ra-thon-In-The-Faaaaaaaa-mil-y-Meeeeeee-ting A-reee-a Clothes-And-Jog-Bra Chaaaaaaaang-er!} White Zinfandel yuppie wine: we don't drink it ourselves; we'd rather guzzle beer. ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour Check out this new outlet: http://www.trailrunevents.com/ul/stories.asp. Resource: http://thefuntimesguide.com/2004/10/bud_light_real.php. Yankee Folly of The Day: In Chicago we have Grant Park for your clothes-changing convenience, and Channel 5 for your later coverage of all these visuals and, oh yeah, the marathon too.'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #106
Ingelhook Wineries present... REAL WOMEN OF GENIUS {Re-al gals of geeeeeene-yuss} Today we propose a toast to you, Miss After-The-Marathon In The Family Meeting Area Clothes And Jog Bra Changer. {Misssssssssss Ohhhhhhhhhhh Myyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy Gawwwwwwwk!!} You just can't resist--or wait--can you? You're feeling all hot and sweaty with a huge ...
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Sep 23, 2011
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Oct 3, 2011
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5200
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3 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[Today I have a plumber fixing LEAKS downstairs which naturally, uh, reminded me of this :] Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we salute you, Mr. NYC Marathon Starter on the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge Upper Deck and Pee-er. {"Ittttt's like my eeeeeeeeee-mer-gen-cy esssssssssss-scape valve!"} Relieving yourself, are you? Feelin' better? Can't possibly make it to the porta-potties and back in line in time, so you're DOIN' IT RIGHT THERE? {"Therrrrrrrrrre's nevvvvvvvvvv-er eeeeeeeeee-nough of them an-y-waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!"} How clever. You and about a thousand other frantic jumper-arounders-and-clutchers-of-crotch. The gun won't go off for at least another twenty minutes, so in the meantime--as we do suppose--if a man's gotta go, he's gotta go. {"Sommmmmmme-b-b-b-body's alllllllllllll-ways hog-ging the pot-ty-in-front-of meeeeeeeeeee!"} We expect it. Your "thousand closest friends" expect it. Maybe even ALL those on the *upper* deck expect it. {"So wherrrrrrrrrrrrrrrre am I sup-posed to gooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo?"} But those below? Not so much. There may be more than ten thousand of your soon-to-be worst enemies standing in line on the lower deck of the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge who might NOT be all that enthused over kinky treats like "golden showers." {EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEW!! That's sooooooooooooo gross!!!} And you will be careful--won't you?--of those VERY expensive shoes on the guy standing next to you. If you have to splash, you'll try for direct hits only on your own shoes, we're sure. Or, you could squeeze your way over to the railing and shoot your finest shots right over the side...to all the doubtless countless cheers of those below, standing at *their* railing. {"Maaaaaaaaaaaaay-beeeeeeeeeee they should run bare-foot?"} So crack open an ice-cold Bud Light right after your race, O Clever Mister Whizzer, because the "relief" you let fly with...might not actually make it onto those other runners' shoes. No, it could end up showering the head and shoulders of **SHE** who happens, unfortunately, to be squatting downwind. {Mis-terrrrrrrrrr N-Y-C Marrr-a-thon Starrrrr-ter on the Ver-ra-zan-o-Nar-rows Bridddddddge Up-perrrrr Deck and Peeeeeeeeee-err!!} Bud Light beer: we don't care where they brew it; we just dig their commercials. ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour Check out this new outlet: http://www.trailrunevents.com/ul/stories.asp. Resource: http://thefuntimesguide.com/2004/10/bud_light_real.php. Yankee Folly of The Day: Waterproofing the basement of your 100-year-old house in the "historic district" costs ten thousand four hundred and zero one-hundredths dollars, plus six-twenty-five for the plumber to rearrange all your drains. This is a public service announcement for y'all to become either Rebels or Rednecks and move your sad and sorry poor butts to Florida, where there are no basements.'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #105
[Today I have a plumber fixing LEAKS downstairs which naturally, uh, reminded me of this :] Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we salute you, Mr. NYC Marathon Starter on the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge Upper Deck and Pee-er. {"Ittttt's like my eeeeeeeeee-mer-gen-cy esssssssssss-scape valve!"} Relieving ...
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Sep 17, 2011
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Oct 3, 2011
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5026
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[Hmmm...so now it seems we're suddenly in "marathon season"? Well now, ain't THAT a sweet source of sullen inspiration...] Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we salute you, Mr. Handheld Backwards-Riding Motorcycle Television Filmer of Big City Marathons. {Yoooooooooou ride bettttt-ttttttter than Ca-lam-mitttt-ty Jane!} You're just the man, aren't you, to capture ALL the up-close action of those front-running runners. You're right *THERE* for all the slobber, drool, snot, hockers, upchuck, puke, hurl, and really bad runny makeup that just seems to jettison off these famous faces of those most likely to wish you dead. {Weee watched Bob Kem-pain-en pro-jec-tile vom-it dur-ing the O-lym-pic Tri-aaaaaaaaaaals!} You Are In Their Face! So congratulations, Mister Tailpipe Paparazzi, on getting THE pictures that will most imprint upon the ten million marathon wannadoers who just LOVE watching Uta Pippig having her period live on international television. {EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEW!! That's sooooooooooooo gross!!!} Puh-leeeeease. Do your bosses--those otherwise whacktoasted local TV commentators-who-haven't-got-a-clue--ever give you a raise for getting those close-ups of what ELSE is running down those legs? Could it be either natural or unnatural bodily fluids? Are we watching some sort of drug effluvial runoff here? If your biker buddy could drive any slower and you get your focus closer, might we also expect expectorations? Will the folks at home recognize which steroid is being spit by the first-place Kenyan? {IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIt's prob-babbbb-bleeeeeee just Ga-tor-ade!} Blood doping? Maybe? Could you just adjust your camera better? And what we REALLY want to see are all those cavities inside the lead runner's mouth. Could you maybe lean a little more hazardously to your left? That's it! You da man! {Weeeeeee're think-ing may-beeeee heeee needs a tooth pulled?} So crack open an ice-cold Bud Light after your ride, O Biker's Bitch of the New York Chapter of California's Hell's Angels, and wipe off your camera lens, because after all is said and done, there truly are several billion TV gawkers worldwide who *are* vitally dependent upon YOUR--and nobody else's--capturing of all the world's best runners' most vital signs. {Mis-terrrrrrrrrr Hand-held Baaaaaaack-wards-Ri-ding Mo-tor-cy-cle Tel-e-vis-ion Film-er of Big Ci-ty Mar-a-thonnnnnnns!!} Bud Light beer: we don't care where they brew it; we just dig their commercials. ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour Check out this new outlet: http://www.trailrunevents.com/ul/stories.asp. Resource: http://thefuntimesguide.com/2004/10/bud_light_real.php. Yankee Folly of The Day: We're not sure, of course, but quite possibly the New Orleans Saints did better than the Washington President last night.'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #104
[Hmmm...so now it seems we're suddenly in "marathon season"? Well now, ain't THAT a sweet source of sullen inspiration...] Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we salute you, Mr. Handheld Backwards-Riding Motorcycle Television Filmer of Big City Marathons. {Yoooooooooou ride bettttt-ttttttter than Ca-lam-mitttt-ty ...
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Sep 9, 2011
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Oct 3, 2011
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4652
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[We are sad today to report a case of old-age, dementia, or fallout from last month's trip to Tennessee and its completely infamous Vol-State Road Rage--oops, I mean Road Race. By so sojourning, it seemed that yours troubly could no longer COUNT the RM/WoG sequence from before he left till after he returned, and thus this archive showed (still shows!) some idiotic skippage from #97 to #99, which your humble servant Le Doof completely missed! So now, to make amends (if not to also set the Table of Contents to rights) and to bring us all up-to-date, we present another whacky RMOG which should've been dated a month ago. We are sorry for any cardinal or ordinal mathematical inconvenience this may have caused. In the words of my colleague Larry Gassan: "You may adjust."] Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we salute you, Mr. Rural Weekly Newspaper Just Barely Reporting on Footraces Sportswriter. {"Theyyyyyyyyyy don't paaaaaaaaaaaaay me eeeee-nough!"} Not exactly the town's main attraction of Little League, the grammar school track meet, or your high school early football practice, is it? No. And if you can be cajoled off your sports desk and out of the newsroom at all, you really are only likely to write *one* paragraph about THE internationally renowned cross-Tennessee footrace now going on in your town. {"The shaaaaaaades are down; I cannnnnnnn't seeeeeee an-y-thing!"} "How far is that 500K race?" you're likely to ask. Or you'll come up with a few other inquisitively ingenious gems, like: "How long does that 24-hour race last?" "How many days out of the ten do those runners have to finish?" "Where is that finish on top of Castle Rock?" And the best one, usually: "Just how many miles are in this marathon anyway?" {Twennnnnnn-ty-six-point-two! But thisssssssssssss is an ulllllllllll-tra-mar-a-thon!!} Puh-leeeeease. We realize nothing's changed since Jesse Owens shocked the Third Reich at the '36 Olympics, but would it kill you to do a little research into more recent history? Do you know the caliber of the runners about to race through your town? Could you possibly appreciate the effort it takes to run 314 miles entirely without a car? Would it kill you, maybe, to actually have to READ another paper's sports pages; like, say, The Nashville Tennessean? The Chicago Tribune? Or The New York Times?? {"IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII am a wri-terr, not a reeeeeeead-err!!"} You might actually learn that the race was invented by a true ultrarunning legend, that the projected overall winner is in his 70s, that the first woman trains by running more miles in a week than those precious high school football stars of yours will run in their lifetimes, and that young racer from India has survived up to a fortnight in the steamy Asian jungle, stumbling along non-existent trails, living on weeds and wild berries and, oh yes, the uncooked flesh of all those King Cobras he's killed with just his bare hands. {"I thought Tarrrrrrrrrr-zan was jusssssssssssssssst in the mooooooo-vies?"} So crack open an ice-cold Bud Light, O Perry White of Metropolis's Daily Planet, because while you're snoozing frumpily all over your desk chair with the ball game in your ear from the iPod in your pocket, a whole 'nother sporting drama is parading right outside your window, replete with THE best damn long-distance runners this entire Planet (and not just your "Daily") has ever seen. Supermen? And Superwomen? Indeed! {Mis-terrrrrrrrrr Rur-alllllll Week-lyyyyy News-pap-err-Just-Bare-ly-Re-por-ting-on-Foot-ra-ces Sporrrrrrrrts-WRI-TERR!!} Bud Light beer: we don't care where they brew it, rural town or whatever; we just dig their commercials. ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour Check out this new outlet: http://www.trailrunevents.com/ul/stories.asp. Resource: http://thefuntimesguide.com/2004/10/bud_light_real.php. Yankee Folly of The Day: Big party this weekend goin' down along the East Coast! Pass it on!!'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #98 [No, that's not an error or misprint]
[We are sad today to report a case of old-age, dementia, or fallout from last month's trip to Tennessee and its completely infamous Vol-State Road Rage--oops, I mean Road Race. By so sojourning, it seemed that yours troubly could no longer COUNT the RM/WoG sequence from before he left till after he returned, and thus this archive showed (still shows!) some idiotic ...
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Aug 29, 2011
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Oct 3, 2011
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4545
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[Continuing along with this week's "tradition" of peeps nominating other peeps for "the treatment," we, uh, now have the following, um, "thing" as nominated or suggested by someone who wishes to remain anonymous. Can't blame the person. I'd do this anonymously, too, but then peeps would start recognizing *me* all over this as being the butt of the joke. Wouldn't want that. I'm already the butt of all other known jokes throughout the known universe; so, no need to be layin' these here bad babies on me, too, eh? ;] Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we salute you, Mr. Grandstanding My-Anything's-Better-Than-Your-Everything Thereby Making-Me-Better-Than-You. {"Eeeeeeeeee-ven my air is bet-ter than your airrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!"} You're a triathlete, so your ride is a titanium flyweight super-cycle that costs twelve thousand dollars. You're also an ultrarunner, so you have one of each of the top of every line of everything, which also costs twelve thousand dollars. Everyone else just wears huaraches and sackcloth, lives in a trailer park, and runs on pavement covered with glass shards and beer cans. The entire known universe is "worser" than you. {"Caaaaaaan't wait un-til to-mor-row, 'cuzzzzzzz I-get-bet-ter-look-ing-ev-err-y-daaaaaaaay!"} No one else's humble opinion could possibly be "humbler" than yours. No one else's method "varies" quite like yours does. No one else's facts jive with your "truth," and if they go so far as to try and actually *prove* something by citing a website and posting its hyperlink? Fuhgeddaboudit. Only you can tell them that the website's facts are faulty, its references obscure and no longer valid, and that hyperlink is broken--or at least it doesn't work on YOUR computer. {Yes! Your doub-ble-in-su-la-ted-chem-i-cal-ly-fil-tered-bot-an-i-cal-ly-friend-ly hyyyy-dra-tion sys-tem IS su-pee-ri-orrrrrrrrrrrrrr!!} You have the last word on absolutely everything. No one else need opine, comment, apply, protest, or go into debt researching the actual truth to the ends of the earth. No. We should all just shut up, unfurl our prayer rugs, and prostrate ourselves towards whichever direction your argument is heading, because we just cannot possibly win. You are--or certainly by universal acclaim SHOULD BE--our god. Just please save us from our own ignorance and eternal damnation in the slough of despond, Valley of Death, or being DFL at the back of the pack. {Ifffffff you were a pre-cious stone, we'd have youuu moun-ted and pubbbbb-lic-ly kiss you on the grass!} So crack open an ice-cold Bud Light, O Chairman of the Board of Absolutely Everything, and have it all to yourself; because, as the Lesser God Almighty already knows, there just ain't no winning of arguments with you. Even HE would need to make another whole chilled case of quarts magically appear out of thin, albeit inferior, air--just to pay off His lost wager, have you tell Him how good or bad It (or He) is, where it was brewed and at what pace and heartrate, and just how long it'll retain its core temperature while running in heat through the desert downhill out of the bottle. {Mis-terrrrrrrrr Graaaaaaaand-staaaan-ding My-An-y-thing's-Bet-ter-Than-Your-Ev-er-y-thing Therrre-by Maaaa-king-Meeeee-Bet-ter-Than-You!} Bud Light beer: we don't care where they brew it, how, or at what temperature; we just dig their commercials. ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour Check out this new outlet: http://www.trailrunevents.com/ul/stories.asp. Resource: http://thefuntimesguide.com/2004/10/bud_light_real.php. Yankee Folly of The Day: You don't suppose, do you, that the entire economy of the United States is based on a ponzi scheme?'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #103
[Continuing along with this week's "tradition" of peeps nominating other peeps for "the treatment," we, uh, now have the following, um, "thing" as nominated or suggested by someone who wishes to remain anonymous. Can't blame the person. I'd do this anonymously, too, but then peeps would start recognizing *me* all over this as being the butt of the joke. Wouldn't ...
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Aug 19, 2011
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Oct 3, 2011
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5599
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we salute you, Mr. Running No-Doubt Morally Superior Holier-Than-Thou. {"Whaaaaat ARRRRRRRRRE you wri-ting here? Thisss is an out-raaaaaaaaaaaaaage!"} Sense of humor? Please. There is no humor in the church of mine-holeyer-than-your-butt-is. How is it possible even to chuckle at the foibles of humanity when one's full cranial capacity is totally locked-and-loaded and squinting only towards divinity? {"IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII've got yoooooooooooooooooooou in my CROSS-hairs!"} May God strike us dead? May our thingies rot in hell and our 1st Amendment-protected verbiage be forever banned? Just for having a little joy and laughter at the apparent expense of those whom ONLY YOU could possibly perceive as being victims of crass, insensitive, unfeeling, demeaning, sexist, written and verbal abuse? You mean those good-natured peeps who privately email us afterwards, laughing right along with? {"I caaaaaaaaaaaaaan't un-der-staaaaaaaand why-YOUR-crap's-e-ven-al-lowwwwwed!"} Perhaps "going postal" is your better option. Instead of publicly complaining against what nobody else is publicly complaining against, you should just go for a run. Take your AK-47 with you. Stop by the post office. Voice your outrage at the old-fashion way of expressing freedom of speech. And THEN have your totally bang-up pity party. You'll then have just as many dead converts to your way of thinking as live ones. {"Allllllllll-the-world's-e-vil isss THEE fault of beer com-mer-cial nar-ra-tors like YOOOOOOOU!!"} So DON'T crack open any ice-cold Bud Lights, O Heinrich Himmler of the Thought Police, because we all know alcohol is bad for you and that rigidly upheld lifestyle of the rightfully indignant and tidy-whitey morally uptighted. For golly sakes! As everyone in Christendom has known all their lives, Jesus himself DIDN'T turn that water into wine. Nope. He only walked on it. And as for the REAL true-believing guests of that ancient Wedding Feast at Cana? They all no doubt drank Gatorade. {Mis-terrrrrrrrr Runnnnnn-ning Nooo-Doubt-Mor-al-ly-Su-per-i-orrrrrrrrr Ho-lier-Than-Thouuuuuuuuuu!} Bud Light beer: we don't care where they brew it; we just dig their commercials. ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour Resource: http://thefuntimesguide.com/2004/10/bud_light_real.php. Yankee Folly of The Day: We probbly instead oughta wonder WTF Congress is drinking or smoking deze daze.'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #102
Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we salute you, Mr. Running No-Doubt Morally Superior Holier-Than-Thou. {"Whaaaaat ARRRRRRRRRE you wri-ting here? Thisss is an out-raaaaaaaaaaaaaage!"} Sense of humor? Please. There is no humor in the church of mine-holeyer-than-your-butt-is. How is it possible even ...
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Aug 13, 2011
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Aug 19, 2011
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4910
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='Ingelhook Wineries present... REAL WOMEN OF GENIUS {Re-al gals of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we raise our glass to you, Miss Most Knowledgeable Running Hair Arranger, Except For The Wedding. {Missss "I reeeeeeeeally need-toooooooo-look-my-best, jussssssssst once!"} You did say that the very best hair style for women runners is NO hair practically at all, right? You first cut it short for cross-country season during your junior year--isn't that what you said? And you haven't grown it back? And you've been a happier woman ever since? EXCEPT for your wedding? {"I DON'T wannnnn-na starrrrrrrrrt my-whole-fu-ture INNNNN A CREW-CUT!!!"} Puh-leeease. Suddenly you MUST let it grow out? So, what you are now advocating is--for only the *important* events in your life, like matrimony, the day of--it's actually *more important* to fake your look than to continue appearing exactly the way your lover fell in love with in the first place. {"Heeeeeeeeeeeeee nev-err said, but heeeee pre-fers long hair! IIIIIIIIII know it!!"} He must obviously have appreciated all your coolly hinted "secrets" for resolving such womanly issues as hair knots, negative-split ends, marathon mania mess, and insufferable tangles--mostly by cutting practically all of it off and learning to love yourself in a buzz cut instead. And now at last your ever-loving beau has gotten used to the "look" and WHAM: for the wedding you now want to change it. {"Yoooooooooooou-don't-mind, dooooo yoooou, hon-eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey?"} You are now completely contradicting every scrunchie, ponytail tie, ball cap, hat, visor, hair wrap, "driver," bun, braid, balaclava, scarf, turban, babushka, conditioner, even head shaving-with-tattoo, and Mickey Mouse Club hair-fix souvenir you ever recommended to all your sisterly lady runners. You are now saying that all this stuff is OK for running, but not for marrying. Now you need *different* hair. You have to become some body your fiancée has never seen before and, after the wedding, will never see again. {"Donnnnnn't YOU waaaaaaaaaaant me-to-look-good-for OUR wedddddddddd-dingggggggg?"} So ease that cork out gently from your rehearsal dinner bottle of White Zinfandel, O Great Pretender and Propounder of the "Only Her Hairdresser Knows For Sure" philosophy, because guess what. After the wedding you can rejoin all your old gal pals, and they can then give their advice to you...which is: cut the hair, stop the run, put on the sweats--but don't sweat--plop down the butt, and let yourself go--just like they have. Hey, now you're married! {Missssssssss Most-Knowl-edge-able Runnnnnnnnn-ning-Hair-Arr-rang-er, Ex-cept-For-The-Weddddd-dinggggg!!!} White Zinfandel yuppie wine: we don't drink it ourselves; we'd rather guzzle beer. ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour Book Review: http://tinyurl.com/VirginAndVeteran. Better Resource: http://thefuntimesguide.com/2004/10/bud_light_real.php. Yankee Folly of The Day: What do you suppose the lady runner's perspective on her husband is? The gym membership lapses a few months afterwards? "Night out with the boys" means having to buy more trousers and poke farther-out holes in the belt? Fishing trips result in no fish but more fishy fast-food fillets? It's the grand old American game, isn't it. You always and ONLY need to ever look good for your wedding day's photographer, so he can give you something to rip out of that frame and stomp on in the next dozen years, or less.'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #101
Ingelhook Wineries present... REAL WOMEN OF GENIUS {Re-al gals of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we raise our glass to you, Miss Most Knowledgeable Running Hair Arranger, Except For The Wedding. {Missss "I reeeeeeeeally need-toooooooo-look-my-best, jussssssssst once!"} You did say that the very best hair style for women runners is NO hair practically ...
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Aug 5, 2011
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Aug 19, 2011
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4568
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[R-mog and/or R-m/wog is late today, sorry, on accounta WAY MORE IMPORTANT and IMPRESSIVE reportings of REAL achievements. Like, dig: Lisa Bliss is now the first-woman-EVER to run an entire solo/unaided Badwater-like crossing from the lowest point of elevation within these 48 contiguous United States to the highest point (Mt. Whitney)--a HOT Death Valley distance of 146 continuous miles, which, we believe, took her some 87 hours to accomplish; and all the while she rolled everything she needed inside a custom-made cart. IT, by the way, started out weighing over 200 pounds, while she--at all of 95 pounds soaking wet with both pockets full of quarters--started out at something less. A disadvantage, perhaps, when you consider that the journey is ALL UPHILL!!! Wow. But she shoved it "up there" anyway. Congratulations, Lisa! So maybe now what we'd like to do is poke fun at the "genius" behind the whole Badwater event in the first place--but we haven't the heart to do that. It's all good. Instead, let's pick on some body my own size (and competence level). :-] Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we salute you, Mr. Unrelenting Corrector of All Error, Both Written and Spoken, Indoors and Out. {Whaaaaaaaat did weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee write wrong thissssssssss time?} You post on the listserv following somebody else's post: "This totally wrong. You did had missed this impotant fact which your always be careful look up beforehand you post such nonsense." My God, man, this is the New English? *This* is "how it's supposed to be" according to "how you tell us *it* isn't"? According to YOU? {Haaaaaaaave you ev-er bothhh-ered to proooooooof-read your-owwwwn-words?} We have run behind you and listened with rapt attention while you instructed your companion in the error of her way also. "No, you're a supinator," you say, "not a pronator. You need to buy extra support shoes, like racing flats." {Ohhhh myyyyy gawk! You-arrrrrrrrrrrrre-to-tal-lyyyyyyy-cluuuuuuuuue-less!} Why not Vibram FiveFingers? If you correct the error of her way long enough, she just might try rollerblades and do laps with a jerry can of gasoline around your house. Strike up a match? {"May-be-I-like-my-err-rorrrrrrrrrrrs! I'm beat-ing YOURRRRRRR butt, arrrrrrrn't I?"} You correct people's research, you correct people's opinions, you even correct their spelling--and we've heard you do THAT even by mouth out on the trail. "You opened a new account at Fifth Third Bank?" you ask. "How do you spell that?" you continue. And when your poor running companion proffers a bad guess, you POUNCE. Of course, it's then that we realize you can't spell this Gen-X's too "kewl" overly hyped bank name either. {"I thiiiiiiiiiiiiink it has an ir-ra-tion-al fraaaaaaaaaaaaaac-tion in iiiiiiiiiiiiit."} So crack open an ice-cold Bud Light, O Mister Mathmagic of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, and offer a cool swig to your hot companion, because when you finish the event and want to post your "race report," we can only hope you'll misspell the listserv's address and spare us--Thank You, Cheeses--from having to suffer through yet another in a never-ending stream of ten thousand holier-than-thou posts which, quite frankly, we'd all feel ten thousand times better doing without. {Mis-terrrrr Unn-ree-lenn-ting Corrr-rrrec-torrr of ALL Er-rorrr, Both Writt-ten and Spo-ken, Inn-doors and Ouuuut!} Bud Light beer: we don't care where they brew it; we just dig their commercials. ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour Book Review: http://tinyurl.com/VirginAndVeteran. Better Resource: http://thefuntimesguide.com/2004/10/bud_light_real.php. Yankee Folly of The Day: Never mind French. Starting Tuesday we're all going to have to start learning Chinese.'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #100
[R-mog and/or R-m/wog is late today, sorry, on accounta WAY MORE IMPORTANT and IMPRESSIVE reportings of REAL achievements. Like, dig: Lisa Bliss is now the first-woman-EVER to run an entire solo/unaided Badwater-like crossing from the lowest point of elevation within these 48 contiguous United States to the highest point (Mt. Whitney)--a HOT Death Valley distance ...
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Aug 5, 2011
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Aug 19, 2011
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5017
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we salute you, Mr. Really, Really BAD "Bad Joke Friday" Listserv Poster. {Waaaaaaaas it some-thing you-saw-in-the-Mennnnnnnnnnnnnn's Roooom?} OK, what is it this week: Off-color? Politically incorrect? Slurringly racial? Totally insensitive to the international community and/or "peeps" of other orientations, faiths, creeds, zeals, shades of skin bronzer, or what they wear wrapped around their heads? In an era of al-Qaeda terrorism, you're thinking this stuff is funny? {"Whaaaat's aaaaaa-nother name for 'goo-berrrrrr'?"} Please. If you insist on plaguing us with all this inhumane inhuman non-sensitivity, could you please also supply your home address? That way no hyperlinks to bomb sites will be forthcoming into *our* Inboxes, and the terrorists can save time by delivering their choice weapon of mass destruction directly to *your* front door. {"A-man-waaaaalks in-to-a-bar-with-a-lit-tle 12-inch-tall pi-an-o pla-yerrrrrr..."} Go ahead and slam the politicians all you want, but please leave the Dali Lama and the rest of his sherpas and llamas out of it. Obama, Palin, Hoozissface, and Whatshernoise are all fair game, but, of course, this *is* a "family" listserv, and it *is* supposed to be geared towards ultrarunning. {"But therrrrre is NOTH-ing funnnnnn-ny a-bouttttttttt run-ning-your-guts-out!"} All of which probably also means that pedophilia; necrophilia; bestiality; paranoid schizophrenia, domestic violence; statutory *anything*; child pornography; SMBD, MILFs, GILFs, ATMs, LGBT, and tranny humor; as well as "her first lesbian experience" are all pretty much topics for some other list. Ya think? {"Buttttttttttt-I-did-n't-mean aaaaaan-y-thing PER-SON-AL!"} So crack open an ice-cold Bud Light once you get your pants zipped up, O Larry Flynt of the Liberated Cyberwaves, and settle back down into your wheelchair, because once that suspicious brown paper bag lands on your front porch all lit up with the cow pie inside? You're going to want to be rested up enough to leap out of your seat and stomp the fire out. {Mis-terrrrr Re-al-ly, Reeeeeeeeea-lly BAAAAAAAD "Bad Joke Fri-day" List-serv Po-sterrrrrrrrrrrr!} Bud Light beer: we don't care where they brew it; we just dig their commercials. ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour Book Review: http://tinyurl.com/VirginAndVeteran. Better Resource: http://thefuntimesguide.com/2004/10/bud_light_real.php. Yankee Folly of The Day: It's too late for "the day." We're now working on follies for "the night"--which might soon be reported to us by those yet to finish the Vol-State. Ya think?'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #99
Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we salute you, Mr. Really, Really BAD "Bad Joke Friday" Listserv Poster. {Waaaaaaaas it some-thing you-saw-in-the-Mennnnnnnnnnnnnn's Roooom?} OK, what is it this week: Off-color? Politically incorrect? Slurringly racial? Totally insensitive to the international community ...
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Jul 22, 2011
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Aug 19, 2011
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5056
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we salute you, Mr. First-Time-Ever Crew Person for a Very Competitive Ultrarunner. {Yoooooooooooou're gon-na be a paaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack muuuuule!!} What could be easier, right? You drive the van; she (or he, of course) runs the race. All's you figure you need to do is show up. On time. Before your runner gets there--to that next checkpoint, aid station, or crew access place. Simple. A trained monkey could do it. {"Whooooooooooooooo are you calllllllllll-ing a mon-keeeeeeeeeeey?"} They never tell you the race takes place in the forest, on mountains, in swamps, all over deserts, or throughout jungles, or all of the above, sometimes all at once. And before you can meet your runner even at mile fifteen, your beautiful new Dodge Caravan is buried up to its tailgate in the reddest damn soupiest sucking mud your ass has ever seen. {Good thing you reeeeee-newed your Trip-ple-A Mo-torrrrrrrrrrr Club mem-berrrrrr-ship!} Ass, too, is buried. Yours. Up to your plumber's crack in the same damn mud. And also? It's grass. You now have less than forty-five minutes to "unstuck" yourself, call for a tow truck, and winch your vehicle out of the muck. After that, of course, comes the REAL crewing adventure. {Maaaaaaaaaaaaaay-be some slo-wer runnnnn-ners will-help-you-push?} Do you have the correct course marked on the trail map? Do you even have a trail map? Do you have the right fluids? Are they mixed properly? Gels? Bars? Changes of shoes, socks, shorts, skirts, tops, bottoms, sideways, sweat bands, arm sleeves, and jogbras? And get your mind out of the gutter, Jack. Competitive ultrarunners know how to change bras right in front of your eyeballs without you ever seeing ANYTHING. {"I prommmmmmmmm-ise to co-ver myyyyyyyyyyyyy eyes!"} Batteries? Flashlights? E-caps? NSAIDS? TP, moistened towelettes, Kleenex, and YaxTrax for the upcoming snow fields? Jack, you DO have your work cut out for you. {"Howwwwwwwwwww-in-the-hellllll do I carrrrrrrrrrrr-ry all this STUFFFFFFFFFFF?"} So crack open an ice-cold Bud Light out of that big chest you're humping on foot because they won't let you drive here, O Himalayan Sherpa and Mule Skinner, because really, when your little hot mama depends on a clothes-change at mile 55 and she finds you've stored everything inside the ice chest underneath the ice and the beer? She is going to be fully cured of ever again wanting to suffer through having another crew. Or frankly, after this race is over, YOU. {Mis-terrrrr First-Time-Ev-er Crewwwwwww Per-son for a Ver-yyyyyy Com-pe-ti-tivvvvvvvvvve Ul-tra-runnnnnnnnn-er!} Bud Light beer: we don't care where they brew it; we just dig their commercials. ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour Book Review: http://tinyurl.com/VirginAndVeteran. Better Resource: http://thefuntimesguide.com/2004/10/bud_light_real.php. Yankee Folly of The Day: [Elsewhere noted. Probably "Crook Blago" news is stale by now anyway.]'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #97
Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we salute you, Mr. First-Time-Ever Crew Person for a Very Competitive Ultrarunner. {Yoooooooooooou're gon-na be a paaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack muuuuule!!} What could be easier, right? You drive the van; she (or he, of course) runs the race. All's you figure you need to do ...
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Jul 2, 2011
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Aug 19, 2011
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4656
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[Caution: This in no way refers to our most beloved newest newlywed Paige Dunmore, who *may* have misperceived some sort of "veiled threat" (ha ha) that on this particular Friday she might find herself being written about here. But no. She is much too young. But--if she continues to plan anything running-club-related like she handled the non-publicity surrounding her own wedding--in another 30 years she'll qualify. :-) Keep smiling, everyone! Hey, it's Bad Joke Friday!!] Ingelhook Wineries present... REAL WOMEN OF GENIUS {Re-al gals of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we raise our goblet to you, Mrs. Go-To Arranger of All Events Related to Your Running Club. {Misssssus "How in the Worrrrrrrrrrrr-rld Did-Weee-E-ver-Get-A-long With-out Yooooooou?"} Only you could schedule an upcoming 25-mile group long run, point-to-point from the mountains to the prairie, by spotting *one* Volkswagen Beetle at the terminus to haul *all* your thirty-odd club members back to the trailhead. But then on your appointed Saturday, three more vanloads show up at the start. {"We'rrrrrrrre skinnnnnnn-ny; weeeeeeeeeee can squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeze in!"} Peeps text or phone you for advice all the time, calling upon your leadership skills, completely expecting you to lead them to the Promised Land--especially along new trails that even you haven't ever seen before. This doesn't stop you, of course, from giving your advice. {"It's bettttttt-ter for long runs to uuuuuuuuuuuuse on-lyyyy hand-helds!"} And your advice and planning skills run the gamut from carpooling to races, to pizza parties celebrating this year's Boston qualifiers. Except you sometimes forget gasoline for your Beetle and invite marathoners who haven't qualified for Boston since 1966. Meanwhile the party venue turns out to be "closed for remodeling" and no one from your club has in fact run a marathon this year. They are all still stuck out there in the prairie, at your long run's terminus, waiting for a ride. {"Sommmmmmmmmmmmmmme day our prinnnnnnnnnnnnce will come!"} Special occasions? Needing your help and advice? Please. Just say no. We realize no one else could possibly do it like you can, but maybe have your club members call "Ghostbusters" instead. They'll do them just as much good, and prevent future social disasters from haunting their memory for decades to come. {"Whoooo ya gon-na cawlllllllllll?"} But go ahead anyway and pop that cork out of your special running-club-discounted bottle of White Zinfandel--arranged by you at the liquor store--O Mrs. Group-On Susie, and try to get everybody to drink some before anybody discovers that, once again, you're expecting 250 milliliters of fluids to hydrate seventy-five members of your club. {Misssssssus Go-To A-rraaaaaan-ger of Alllllllllll E-vents Reeee-laaa-ted to Your Runnnn-ning Club!!} White Zinfandel yuppie wine: we don't drink it ourselves; we'd rather guzzle beer. ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour Book Review: http://tinyurl.com/VirginAndVeteran. Better Resource: http://thefuntimesguide.com/2004/10/bud_light_real.php. Yankee Folly of The Day: In my own local (Indiana) running club, if it weren't for the women shouldering ALL the responsibilities, the club would cease to exist. It makes us wonder yet again, besides plucking, just what in the heck ARE men good for anyway? For ideas, take another look at the United States Government.'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #96
[Caution: This in no way refers to our most beloved newest newlywed Paige Dunmore, who *may* have misperceived some sort of "veiled threat" (ha ha) that on this particular Friday she might find herself being written about here. But no. She is much too young. But--if she continues to plan anything running-club-related like she handled the non-publicity surrounding ...
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Jun 24, 2011
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Aug 19, 2011
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5119
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we salute you, Mr. Alter-Ego Inventor and Pseudonymous Poster to the Listserv. {Wherrrrrrrrrrrrrrre do yoooooooooou come up with this stufffffffff?} Please. "Bumpshack"? "Raw Vegetable Runner"? "Human Sacrifice"? Isn't it enough that there's already three thousand strangers subscribing to this whacky cybertronic chatroom in the first place, without having to disguise yourself further by signing off as the "Pit Viper"? {Whoa! The snaaaaaaaaaaaake has alllllllllll the liiiiiiiiiiiiiines!} "Henry Speir"? Henry Speir DIED in 1972. He was some white dude that helped black blues peeps grab long green. The names of his clients themselves should make all pseudonymous imposters such as your own clever self drool: Ishman, Son House, Blind Roosevelt, Skip, Bo, Willie, and the Mississippi Sheiks--to name just a few. {"Buttttttttttttttttt I was ooooon-ly ma-kiiiiiiiiiiiiing a point!"} We have also been treated to outside-the-species phony I.D.'s. We've seen posts by "the parrot" and "the mule" and even at one time by a "polar bear." Now we're being told some pitbull named "big" and his dubious sidekick named "little" supposedly write blogs. {Annnnnnnnd don't-for-get-all-those-"goats"--"moun-tain," "speeeed," "old," "I got-chur," and "millllllllllllllllk"!!} We'd like to give you the credit for being so inventive and coming up with this phoniness all by yourself, but we think you have help. We're guessing the whole secret lies in being computer-savvy enough to fool Google Mail into giving you a whole 'nother account. Then you and your cool ilk all try to out-do one another by fooling the rest of us into wondering just who in the hell y'all are. {We-think-you're-a-ran-dom-ly-gen-er-a-ted-pro-gram-ming ex-am-ple of ar-ti-fi-ci-al in-tel-li-gennnnnnce!} It's like when we were kids and comic book artists all thought nobody could possibly tell--when the "character" and his, her, or its "alter ego" NEVER appeared in the same panel together--that just by darkening-in a tiny "mask" around the eyes, they could always fool us into never "getting" that Green Lantern was Alan Scott. {Dooonn't for-get Bat-man-and-Boy-Won-der, whose sex-u-al o-ri-en-ta-tions we've alllll-ways "won-dered" our-sellllllllves!!!} So crack open an ice-cold Bud Light, O Author-Wannabe of "All Things Bright and Beautiful," and chug it down before we get the next edition of our listserv's "Digest" with you in it, if you're lucky. Because otherwise? Your cyber savvy is so well disguised that you'll even fool the computer! If we don't find you among the List's usual postings, we'll most likely locate your genius in that other folder labeled "SPAM." {Misssssss-terrrrr Al-ter-E-go In-vennnnnn-tor and Pseud-on-y-mous Po-ster-to-thee-Lisssssst-serv!} Bud Light beer: we don't care where they brew it; we just dig their commercials. ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour Book Review: http://tinyurl.com/VirginAndVeteran. Better Resource: http://thefuntimesguide.com/2004/10/bud_light_real.php. Yankee Folly of The Day: We still think one of the best was by that guy who NEVER signed his name (which is required, BTW, by the Ultralist's own rules) but everybody knew his pseudonym by its first four letters: "Scam."'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #95
Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we salute you, Mr. Alter-Ego Inventor and Pseudonymous Poster to the Listserv. {Wherrrrrrrrrrrrrrre do yoooooooooou come up with this stufffffffff?} Please. "Bumpshack"? "Raw Vegetable Runner"? "Human Sacrifice"? Isn't it enough that there's already three thousand ...
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Jun 17, 2011
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Jun 24, 2011
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5614
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2 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='Ingelhook Wineries present... REAL WOMEN OF GENIUS {Re-al gals of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we propose a toast to you, Miss Self-Confidence--But Absolutely NEEDING To Ask Everyone Else's Opinion First. {Misssss Oooo-zing With Cer-tain-tyyyy and Brim-ming With Con-fi-dennnnnnnnnnce!} Should you wear compression socks--what does the group think? Should you take supplements--what's everyone's opinion? Should you buy new shoes for gravel roads? Does red, pink, or purple nail polish go better with toe socks? Should your scrunchie match your watch band? Your doctor just discovered a terminal brain tumor and has given you three weeks to live--should you have surgery now or wait until after Western States? {"Twoooooooooooooooooooooo heads are bettt-ter than one!"} Please. You signed on to a communal listserv dedicated to running ultramarathons. There are 3,000 members and you don't know anybody. What suddenly compels you to consult *their* opinions? Do you just naturally trust the "wisdom" of strangers? So what happens when they give you 3,000 different opinions? {"The morrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrre the merrrrrrrrr-riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii-err!"} Tell us something. When you're shopping at the supermarket, do you ask the lady pushing the cart next to you if she thinks Wheaties would look better inside your cereal bowl, or Cocoa Pebbles? {Wee-think-your-break-fast-should-be thee "Sau-sage Sur-prise" at the Hearrrrrrrrrt At-tack Grillllllllllllllllllllllll.} And what in the world do you do when someone else asks for YOUR opinion? Do you say, "I'm sorry, I don't have one"? Maybe you should say, "Let me post to the Ultralist first and get back to you. I'm sure SOMEBODY can tell us whether your Heartrate Monitor is off when it registers 867 beats-per-minute while you're fast asleep." {"Should-n't it be clo-ser to twoooooooooooooo-hun-dred-and-six-ty-sev-ennnnn?"} So twist that cap off quickly from your just-found cheapest White Zinfandel snatched out of the beer-and-wine cooler in the liquor aisle at Target, O Miss Perfect Demographic for The Nielsen Ratings, and maybe nobody will see you chug it down in the store. Because such a radically decisive bit of decision-making on your part would go a long, long way towards making you drunk--and therefore happy and pleasant and much, much easier to live with. {Misssssssss Self-Con-fi-dennnnnnce--But Ab-so-lute-ly NEEEEEEEE-DING To Ask Ev-'ry-one-El-se's-O-pin-ion Firrrrrrrrrrrrrrrst!!} White Zinfandel yuppie wine: we don't drink it ourselves; we'd rather chug beer. ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour Book Review: http://tinyurl.com/VirginAndVeteran. Better Resource: http://thefuntimesguide.com/2004/10/bud_light_real.php. Yankee Follies of The Day: Just thinkin' about how Mrs. Congressman Weiner took all those name jokes all these years for nothin'. Well, there is alimony, isn't there? And the other folly of note today: former ILL (yes) Gov. Blagojevich's fate is now in the hands of his jury of peers. He'll be hoping his wife doesn't dump him also. Oh, and her name? Pottymouth Patty.'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #94
Ingelhook Wineries present... REAL WOMEN OF GENIUS {Re-al gals of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we propose a toast to you, Miss Self-Confidence--But Absolutely NEEDING To Ask Everyone Else's Opinion First. {Misssss Oooo-zing With Cer-tain-tyyyy and Brim-ming With Con-fi-dennnnnnnnnnce!} Should you wear compression socks--what does the group think? ...
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Jun 10, 2011
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Jun 24, 2011
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5762
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we salute you, Mr. "Fresh Flawless" Logic of the Ultrarunning Listserv. {"IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII think, there-fore yooooooooooou must-n't!"} Patrick Stewart, highly polished little Russian boxes, Hope Pass, and hydration packs big enough inside to smuggle a small child? Wow. The coherence here is truly remarkable. "'Beam me up, Scotty,'" you write, "would take on a whole 'nother meaning." {Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrre yoooooou talk-ing por-nog-raaaaaaaaaa-phy heeere?} We guess so! To the best of our knowledge, neither Patrick Stewart nor "Scotty" has ever run an ultramarathon. Probably never even a 5K. And yet, astonishingly, they somehow have relevance to a listserv totally devoted to running ultramarathons. {"Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat is-the-sound-of one lunch-box to-tinnnnnnnnnng?"} And being able to smuggle small children does, of course, always figure largely into any runner's evaluation of which hydration system enables easiest drinking while totally being on the run. {Ya think, maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay-beeee just go-with-a-wa-ter-botttttttttttttt-tle?} Here's another gem: "microsleep." You write like it just rolled off the Intel assembly mini-line in Silicon Valley. "It's dangerous," you say. Sure. Everyone knows "macrowideawake" is better, especially over the second half of a multiday race. And then you pen yet another incredible flash of logic: "In high school, I ran a 5:15 second mile." There you cover the second half of the race, but not the first. {"Annnnnnnnnnnd thee best way-to-cure-sleep-i-ness is sleeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!"} We should subliminally give you some kind of sublime credit for this one, though: "I don't need to look like the girl on the cover. I'd rather know I could overhead squat her." Whoa! You--a male--got this out of the Kama Sutra? Because we would all just love to know, like, WHEN during the entire course of a footrace the opportunity ever arises to "squat" anyone, especially a female and, incredibly, over your head. {"IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII can al-so beat my per-son-al trai-nnnnnnnnnnnnnner at chest!"} So crack open an ice-cold Bud Light, O Cosmic Plato of the Plutonic Logic, grab a partner and practice your contortionist over-the-head squatting. And will you be needing toilet paper? But now we like *this* logic best of all when you tell us that, before every race, you "lacquer" your tootsies with motor oil. Because we certainly can appreciate the fact that, at 3,000 revolutions per minute, you do indeed need to sooth against all that friction heating your feet up inside your shoes. {Misssssss-terrrrr "Fresh Flaww-less" Lo-gic of-thee-Ul-tra-run-niiiiiiiiiiiiiiing List-serv!} Bud Light beer: we don't care where they brew it; we just dig their commercials. ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour Book Review: http://tinyurl.com/VirginAndVeteran. Better Resource: http://thefuntimesguide.com/2004/10/bud_light_real.php. Yankee Folly of The Day: If a chicken-and-a-half lays an-egg-and-a-half in a day-and-a-half for a race-and-a-half, how many should you place in your one basket for Badwater?'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #93
Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we salute you, Mr. "Fresh Flawless" Logic of the Ultrarunning Listserv. {"IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII think, there-fore yooooooooooou must-n't!"} Patrick Stewart, highly polished little Russian boxes, Hope Pass, and hydration packs big enough inside to smuggle ...
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Jun 3, 2011
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Jun 24, 2011
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5086
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we salute you, Mr. Brandnew English Grammar Creator and Thuslike Hurryuper to Listserv Commentate. {Surrrrrrrrre you cannnnnnnnnnnnn ig-nore theeeeeeeeeeee spell-check!} "I've did," you write. "I've now have ran that race to." "I was their before they got there permit to run they're." Ahem. These are expressions you've found in the dictionary? In your old grade school Dick & Jane workbooks? Scrawled by poets on napkins in roadside diners? {Weee wannnnnn-na seeee YOUR reee-port carrrrrrd!} We need to know your sources of inspiration here, because surely this grammar is way too complex to be solely concocted by yourself alone. Dependent clause constructs like "if you have did signed up by yesterdays June Oneths deadline" positively take our rhetorical breath away. {May-beeeeeeeeeeee we're beeee-ing too harrrrrrrd on PhDsssssssssss?} You are now writing in the, what, subjunkdive pluimperfect grannamo tense? {"I fouuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuund it in my phon-nics book!"} Did you walk to school or carry your lunch? What *is* the sound of one jaw yapping? And did you ever once in your life understand those tricky semantic and orthographic distinctions between and among: "to," "too," and "two"; "its" and "it's"; "farther" and "further"; "ad" and "add"; "woman" and "women" and "woman's" and "women's"; "which" and "that" and "because" and "since"; "they" and "there" and "they'll" and "there'll"; and this all-new classic "I'd love some" versus "love me some"? Puh-leeeease. Next you'll be petitioning the Modern Language Association for loose-leaf American Literature texts. {"Lettttttttttt's all speeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeak Spannnnn-nish in-stead!"} Now here is one of your all-time classic comments on a nutrition thread: "To keep your head from turning brown, it should be shredded and placed inside a plastic bag to sit in the fridge. You can always ad nutrients later with subtlements." {Be surrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrre to poke holes in the bag soooo yooooooooooooou CAN breeeeeeeathe!} So crack open an ice-cold Bud Light, O William F. Buckley, Junior, and-virgule-or Mister William Safire--both underpaid Bills--since really your very best work largely goes unnoticed. But we've did it. We done noticed. This, your following sentence, should be bronzed and enshrined in The My Tired Old Grammar's Hall of Fame: "I'm plan to moving their in couple weaks and would love me some well trails too run on them at they're besides there annihile billyboobed stump jumping swamp rabbitt jive stompish ugly mugly 50 kilos momator thang." {Misssss-ter Braaaaaaand-new Eng-gleesh Grammm-mar Cre-a-tor and Thus-like Hur-ry-up-per to List-serv Commmmmm-men-taaaate!} Bud Light beer: we don't care where they brew it; we just dig their commercials. ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour Book Review: http://tinyurl.com/VirginAndVeteran. Better Resource: http://thefuntimesguide.com/2004/10/bud_light_real.php. Best Yankee Non-Folly of The Day: Happy Birthday to "A Real American Hero": Charlie Thorn!'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #92
Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we salute you, Mr. Brandnew English Grammar Creator and Thuslike Hurryuper to Listserv Commentate. {Surrrrrrrrre you cannnnnnnnnnnnn ig-nore theeeeeeeeeeee spell-check!} "I've did," you write. "I've now have ran that race to." "I was their before they got there permit ...
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May 27, 2011
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Jun 24, 2011
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5265
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='Ingelhook Wineries present... REAL WOMEN OF GENIUS {Re-al gals of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we raise our glass to you, Miss Recent Graduate of Kitchen University as a Registered Dietitian with All The Best Quotes and Answers. {Misssss to-tallllllll-ly colllllllll-lege ed-u-ca-ted cave-grrrl hun-ter-and-gath-er-err!} You're barely in your 20s--doubtless well schooled in the myriad mysteries of healthy cuisine--but we have gall bladders older than your grandparents. Maybe you should give us some credit for living this long despite all the pizza, buns, and wieners. {Youuuuuu're our Raw En-chan-tress of the Non-Pro-cesssssssssed clear Wiz!} "Peeps that live in asparagus houses shouldn't throw scones"? And "you'll only have nightmares, if you eat white bread"? Or what's this other slogan you lately spout about--"spiders are snacks; spider webs are feasts"? Puh-leeeeeeease. Better humans than us have breakfasted at Dunkin' Donuts, avoided arachnids like the plague, and slept just fine on PB&Js. {Whoooooooooooooooo puts peeeeeeeea-nut butt-ter on to-fu?} And what's this about caloric intake? Minimum daily adult requirements? Thriving on an exclusively vegan diet to clear up our skin, save gas on our stoves, and give us so much fiber that our colons become so clearly punctuated we could poop out essays? {"IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII rec-commmmmmmmm-mend thee Mas-ter Cleanse!"} Thanks, but no thanks. After a long, hard run in the woods or cross-training at the gym, there is nothing our ancient decrepit worn-out muscles crave so much as a heart-attack hamburger. {"Youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu'll reeeeeeeeeeeeeee-gret iiiiiiiiiiiiiiit!"} So ease that cork out barely from your non-approved chilly bottle of White Zinfandel, O Nurse Ratchet of the Raw Veggie Bar and Sushi Clinic, because guzzling too quickly just kills the whine, and even one cook will spoil your stew. Better yet, drip the Zinfandel over your salad and let mom and pop bake the beans. {Misssssssss Ree-cent Grad-u-ate of Kit-chen Un-i-ver-si-ty as THEE Reg-is-tered Di-et-tit-tian with All-The-Best-Quotes-and-Annnnn-swers!!} White Zinfandel yuppie wine: we don't drink it ourselves; we'd rather just (yes) guzzle beer. ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour Yankee Folly of the Day: We wonder, really, how many calories *are* in a spider, or its web, and/or an entire state forest full of creepy-crawlies you'll never eat, and rock-hard chokeberries you'd never want to. But what a great diet for losing weight, huh?'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #91
Ingelhook Wineries present... REAL WOMEN OF GENIUS {Re-al gals of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we raise our glass to you, Miss Recent Graduate of Kitchen University as a Registered Dietitian with All The Best Quotes and Answers. {Misssss to-tallllllll-ly colllllllll-lege ed-u-ca-ted cave-grrrl hun-ter-and-gath-er-err!} You're barely in your 20s--doubtless ...
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May 20, 2011
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May 27, 2011
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5518
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='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.'
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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 ...
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May 13, 2011
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May 27, 2011
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5829
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[Good Afternoon, Seekers of Truth & General Glommer-Onners, and welcome once again to "Bad Joke Friday," eh? Today's RM/WoG subject matter was suggested by my terrific ol' friend Tess Simoneau. If there is anyone alive today who could actually "tess-tify" as to how I was as a (very) young man, she could be it. We worked on the Illinois State University student newspaper together. She now owns her own newspaper! And--when was it, 1980?--around the time of that original "Wedding of The Century" between Hoozits Prince Charlie and the now-long-since-departed Princess Diana, Tess and I (and others, OK? ;-) were watching THAT particular show from inside a Wisconsin resort hotel room. ( O_O ) Oh stop. It was completely innocent--our watching TV, that is. The original "Wedding of The Century," however, turned out to be "guilty as sin."] Ingelhook Wineries present... REAL WOMEN OF GENIUS {Re-al gals of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we propose our toast to you, Miss Not-Quite-a-running-but-feared-gonna-be-a Runaway British Princessy Bride. {Miss "Ewwwwwwwwwwwww you-mean-I-have-to-honnnnnn-nor AND obey HIMMMMMMM?!"} And there have been several--Americans mostly--within recent memory. And you did in fact have Their Royal Majesties plenty worried. We see now that there actually was a "contingency plan" in place, in case you did bolt. {"Dooo-I-have-to ohhhh-bey his queen mum, tooooooooooooooooo?!"} What were they worried about? It's not like you're a Nike shoe spokeswoman, or anything. We don't actually know how fast you *can* run. No one--not even Bonny Prince Wills--has ever stopwatch-clocked your laps around the bedroom. But actually, we're thinking it would've been YOU clocking HIS laps. He was probably the scaredest virginboy ever to crawl, mostly-clothed, underneath monogrammed pink satin sheets. {"But *I* can leap talllllllllllll bed-steads in a sinnnnnnnnnnnngle bound!"} Surely the Royal Family couldn't possibly be worried about YOUR family, eh, luv? What with your full scraggly "commoner" ragtag complement of strippers, partiers, and crackheads? How 'bout the sister who loves to get naked and wrap herself up in T.P.? {"Aye jus' loooooooooooooooooves me some sisssssssssssssss-ter!"} Wills--and (furshur!) Harry--sure know how to pick 'em, blimey, eh? Hey, they come from good stock. Their lovely mama knew, too. {"Harrrrrrrrrrrr-ry's gon-na be probbbbbbbbbbbb-lems, me jus' knooooooooows this!"} So pop His Majesty's cork quickly out of your perfectly-chilled bottle of California White Zinfandel before it gets too soggy, O Miss Jennifer Carol Wilbanks-wannabe-NOT, because look at it this way: the entire United States armada postponed its justice-being-served on Osama bin Laden just so's Planet Earth would not be distracted from "your special day." Doesn't *that* make you feel all "warm and fuzzy"? Because if you HAD bolted, we would've had to send the Navy SEALs after your ass, too. {Misssssssss Not-Quite-a-runnn-ing-but-feared-gonnnn-a-be-a Run-a-way Bri-tish Prin-ces-syyyyyy Briiiiiiiiiiide!} White Zinfandel yuppie wine: we don't drink it ourselves; we'd rather guzzle (ice cold) beer. ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour Yankee Folly of the Day: As Tess herself just now privately emails and reports: "'And the best part? No seals were harmed during this exercise'--PETA."'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #89
[Good Afternoon, Seekers of Truth & General Glommer-Onners, and welcome once again to "Bad Joke Friday," eh? Today's RM/WoG subject matter was suggested by my terrific ol' friend Tess Simoneau. If there is anyone alive today who could actually "tess-tify" as to how I was as a (very) young man, she could be it. We worked on the Illinois State University student ...
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May 6, 2011
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May 27, 2011
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5465
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[Today's "offering" has been offered by our friend, Louise Mason, who took the time to clip stories like what-this-is-based-on out of newspapers--like, hey, The New York Times--and then snailmail me the clippings. So, our thanks go out to her, whom I otherwise like to call "Louuuuu--WHEEEEEZE"!! ;-] Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we salute you, Mr. All-Too-Clever Marathon Cheater To Come Up With a Boston Qualifier. {Nooooooo one will-ev-er-ques-tion just HOW yoooooooooouuuu got IN!} eBay? You have GOT to be kidding us. You mean you are actually ready to buy from an ad that reads: "2011 Boston Marathon entry on the FRONT ROW Must See!!" {Yooooou miiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight find one chea-per on Face-book!} That desperate, are you? You know, the other night during some doo-whacky TV interview show, George Lopez bragged to the announcer with regard to, apparently, President Obama's sudden need for a birth certificate: "Heck, I can get him one in half-an-hour. It's what we do!" {"Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee can get yooou green cards, So-ci-al Se-cu-ri-ty, and fooooooooood stamps tooooo!"} If we were you, we'd call George Lopez. We bet he knows folks who could counterfeit a Boston Marathon bib number in half that time. {An' howwwwwwwwwwww a-bout-a-few-fif-ty-dol-lar-bills whiiiiiiiiiiiile you're attttttt iiiiiiiiiiiiiiit??} But buying an eBay bib is risky. It's how the IRS caught Al Capone--maybe--or our own Charlie Engle, for sure. You'd be a sitting duck for the all-knowing geekazoids over at the BAA. Why not do this instead: "Hire" your speedy 8-minute-miler buddy to register for Chicago, or some such, under YOUR name. He'll run, he'll qualify, and it'll be *your* name that officially gets in. This has been going on since Neanderthal Man first qualified for SEC licensing to sell ponzi schemes. {Isssssss-n't "In Wall Street We Trust" on ALL our moneeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey?} So crack open an ice-cold Bud Light, O Slacker of Pace and Cheater of Chip Timing, because you *could* always do this: manage a big enough ponzi scheme and then legitimately just BUY your way into the Boston Marathon. Hey, they are nothing if not simpatico philanthropists themselves. Even in the ancient days, one could always contribute enough money to buy a cow for the missions in Africa, or wherever, and THAT would endear you to the hogs of Boston. There's apparently a slush fund in the watering trough big enough to allow ANYONE with the wherewithal to enter the next Boston as a "charity" case. {Missssss-ter All-Toooooooooooo-Clev-er-Mar-a-thon Cheeeeeea-ter To Come Up With a Boss-ton Quallllll-i-fiiii-err!} 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: How 'bout this instead. Make Bernie Madoff run continuous Bostons all over the prison yard. And later, "for the team," he can "relay" with ex-Illy-noise Governor Rod R. Blagojevich.'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #88
[Today's "offering" has been offered by our friend, Louise Mason, who took the time to clip stories like what-this-is-based-on out of newspapers--like, hey, The New York Times--and then snailmail me the clippings. So, our thanks go out to her, whom I otherwise like to call "Louuuuu--WHEEEEEZE"!! ;-] Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al ...
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Apr 30, 2011
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May 27, 2011
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5187
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[Forgive me, folks, for this particular edition--which isn't *exactly* about running, but it certainly does involve something we ALL are involved IN...whether we like it or not. Even internationally, all around the world, hey, you have governments. And you do pay taxes.] Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we salute you, Our Dearest, Oldest, and Completely Ingenious-for-Centuries Uncle Sam. {Our Wonnnnnnnnn-derrrrr-full Unc-kle Sammmmmmmmmmmmmm!} We know this has been discussed before, but, really. Tell us the truth--which has almost never been done before: Has ALL the revenue you just collected this past Monday been SPENT ALREADY? {Sammy! Wherrrrrrrrrrrrrre does all the monnnnnnn-eeeeeeeeey go?} "Internally," of course. We know you probably didn't collect anything Externally. Like, just for kicks, starters, or argument's sake: World War II debts? How much did Jolly Olde England once owe us? France? So, you mean that terrific old Marshall Plan...went for free? {Weeeee al-so re-built Ger-man-yyyyyy annnnnnnnnnnnnnnd JAH-PANNNNN!} Iraq was supposed to self-finance through its vast oil reserves--but which Halliburton immediately harvested for itself, right? And we are now paying four-and-a-half bucks a gallon for? Really? Did you actually think THAT one up yourself, or did you have help? {"Yooooou can't blame mee! Thaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat was Bush's doo-innnnnng!"} Bailouts? Wall Street? General Motors? General Electric? Those huge big-whig conglomerate executives get pay raises, bonuses, and golden parachutes, and our very own terrific endurance runner, Charlie Engle, goes to prison? And just this past Tax Day, hey, General Electric paid you no tax? {"Theyyyyy sup-ply Hope For A-mer-i-ca! They make theeeeeeeese cool new light bulbs!"} What are we missing here? Are we possibly missing the fact that you and our equally beloved United States Congresspeeps have not only blown the wad, but long ago and far away--the wad's been blown for decades! You and your most excellent adventurers went to the carnival in the 1960s sometime, pawned the gold standard, sold the farm, and shot the wad throwing darts for stuffed rabbits at the "Three Tries for a Buck" booth. {"But we won honnnnn-ney bun-nnnnnnies for Hugh Mmmmm Hef-nerrrrrrrrr!"} So crack open about a half-a-thousand ice cold Bud Lights--Oh Master of the Universe, Granter of Pardons, and Giver of Tax Breaks to All Those USA Pseudo-Industrial Complexes with Corporate Headquarters Housed on the Third Floor of Tenement Office Buildings in Bermuda--because when the very next Congressional Recess takes place, probably next week for a year, you'll be ready. You *will* want to "serve the people." But in your doubtless largesse, do you suppose you might also allow us to collect all the empties? In Michigan, we think, we can still turn them in for deposit money, which we're sure we'll need the very next time April the Fifteenth rolls around. {Our Deeeeeeearest And Old-dest Most Wonnnnnnnnn-derrrrr-full Unc-kle Sammmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmy!} 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: Let's do this instead. Let's all just let our paychecks be electronically deposited in the U.S. Treasury. Then, on Tax Day, we apply for only enough refund to buy gas and groceries to survive for another year--earmarking, of course, yet another buck for the next presidential election campaign.'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #87
[Forgive me, folks, for this particular edition--which isn't *exactly* about running, but it certainly does involve something we ALL are involved IN...whether we like it or not. Even internationally, all around the world, hey, you have governments. And you do pay taxes.] Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today ...
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Apr 22, 2011
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Apr 27, 2011
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5337
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='Bud Light presents... REAL MEN/WOMEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men-wimm-men of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we salute you, Mr. AND Mrs. Barkley Marathons Did-Not-Finishers. {Misssssss-ter AND Mis-susssssssssss Barrrrrrr-kley D-N-F-errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrs!!} There has never been a "Newlywed Game" quite like this one, huh? Instead of each one predicting what the other will say, you both get to be cast out into the wilderness for days at a time, with nothing more than an ancient park map and printed Johnny Reb "instructions"--without commercial interruption, without Bob Eubanks, and without either one of you having so much as a *clue* just where in the hell you are, where in the hell you need to get to, or how in the hell you're even going to stay alive. {"Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee're THE FUG AW WEE!!!!"} "I think we're supposed to be on THAT ridge," one of you will say. "No, that one!" the other will counter. So, you both dive into the directions and try to translate and interpret Tennesseespeak. {"Loooook-for-a-'dead'-beeeeeech-treeeeee? But they're allllllllllllllll dead! It's WINNN-TERRRRRRRR!!"} Which is no small feat unto itself. When the "official instructions" tell you to look for a book in a rattlesnake pit "just a little ways past the two downward pointing beech blow-downs," you are NOT being told to wander around aimlessly until you actually see the snake. {"Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat-in-the-hellllllllllllllllllll does 'a lit-tle ways' meeeeeeeeeeeeean??"} You'll need to pay better attention to the contour lines on your topo map, and take into consideration the park's Declination while taking your compass bearings. You should also stop trying to claw each other's eyeballs out when you're having these disagreements. The sawbriars are already scratching everything else out on both your bodies. {"Whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy does EV-ERR-Y-THING have to have THORRRRRRRNS??"} Also don't suddenly discover--and fall into--any of those old abandoned and-still-wide-open coal mining shafts hidden all over the place in them thar hills. Because, as the "official instructions" will also tell you, "Your body won't be found again until after you start to smell." {Yoooooooooou might-e-ven-find-some Haaaaat-fields-and-Mc-Coys' old bullllll-lets!!} So crack open a couple of chilly Bud Lights--some three days hence when you DO finally make it back to camp after completing just Loop One--O Mister and Missus Jackie Joyner-Kersees, because your REAL TEST of matrimonial harmony is about to be quizzed at you from all around the campfire. When each and every word coming out of either of your mouths is questioned, ridiculed, and the cause of mirth resounding higher and hardier than at any college freshman hazing ritual you'd EVER been "pledged" to, you will wish with all your hearts that maybe, just maybe, you might still be able to prevent the divorce. {Missssss-ter AND Misssssss-sus Barrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr-kley Mar-a-thons D-N-effffffffffffffff-ferss!!} 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: But now we wonder: whut iffn yer a couple "out there" fer tree hole daze... and not married??'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #86
Bud Light presents... REAL MEN/WOMEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men-wimm-men of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we salute you, Mr. AND Mrs. Barkley Marathons Did-Not-Finishers. {Misssssss-ter AND Mis-susssssssssss Barrrrrrr-kley D-N-F-errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrs!!} There has never been a "Newlywed Game" quite like this one, huh? Instead of each one predicting what ...
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Apr 8, 2011
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Apr 9, 2011
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5827
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we salute you, Mr. Shorts-and-Singlet Wearer No Matter What The Weather Is Like For Your Race. {Mis-ter "jac-kets-hats-mitttt-tens-and-tights are toooooooooo con-fiiiii-ning!"} All we have to do to feel warm inside is just take a quick gawk at you. It's wintertime, the days are shortened, gale-force winds are howling, there's snow and ice all throughout the woods and all over these trails, and you are scampering half-naked through the snowdrifts. And no, your girlfriend is *not* impressed. {"It's wonnnnn-der-fullllll-ly freeeeeeee-ing!"} It's Five Degrees Above Zero Fahrenheit! And that's just the ambient temperature. Factor-in the "wind chill" and you are now running in colder conditions than the deep-freeze inside our garage. {"Butttttttt I have nevvvvvvv-ver raced in an-y-thing BUT shorts!"} We don't even stick our bare hands in there to grab tonight's package of Birds-Eye Peas. We keep extra mittens on a nearby hook for just that purpose. The freezer is where next Thanksgiving's turkey is. Maybe we should amend that. YOU are very likely to be next Thanksgiving's turkey. {"I'll b-b-b-beeeee warmmmmmmmmmm e-nough if I juh-juh-juh-just keeeeeeep moooooo-ving!"} We hope, for example, that you're not overheated. We realize that the Summer Games generally take place during the summer, and if you're going to win, say, the Olympic marathon, you're not going to want to be overburdened with extra clothing. But for that you might consider practicing on the streets of Miami, rather than during a blizzard in the woods of Northern Minnesota. {"I o-o-o-on-ly havvvvvvve th-th-th-thir-tyyyyy more miles to runnnnnnn!"} So crack open an ice-cold Bud Light--after you thaw it first--O Mr. Trying-To-Keep-Cool Speed Racer, because we are all completely blown away by your focus on minimalism and unrestricted turnover, as well as your frostbite. Deep down, we know you think that you *believe* you're speedy--and that this is the only way to run--so we'll resist calling an ambulance on our cell phones. All bets are off, though, when we pass the 30K point and find you stiff and "on ice" and lying blue by the trailside--at which time we *might* be Good Samaritan enough to lend you a frozen water bottle in an attempt to warm you up, and a spare pair of gloves to handle it with. {Missssss-ter Shorts-aaaaand-Sing-let Wear-errrrrr No Mat-ter What-The-Wea-ther-Is-Like-For-Your-Raaaaaaaaaace!} 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: But now we wonder, if you're living on the West Coast, how shorts and singlet might fare in nuclear fallout?'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #85
Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we salute you, Mr. Shorts-and-Singlet Wearer No Matter What The Weather Is Like For Your Race. {Mis-ter "jac-kets-hats-mitttt-tens-and-tights are toooooooooo con-fiiiii-ning!"} All we have to do to feel warm inside is just take a quick gawk at you. It's wintertime, ...
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Mar 18, 2011
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Apr 9, 2011
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4962
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47 mins ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[I just now thought of this, which should be "dedicated" (uh-huh) to, well, he *knows* who he is! ;-)] Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we salute you, Mr. Race Official and Weather Forecaster Who Casually Mentions "Some Chance of Rain" for Raceday. {Mis-ter "commmmmme fro-lic in-our-rainnnn-drops-and-splash-innnnn-our-mud!"} "A slight chance of thundershowers"? "What's a few sprinkles among friends"? And "it'll be so much fun"? Are you kidding? When we show up for your race, wearing only shorts and a plastic garbage bag, and then just ten miles into it we get, like, today's Japan!--we *know* damn well you're NOT a weatherman. {"It'sssssssssss prob-bab-blyyyyy just a pas-sing cloud-burst!"} "Thundershowers"? Try: Tsunami! Because there is now more hard falling water driving itself out of the sky and onto your swamp and into our misery than has EVER been reported on CNN before! The temperature has dropped and the monsoon is ripping the entire jungle apart and we are all just freezing to shivery death! {"The aid sta-tions allllllll have Tup-per-ware to keeeeeep your po-ta-to chips crisp!"} You probably have this race confused with your last family vacation to some Caribbean wading pool and water park. Sprinklers? Does your giddily gleeful family simply delight in scampering under hoses in 85 degrees in the midday lush paradise? Wellllll, get a load of this! {"It'sssssss not tooooooooooooooo bad, izzzz-zit?"} The entire National Guard has been called out to fill sand bags to try and keep the county from being washed out to sea. So. Now. We're guessing the Good Lord WASN'T willing and the creek DID rise, eh? To a depth, say, of about 8 feet above flood stage? {"Maaaaaay-beee a few sand bags will al-so save the po-taaaaa-to chips?"} Even the Navy has been called in. Entire fleets of warships are now banging into one another atop those very creeks your race has us crossing several times per loop. Did you think we could continue having fun and playing in the mud when most of Planet Earth is underwater? {WHOAAAAAAAAA!!!} So crack open an ice-cold Bud Light, O Mr. Al Roker of Today's Show of overly optimistic hype, but please wait until *after* the National Forest Service officially shuts down your race for the umpteenth time due to weather, to save your runners from drowning--or worse, being coated with leftover oil from the BP spill--and to force everyone still stuck out on the trails to evacuate because, as you have told us yourself, this race takes place in a "dry" county; so beer of any kind, whether ice cold or lukewarm, is completely illegal. But apparently homicide by raindrops is not. {Missssss-ter Raaaace Off-fi-cial and Wea-therrrrr Fore-cas-ter Who-Cas-u-al-ly-Men-tions-Sommmmmme Chance of Rain for Race-day!} 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: You mean that tsunami from Japan is now actually slamming California? Even worse than Proposition 8?'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #84
[I just now thought of this, which should be "dedicated" (uh-huh) to, well, he *knows* who he is! ;-)] Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we salute you, Mr. Race Official and Weather Forecaster Who Casually Mentions "Some Chance of Rain" for Raceday. {Mis-ter "commmmmme fro-lic in-our-rainnnn-drops-and-splash-innnnn-our-mud!"} "A ...
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Mar 11, 2011
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Apr 9, 2011
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5040
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='Ingelhook Wineries present... REAL WOMEN OF GENIUS {Re-al gals of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we propose our toast to you, Miss Never-Having-Run-an-Ultramarathon and yet Somehow-Able-to-Give-All-Advice About It. {Missss allll-wise and allll-knowww-ing allll-most exxx-pert on allll-most ev-er-y-thiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing!} You give new meaning to the old saying "truth from the mouths of babes." And we all generally do appreciate your mouth, too, but maybe more for how it looks than for what comes out of it. {"I onnn-ly ap-ply my moiiiiiiiiist-ur-rise-zing balmmms an' gelllllls an' lip-stick AFFFFF-TER the race I hav-en't run yet!"} What to wear? Shoes? Sleeves? Skirts versus shorts? You know and you tell us. How to avoid injury? You tell us that, too. How much to train? Where? When? Also how and what to eat? Drink? How to stay hydrated and safe from mountain lions, grizzly bears, and The East Side Disciples? You've got it all figured out and will now happily reveal your findings to the rest of the planet via all the listservs you belong to--all spontaneous, unsolicited, and without charge. {But how doooooooo we cure plannnnn-tar fas-ci-i-tis, a-chil-les ten-don-i-tis, and food-poi-son-ing from allllll the bad Kool-Aiiiiid?} Why, you're practically the ultrarunning equivalent of Mother Theresa. {What dooo you rec-ohmmm-mend are thee best trails for run-ning in Cal-cut-taaaa?} Internet sources to back you up? Sure. You happily supply the links for all manner of "Times-Picayune" articles, "YouTube" videos, product descriptions accompanying stuff sold by internet sporting goods stores, and everything and anything you've ever found on that mega-marketing website dedicated to the exploits of one Dean Karnazes, the idol of millions--or at least of you. {"Are youuuuuuuu watch-kah-ching kah-ching him on 'Live with Reeeee-gis and Kelllll-ly'?"} So pop that cork quickly out of your perfectly-chilled bottle of White Zinfandel, O Miss Brittan Ickkah, Encyclopedic Font of All Knowledge, because really and truly you are now single-handedly proving what we've all long suspected: that before you can possibly know what's not enough, you first have to know nothing. {Misssssssss Nev-v-v-v-ver-Hav-ing-Run-an-Ul-tra-mar-a-thonnnnnn and yet Sommme-how-A-ble-to-Give-Allllllll-Ad-vice Aaaa-bout It!} 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: And to think I have medical doctors like this. I should save all my co-pay dollars and consult with Miss Encyclopedia instead. Both hers and my doctors' advice is of equal value. They tell me to stop running; she tells me how to run stuff never experienced before.'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #83
Ingelhook Wineries present... REAL WOMEN OF GENIUS {Re-al gals of geeeeeene-yuss!} Today we propose our toast to you, Miss Never-Having-Run-an-Ultramarathon and yet Somehow-Able-to-Give-All-Advice About It. {Missss allll-wise and allll-knowww-ing allll-most exxx-pert on allll-most ev-er-y-thiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing!} You give new meaning to the old ...
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Feb 25, 2011
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Apr 9, 2011
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5469
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss} Today we salute you, Mr. Barefoot SHOES for the Barefoot Runner Inventor. {Mis-ter innnn-ven-tor of reeeeeeeeal-ly ma-gi-cal and oth-er immmmmm-pos-si-ble stuff!} Truly, this is an epic event of recordable creative history that's every bit as equal in importance to the re-invention of the wheel. Just imagine actually succeeding in marketing something of substance--of rubber and plastic and leather and who-knows-what-the-hell else--that works just like a SHOE while allowing the "barefoot" runner to actually believe he's still running barefoot. {"Jusssssst looooooook at my braaaaand-new gray rub-ber skinnnnnnnnn!"} It's genius for sure. You cover "bareness" with "some mess" and the wearer of the contraption thinks of it as nothing. Why, just imagine the possibilities of THIS concept! Strippers could be bare while still being clothed. Softball players could field bare-handedly while still wearing mitts. And embarrassed adolescents could wear swimsuits and still be naked while showering, thereby satisfying the hygienic requirements of their P.E. Departments. {"With theeeeeeeeeeeeeeese maaaaa-gic shoes I-don't-e-ven-have-to-wash-my-feeeeet!"} And you have even provided bare-naked coverings for each individual bare toe. You've manufactured your bare-naked "feets" in sizes, too, and widths! Like as if the skin on anyone's foot just isn't good enough anymore and needs to be re-sized and re-fitted with all new rubber skin in order to allow that bare-naked foot to remain bare...and naked. {You probbbb-bab-ly ship your non-shoes in bare-naaaaaaaa-ked box-es tooooo!} The marketing brilliance here is absolutely stunning. "Selling ice cubes to Eskimos"? This is even better! This is like selling actual clothes to "The Emperor's New Clothes" while keeping the fairy tale intact. The Emperor could now really and truly be wearing magic clothes while still believing he really and truly isn't naked, and all the schoolchildren will still believe that he is! {Whaaaaaaaaat does *this* doooo for Ra-pun-zel and Laaaaaaaaaaaaaaa-dy Go-diiiiiiiiiii-va?} So be sure to crack open an ice-cold Bud Light, O Hands--and Feet--Christian Andersen, at the end of a long creative day in your magic cobbler's shop, because, really, now that we can all be barefoot while still wearing shoes, the world next needs you to provide mules and pacers for runners to still race solo, and also to paint swimsuits once-a-year on bare supermodels' bodies and pretend to convince everyone that they're still wearing high-priced fashions. {Missssss-ter Baaaaaaare-foot SHOOOOOOES-for-the-Baaaaaaaare-foot-Runnnnnn-ner Innnnn-ven-torrrrrrrrrrr!} 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: What's the problem? Every time a TV commercial shows people in bed making love--or about to--they're all wearing swimsuits or underwear or magic sheets, right?'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #82
Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss} Today we salute you, Mr. Barefoot SHOES for the Barefoot Runner Inventor. {Mis-ter innnn-ven-tor of reeeeeeeeal-ly ma-gi-cal and oth-er immmmmm-pos-si-ble stuff!} Truly, this is an epic event of recordable creative history that's every bit as equal in importance to the re-invention ...
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Feb 18, 2011
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Apr 9, 2011
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5328
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='Ingelhook Wineries present... REAL WOMEN OF GENIUS {Re-al gals of geeeeeene-yuss} Today we raise our glass to you, Miss OCD Worrywart that You WON'T Be Ready for Your Upcoming Ultra After Having Been on a Rather Strenuous Three-Week Vacation. {Missss just-reeeee-turned-from speeeeeed-hik-ing Southhhh-east Aaaaaa-sia!} You are afraid--aren't ya!--that you will *not* be prepared for your next footrace in a month-and-a-half, after having freshly returned from the trip-of-a-lifetime to Vietnam, during which--just so you *wouldn't* simply relax and lounge around the pool all day--you decided, in honor of your grandpa, to hike the entire Ho Chi Minh Trail. {Hoooooooooope-ful-lyyyyyyyyyyyyyy all the A-gent Orange is gonnnnnnnnnnnnnne!} And now you're begging for "help." You're soliciting sudden inspiration and immediate encouragement, not to mention updated / super-pressured training regimens that'll help "get you ready." {Youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu should've jus' swummmmmm laps-in-the-pooool!!} So let's see if we have all this straight. You speedhike approximately one thousand miles of rough jungle terrain within the short time allotted for your vacation--averaging at least 50 kilometers a day, and with nightly windsprints and fartleks around the campgrounds, however you could squeeze them in. You existed on brown unshucked rice, meager beans, and still-podded peas--losing quite a few pounds in the process, leaning out like a goddess, increasing your speed and stamina like an Olympian--and *now* you're back home and suddenly worrying about how the hell you're going to survive one-tenth that distance on crushed limestone, no jungle, nothing poisonous, and with fully-stocked aid stations out the ying-yang. {"But-I-am sooooooooooooooooooooooooooo UN-pree-pared for RUNNNN-INNNNNNG!"} You *have* to be kidding us, right? {"Maaaaaaaaaay-be I-can-run-back-to-back-50-mi-lers at-8-minnnn-ute-per-miiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiile pace!"} Well, yank that cork quickly out of your White Zinfandel bottle before someone else--better trained--steals it from you, O Keeper of Pace Charts and Obsessive Clocker of Race Times, because, really, if you're thinking--just because you haven't *run* very much--that THAT will severely hamper your performance in a few weeks? Give it up now! Surrender your top-five finish to somebunny else and just keep drinking. You're "a hopeless disappointment" to the rest of us, who somehow survive such ultramarathons without hardly running at all. {Misssssssss O-C-D-Worrrrrrrr-ry-wart that-You-WON'T-Beeeeeee Readddddd-y for Yourrrrrrr Up-commmm-ming Ulllll-tra Af-ter Hav-ing Beennnn on-a-Rath-er Stren-uuuuuuuu-ous Three-Weeeeeek Vaaaa-caaaa-tion!} 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: We even think tramping through 2-foot snowdrifts is good speed training.'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #81
Ingelhook Wineries present... REAL WOMEN OF GENIUS {Re-al gals of geeeeeene-yuss} Today we raise our glass to you, Miss OCD Worrywart that You WON'T Be Ready for Your Upcoming Ultra After Having Been on a Rather Strenuous Three-Week Vacation. {Missss just-reeeee-turned-from speeeeeed-hik-ing Southhhh-east Aaaaaa-sia!} You are afraid--aren't ya!--that ...
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Feb 11, 2011
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Apr 9, 2011
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5535
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[And folks thought that RWOG #78 was far-fetched. Hah! Lately the Ultra listserv has been all abuzz with totally-serious posts that actually pertain to the same dang thing! :-] Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss} Today we salute you, Mr. You-Don't-Need-No-Stinking-Metronome Because You're An iPhone Special Apps User. {Mis-ter innnnn-stead of tick-tick-tick, yooooou're now lis-ten-ning to thump-thump-thump!} So, you think your footspeed is directly proportional to Beats Per Minute and, rather than sappily tuck an electronic metronome underneath your stocking cap, you've selected a new electronic Application for your iPhone and tucked *that* into the sleeve pocket of your winter parka. Now you can count off 180 BPM whilst zoning out on Barbara Streisand. {"For the waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay we werrrrrrre!"} This latest techno e-gee of Steve Jobs' brilliance is just simply incredible. Not only are all your beats fully adjustable, but you can also program playback speed changes into your already favemost musical compositions. So now you can re-mix Mozart's "Requiem" in 16/16ths time, or slow down the Stray Cats' Rockabilly to match your very own grindingly-haltingly striding slog. {Mayyyyyyyyyyy-be you should stick with Jusssss-tin Bieeeeeeee-ber tunes?} A "Music Tempo iPhone App" is it? Is that what it's called? And it's downloadable via Hoozits-dot-com? Usable and re-programmable even for older iPods, MP3 players, and Sony Walkmans? What about Boom Boxes? During the truly "olden days," about the only way track stars taught themselves how to run faster was to carry large ugly stereo systems that played back Quincy Jones tunes at 8,000 decibels while running for the bus. {Weeeeeeee also uuuuuused to run wind-sprints in tot-tallllllll si-lence!} Puh-leeeeeease. So what you most wanna do now, Mr. Techno-Wiz of the Muzak Biz, is increase the tempo of "You Are The Wind Beneath My Wings" to the amazing pace of 60 BPMs, and then get your new iPhone App to triple it. Not only will your footspeed increase, but your nighttime dreams will improve, too. You'll be listening in your sleep to "The Boogie-Woogie Bugle Boy" while beating your wife's butt with your feet at 540 thumps-per-minute, which, of course, will later evolve into more mail in your mailbox: Summons to appear in Divorce Court. {Does yourrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr S.O. knowwwwwww YOUR plaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay-list?} So crack open an ice-cold Bud Light--O Needer of Earphones, The Latest Digital Devices, and Shirt Sleeves with Pockets in Them--when you wake up tomorrow morning; because actually you're missing something, something even more convenient for your musically metronomic footsteps' use: podcasts--since now you can forego those expensive Apple Apps, and download your up-tempo Coldplay for free! {Mis-ter Youuuuuuu-Don't-Need-No-Steeeeeng-keeeeeng-Met-tro-nooooome Bee-cuzzz You're An i-Phone Spe-cial Apps Uuuuuuuse-er!} 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: I like to listen to the 8,000 decibels of the city's snowplow as it creeps up behind me, impales me blade-wise, and then spits me off in the ditch with the rest of these stupid drifts.'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #80
[And folks thought that RWOG #78 was far-fetched. Hah! Lately the Ultra listserv has been all abuzz with totally-serious posts that actually pertain to the same dang thing! :-] Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss} Today we salute you, Mr. You-Don't-Need-No-Stinking-Metronome Because You're An iPhone Special Apps ...
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Feb 4, 2011
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Apr 9, 2011
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5657
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[Today we are indebted to our friend Toni Aurilio for suggesting the subject matter. Personally I (and perhaps many of you) have witnessed this very thing in the past along various wooded trails--and in big city alleyways during marathons--but never gave it much thought because men do it all the time!] Ingelhook Wineries present... REAL WOMEN OF GENIUS {Re-al gals of geeeeeene-yuss} Today we propose a toast to you, Miss Let-It-All-Hang-Outer and Generally-Standing-Pee-er Just One Foot Away from Every Other Runner on the Path. {Missssssssssss piiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii ssssssssssssss?} You get a kick out of it, don't you? Stepping quickly off to the side, but without actually stepping more than 18 inches off to the side, turning your sweet cheeks towards the line behind you, and just shoving your shorts' crotch cloth aside and lettin' it *fly*--whether those shorts even have one or not. {"I hooooooooooope my week-lyyy tan-ning-bed sesssss-sions have e-rased all the tan lines!"} Skirts are easier, we know. Also those semi-fashionable new threads called "skorts." Compression bike attire could delay you a tad, but you're not worried about that. Your whole purpose here with such minimal--but necessary--time wasting is to give us a show. {"I've au-diiiiiiiiiiiii-tioned in Ve-gas for-rah-chor-us-girrrrrrrrrl-part!"} But we're curious. If there's snow on the ground, do you try to write your name? If there's some puddle, do you wish to change its color? If you happen to know there's more males following you than females, do you think they really would like it better if you're standing or squatting? And what, really, IS your very best angle for achieving your very best trajectory? {"Butt I waaaaaaaas-n't read-yyyyyyy for au-diiiiiiiiiii-tion-ing with Wic-ked Pic-tures!!"} AND WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH YOUR LEFT HAND? {Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee shuddddddd-ddddddder to e-ven guess!} So pull your hand--oops, we mean cork--quickly out from your White--or possibly amber--Zinfandel currently stashed inside your backpack at the finish line when you get there, O Grown-up Honeychild Who First Learned about Peeing in the Pool, and be sure to offer swigs to the four-hundred-and-at-least-fifty young men now--STILL--lined up behind you. But may we suggest offering them the bottle...by using only your cold right hand? {Missssssss Let-It-Allllllll-Hang-Out-er and Gen-er-al-ly-Stand-ing-Pee-er Jussss' One-Foot-A-way-from Ev-'ryyyyy Oth-errr Run-nerrr on-the-Path!} 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 kidding? Log onto this and be en-lightened (by several ounces): http://www.shewee.com/newstore/'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #79
[Today we are indebted to our friend Toni Aurilio for suggesting the subject matter. Personally I (and perhaps many of you) have witnessed this very thing in the past along various wooded trails--and in big city alleyways during marathons--but never gave it much thought because men do it all the time!] Ingelhook Wineries present... REAL WOMEN OF GENIUS {Re-al ...
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Jan 28, 2011
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Apr 9, 2011
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4949
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='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?'
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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 ...
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Jan 21, 2011
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Jan 28, 2011
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5264
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1 hr ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss} Today we salute you, Mr. Blogger-Twitter-Tweeter-Woofer-MySpacedOut-Facebooker While Still Running in the Footrace Footracer. {Mis-ter Whoa! Thissssssss Is A Mouuuuuuuuth-fulllllllllll!!} You are truly something special. Leave it to you to take that "one step beyond" just talking on the telephone--in the middle of some national forest--to actually receiving and sending MAIL from there. And all the while barely breaking stride, except when you can't see that minuscule little plasma screen in the blazing sunlight, or you hit the wrong buttons, or fat-finger several keys at once, or get the addresses wrong. *Then* you're stopping for twenty minutes at a clip. {Sommmmmmme-times there's dropped connnnn-nec-tionsssssssssssss!} Please. Are there mailboxes bolted to those maple trees? Does the US Postal Service drive its little funky trucks down the trail and pick up every thirty minutes? Nah, make that every thirty seconds! Is there something wrong with the audio on your cell? Do you sincerely NEED TO browse the Internet while slogging through 50 miles of extreme muddy jungle? {"Wel-commmmme to the jung-gle, we got fun and--video--gamessssssssssss!"} And just who *are* these blog, Twit, or sweet Tweet "followers" whom you are now Twittering that aren't, by the way, running right on your heels? Do you imagine countless thousands? Do you actually tell yourself that there truly *are* zillions of "peeps" "out there" who have no life but to sit there, dial up, glom on, and watch YOURS? {"I wonnnn-der how The Bark-leeeey Vir-gin is doooo-ing now-that-ten-more-sec-onds-have-passsssed?"} Puh-leeeeeease, Mr. Modern-day Postmaster Descendant of Ben Franklin, those countless thousands of your presumed followers all have their own cell phones, Facebook accounts, MySpace spaces, and the totally frittering capability of sending "You've Got Mail!" to all of THEIR imagined countless thousands of followers on Twitter. {"Maaaaaaay-be I could save min-utesssssss by just sennnnnnd-ding a cyber-post-card?"} And the hapless results are: everybody's mailing but nobody's reading. {Nexxxxxxxt you'll-beeeee-Tweeeet-ting Sears cat-a-logggggs!} So crack open an ice-cold Bud Light, O Faithful Lettercarrier We Forgot to Leave a Christmas Present for, because now you actually, really and truly, get to experience for your very own self precisely *why* the United States Postal Service is going broke. All those trailside tree-mounted mailboxes are being stuffed-to-overflowing ONLY with unopened junk mail, and advertisers are beginning to take the hint. They're all dropping their presorted prepaid mail accounts and pecking on their cell phones, too. {Mis-ter Bloggg-ger-Twittttt-ter-Tweeeeeee-ter-Woof-er-MySpacedOut-Facebooker-Whiiiiiiile-Still-Run-ning-in-the-Foot-race Foot-raaaaaaaacer!} 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: Please don't "unfriend" me because I'm (at least to *my* countless thousands of totally imaginary lookers and gawkers) "booty-full."'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #77
Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss} Today we salute you, Mr. Blogger-Twitter-Tweeter-Woofer-MySpacedOut-Facebooker While Still Running in the Footrace Footracer. {Mis-ter Whoa! Thissssssss Is A Mouuuuuuuuth-fulllllllllll!!} You are truly something special. Leave it to you to take that "one step beyond" just ...
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Jan 14, 2011
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Jan 28, 2011
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5018
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[This, coming in the wake of recent tragedies involving runners and ultrarunners, is bound to "set a few folks off." But please, bear with me as you would "Mr. Warmth"--Don Rickles--who loves to insult folks, then invite them backstage after the show. Call me "Mr. Cold Dead Hand." ;-] Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss} Today we salute you, Mr. Defender of the 2nd Amendment--After a Runner Is Killed in a Hunting Accident--For All The Wrong Reasons. {Mis-ter Smiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiith goes-to-Wassssh-shing-ton and filllllll-i-bussssss-ters for-a-month!} After such a forest tragedy, someone philosophically raises the question "maybe the 2nd Amendment itself needs amending--or repealing?" and right away you see the ghost of Charlton Heston rising up out of the woodsy morning mist with his bolt-action Springfield thrust upwards towards heaven from his speaker's platform, where he loudly, deeply, and chillingly intones: "OUT OF MY COLD DEAD HAND!!!" {We'llllllllll leave you the rif-le and-just-uuuuuuse-it-to-chill-our-beer!} Please. Save the dramatics. It *is* a legit question because times have changed. Americans are no longer fighting Redcoats, Cherokees, or jaguars and wolves all over their backyard chicken coops. Certainly not with flintlocks, muzzle-loaders, or blunderbusses. And for hunting? What better test of real skill than with a bow and a quiver of arrows? {"Frommmm the deer stand, ri-co-chet-ing twice, glannnnn-cing off-the-cap-stone, and noth-ing but eye-ball!"} But no. You argue, along with good old Moses, that it is your by-God Constitutional-given gollamn RIGHT to bear arms--shotguns, rifles, M-16s, AK-47s, 50-caliber machine guns, and armor-piercing weaponry of every description--all because of that Founding Fathers' mandate for blowing the brains out of a few wild turkeys, fleeing geese, and the occasional sick and limping white-tailed deer. {"I wannn-na kill-kill!--KILL!!! I'm sit-tin' here on the Group-W bench, an' I jus' wannnnn-na KILL!!!!!!!!!!!"} The plain fact is, if there were no guns, that dead runner would still be alive. Ohhhh, save it, Mr. Self-Appointed Universal Spokesman for the National Rifle Association. No one's going to rip that freezing petrified gunstock out from the death-grip of your stiff frozen carcass in January up there in moose country. We'll wait until spring. {Jussssssssst like Jer-e-mi-ah Johnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn-son!} But of course the REAL REASON why you argue how precious is Amendment Second, is because its need was hinted at in the Declaration of Independence where it talks about citizens being able to defend themselves against tyranny, invasion from large armies of foreign mercenaries, and government-incited domestic insurrections--not to mention the fact that the Amendment itself better justifies our militia rather than your hunting down marauding invaders from despotic kings. "It's my last line of defense!" you argue. "What if we suddenly did have a military takeover, like they have all the time in South America?" {"The-Bri-tish-are-commmmm-ing! The-Bri-tish-arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrre-commmmmmmmmm-ing!"} Well, in that case you might just as well lean back and crack open an ice-cold Bud Light, O Paul Revere of the Light Brigade, because now we're just dying to see how well you *can* defend the neighborhood--even WITH your rec room safe full of barely legal firearms--against that very military coup when it ROARS down your street driving M1A1/2 Abrams battle tanks, with troop carriers firing shoulder-harnessed mini-warheads, jet aircraft strafing your bedrooms, and the occasional ship-launched Tomahawk missile zooming straight at your now-empty rifle-clip-carrying ass at five hundred and fifty miles per hour. Hey, duck! {Misssssssssss-ter Deeee-fen-der-of-the-2nd-A-mend-ment--After a Run-ner Is Killed in a Hun-ting Ac-ci-dent--For Allllllllll The Wrong Rea-sonnnsss!} 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: We don't suppose a bow and a quiver of arrows would make much difference either against the onslaught of roaring tanks. [Author's Note: What specifically gave rise to this piece was a "hunting accident" on January 1st in North Carolina that resulted in a trailrunner being fatally shot.]'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #76
[This, coming in the wake of recent tragedies involving runners and ultrarunners, is bound to "set a few folks off." But please, bear with me as you would "Mr. Warmth"--Don Rickles--who loves to insult folks, then invite them backstage after the show. Call me "Mr. Cold Dead Hand." ;-] Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss} Today ...
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Jan 7, 2011
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Jan 28, 2011
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5542
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss} Today we salute you, Mr. Enterprising Young Silk Screener and T-Shirt Maker Who Can't Spell. {Mis-ter "it cerrrrrrrr-tain-ly LOOKED-like-that on the Innnnnn-terrrrrr-net"!} "Graitful Dead"? "Pottle Morerain"? "Runing is a fart form"? And how about that nice ultra quotation emblazoned across the back authored by a "Hazardus Lake"? Oh Em Gee. {Weee bet yourrrrrrrrrrrrr home-work won ALLLLL the gold stars in grammmm-mar school!} Puh-lease. Is there no dictionary in the shop? Would you think it *might* make some sense to consult one before rolling off your initial manufacturing run of two thousand pressings? {It jusssssssssst bogggg-ggggles the mind!!} Even a Google search might help. Anything to avoid the totally disbelieving look upon some race director's face when he or she next comes in and you proudly show off your handiwork. If only some makeup artist could capture *your* color at that same moment, you could become the next "star" of a grade B slasher/horror flick. {"Whaaaaaaaaaaat do you meeeeeeeean that word has TWO u's innnnnnnnnn it??"} It's really not difficult at all, for example, to check your work before casting it in stone. Imagine Thomas Jefferson scrawling "In Kongress A Decklarashun of Inn Depend Dance" atop a now very well preserved document from 1776, or the top of the Supreme Court building being carved, for all eternity, with the words: "Equil Just Ice Onder Law." {Ohhhhhhhhhhhh Emmmmmmmmmmmmmm Geeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!} In a different century, you could actually have your head and wrists locked in stocks at the village square for such brilliance. But today of course, in this 21st century of "it's not my fault" and "somebody else will take care of me," you just know your butt will be covered. {"It allllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll works-out-innnnnnn-thee-end!"} So crack open an ice-cold Bud Light after those first few thousand shirts are printed, O Merriam Webster of the tie-dye biz, because you are indeed and in fact going to sell at least one freshly made T-shirt after all--to your mother. {Misssssssssss-ter En-ter-pri-sing Young Silk Screeeeeeee-ner and T-Shirt Ma-ker Who Cannnnnn't Spell!} 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 worry, the epidemic is legion. The superintendent of our local school board writes like a troglodyte. The teachers' bulletin board inside my bride's grade school has more errors per square inch than our reconstructed back porch after the tornado. So, we are thus reminded of Murphy's Law of Computing: "If builders built buildings like programmers write programs, the first woodpecker to come along would destroy civilization."'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #75
Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss} Today we salute you, Mr. Enterprising Young Silk Screener and T-Shirt Maker Who Can't Spell. {Mis-ter "it cerrrrrrrr-tain-ly LOOKED-like-that on the Innnnnn-terrrrrr-net"!} "Graitful Dead"? "Pottle Morerain"? "Runing is a fart form"? And how about that nice ultra quotation ...
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Dec 17, 2010
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Dec 17, 2010
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5943
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[Happy Hanukkah, y'all! So, like, to counterbalance allah dys negativity (heh heh) I've been trying to send everyone my other "positivity" this week (actually just since sundown on Dec. 1st), but wow--in only a year's time--everybody's e-addy has changed! So, what the hell, if you didn't get your "invitation," just log onto the following for this week's extra dose of dubious redoubtable positivism: http://www.zombierunner.com/MiddleIncomeRichard/44/ As a good friend already responded: "What? Instead of politics you're now picking on religion?" Ha ha! EVERYTHING is "fair game"! Including illiterate way-wacky marathon bystander chicks trying, perhaps, to find a man? The following was inspired by TV coverage of the New York City Marathon. Placard on!] Ingelhook Wineries present... REAL WOMEN OF GENIUS {Re-al gals of geeeeeene-yuss} Today we would like to toast you, Miss Illiterate Throng-Joining Marathon-Cheering Hoopla-Participating Bystanding Misspelled Sign Holder. {Missss-oh-my-god-wherrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrre diddddd ya getttttt the card-board and craaaaaa-yons?} "Go Gootchur!" "Runn Meebie!" "Welcum Chilly Minors!" You have to be kidding. In your other job, you must be a sign painter for all the top brokerages' front office doors on Wall Street. We're sure of it. {His naaaaaaaaaaaaame is Meb-rah-tom "Meb" Ke-flez-ighi!} We appreciate your streetside enthusiasm pretty much more so than we dig your education in those New York City schools. Did you study spelling, ever? Do you know the difference between the country and the beans-and-meat concoction? Not to mention the weather? And what about this: are you yourself still a "minor" or a "miner" or do you mind your business or would you rather mine ours? {"Alllllllllllllll thissssssssssss in-telllllll-lect-choo-all ac-tiv-i-ty!"} Kara Goucher would be proud to make your acquaintance, possibly Paula Radcliffe as well, but neither one is in the race; and you'll probably now have trouble convincing the guy standing next to you that your brain is even functioning. {"It's tooooooooooooooo darn crowd-ded to thinkkkkkkkk!"} Watch David Letterman, did you? And before that all the magnificent television coverage of that amazing mine rescue in that other country besides Argentina? Do you know which is which? Do you know what continent? Which planet? Are you looking to score a hot date? {"Waaaaaaaas-n't he the guy that rannnnnnn-in-the-caves and sang-like-Ellllllllll-visss?"} Better pull your cork out quickly from that White Zinfandel at the finish line, O Stalking Red Rose of Spanish Harlem, because only you could worse present yourself to a very special guest Chilean marathon runner by holding up a sign that says, in big scratchy red crayon, "Go Commonwealth Painya!" {Missss Ill-lit-er-ate Throng-Join-ing Mar-a-thon-Cheer-ing Hoop-la-Par-ti-ci-pa-ting By-stand-ing Mis-spelled Sign Holllllllllll-derr!} 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: The electric company around here tries its darnedest to keep allah us in the dark, too.'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #74
[Happy Hanukkah, y'all! So, like, to counterbalance allah dys negativity (heh heh) I've been trying to send everyone my other "positivity" this week (actually just since sundown on Dec. 1st), but wow--in only a year's time--everybody's e-addy has changed! So, what the hell, if you didn't get your "invitation," just log onto the following for this week's extra ...
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Dec 17, 2010
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Dec 17, 2010
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5616
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[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."'
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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 ...
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Nov 19, 2010
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Dec 17, 2010
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6178
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3 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[Indeed, our friend Juli Aistars again gets credit for suggesting this as the second half of her RM/WoG idea submitted last week. Thanks, kiddo! And good luck to her and to every other mother and body else who's currently resting up for the "next/umpteenth annual Mother Road 100-miler" which leaves its latest OK truckstop tomorrow morning. Unlike the below, though, a troubly good racing experience is wished for all!] Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss} Today we salute you, Mr. Waaaaaaaaay Too Completely Laid-Back "Don't Want No Trouble" Ultramarathon Race Director. {Mis-ter "IFFFFFFF we-can-only-ignore-theeeeese prob-lems, they'll alllllllllllll jus' go a-waaaaaaaaaaaay!"} You believe ultras are friendly, come-as-you-are/go-as-you-please type events. Make very few rules, stake out some course, get the troops to line up at o'dark:thirty in the morning, and just say, "Go!" Never mind, of course, that it costs "the troops" waaaaay over a hundred bucks just to be there; that your race IS measured, publicized, and Twittered; and when you publish the results in the sport's most universally-recognized bible-magazine, all those statistics are universally-taken as gospel truth. {"Ohhhhh hap-py dayyy, oh-hap-pyyyy dai-ai-yayyy, when cheeses walked---"} "We're all friends," you say to those super-competitive multi-talented too-fit gals trying out for the American international 100K team, and "Don't worry about it" to the 50-mile guy trying to qualify---just to *enter* the next great Western States Endurance Run." With an attitude like yours, O Nea Ahn-Derthal, cavewomen would *still* be content to bein dragged around by their hair. {Weeeeeeeeeeee might-as-wellllllllllll just-shut-the-clock-offffffffffff!} Troglodytes? Sure! They were all pretty friendly and laid-back too, right? And the Tarahumara---perhaps their best-known descendants---are all just fat, lazy Indians who have also found no use for sport or running or being competitive, even in the slightest. {"I caaaaaan't re-mem-ber whoooooooo won the Wor-ld Se-ries, let a-lone an-y cave-man daze!"} But!! What DO you tell those super athletes who have just been provably CHEATED by some sweet innocent whackjob that insists she "may not have run the whole course objectively, but subjectively she likely ran more"? {"Watch me now pull this Boeing 747 out of my top hat!"} "We're all friends," you tell them. "And, hey, if things like distance, true-measurement, time clocks, and stopwatches are THAT important to you," you say, "maybe this isn't the race for you." {"That chiccccccccc who placed high-er than you---just set the new worrrrrrr-llld rec-ord for fif-teeeeen mi-les!!!"} So crack open a lukewarm Bud Light along with your personal obviously "Unbearable Lightness of Being" philosophy, O Grand Pooh-bah of The Milquetoast Generation, because your benign and helpless attitude has just now set the whole and entire idea of sports itself --waaaaay back to the Pleistocene Era. {Mis-ter W-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-y Tooooo Com-plete-ly Laid-Baaaack "Don't Want No Trou-ble" Ultra-mar-a-thon Race Di-rec-torrrrrrrr!} 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: I think this here brand-new "State Your Intentions" race format is the way to go. Just live in Siberia, have NO neighbors or witnesses, tell us on Monday how far you'll be starting running on Saturday (350 miles, with frozen pizza ;), and then sleep in. Who'll know?'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #72
[Indeed, our friend Juli Aistars again gets credit for suggesting this as the second half of her RM/WoG idea submitted last week. Thanks, kiddo! And good luck to her and to every other mother and body else who's currently resting up for the "next/umpteenth annual Mother Road 100-miler" which leaves its latest OK truckstop tomorrow morning. Unlike the below, ...
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Nov 12, 2010
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Nov 19, 2010
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7003
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[Today, after having blown off "Positivity Wednesday" because, really--after THAT election?--does anyone out there actually think that anything positive whatsoever can now possibly be done? Anyway, today we're back to normal, and I'm indebted to our friend Juli Aistars for suggesting today's topic. In my opinion, it puts squarely outside on the trails of nature something that happens all the time inside our houses of government.] Ingelhook Wineries present... REAL WOMEN OF GENIUS {Re-al gals of geeeeeene-yuss} Today we propose a toast to you, Miss Highly-Paid Professional Who Exaggerates Her Racing and Fakes Her Own Miracles. {Misssss Wowww--did-ya-cheat-like-this-durrr-ring-grad-school, toooooo?} Let's see if we've got this straight. You've hardly run trails or ultras before in your life, your PR for the street marathon is well over 5 hours, you recently finished a city half-marathon in over 3 hours, and yet you claim to have just nailed a 50-miler in the hilly gnarly woods in something like 9 hours--for a top-10 finish. {Ohhhhhhhhh Emmmmmmmmmmm Geeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!} You have got to be kidding us. As we look closer at your "splits," we see you started this race at about a 12-minute-per-mile pace, surged behind into 18-minute-per-mile land, eased on back to 24-plus-minutes per mile, and then absolutely blistered a 15-mile stretch in the middle somewhere at a SUB-2-minute-per-mile pace. In other words, dearie, you just set the new world's record. {"Mayyyyyyyyyyy-beee some-thiiiiiing's just wrong with time?"} Lance Armstrong might not be able to achieve such speeds zooming downhill on a titanium-frame bike. And yet you claim to have clocked these times in your shoes. Your, no doubt, pretty heavy muddy shoes. {Yoooooou couuuuuuuld prol-ly run-that-pace-in-a-ni-tro-fueled "funnnnnny car"!} AND, you say, you were lost? So by what weird arithmetic does getting lost on a course take less time to complete it than by following all the correct paths? {"If a 6 turrrrrrrrrrrrrrns out to be 9, I donnnn't mind!"} Sure, you're button-holed when it's over to explain yourself; and so you say, in your well-schooled parliamentary way, "Maybe I didn't run the whole course objectively, but subjectively I might've run more!" {Mayyyyy-be you ran 100 mi-les in 4-and-a-half hours, bayyyyyyy-beeeeeeeee!!} Well, pop that cork quickly out of your White Zinfandel bottle as you celebrate, O Mistress Magnifique of the Space-and-Time-Warp Continuum, because when your posted results qualify your butt to be admitted to a much more highly-coveted race instead of a faster hot babe who's shut out? We can pretty well guarantee that, while objectively a charge of "battery" might not stick in a court of law, subjectively your eyes are going to be clawed out just the same. {Missss High-lyyyy-Paid Pro-fesss-sion-al Who Ex-ag-gerrrr-rates Her Raaaa-cing and Fakes Her Own Mirrrrrr-a-cles!} 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: And subjectively, Linda Ronstadt is the new governor of Callyphrenia, too.'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #71
[Today, after having blown off "Positivity Wednesday" because, really--after THAT election?--does anyone out there actually think that anything positive whatsoever can now possibly be done? Anyway, today we're back to normal, and I'm indebted to our friend Juli Aistars for suggesting today's topic. In my opinion, it puts squarely outside on the trails of nature ...
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Nov 5, 2010
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Nov 19, 2010
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12092
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[This one's not so much to do with running, as with writing about it, which is another pet peeve of yours, eh? Me writing about it all the time! :-) Grate dais ever body! And Happy All Hallows' Eve!!] Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss} Today we salute you, Mr. Entirely Too Hyped-Up Word-Processing Auto-Corrective-Programming Software Engineer. {Mis-ter "you caaaaaaaaaaaaan't make a miss-take with myyyyyy pro-grammmmm!"} Spell-check isn't good enough for you, is it. No. So you've been given some kind of Microsoft mandate for making the world safe for English and grammar, and now you are single-handedly going to GUARANTEE that NO ONE who uses your program upon the Planet Earth will EVER make ANOTHER mistake of language again--for at least as long as the sun keeps shining or until the Chinese take over. {"Myyyyy pro-gramm-mming e-ven fix-es gram-mars and grand-pas!"} Instead of waiting for spell-check, your word processor now auto-corrects every single word as soon as it's keyboarded. Even if it's the wrong word, your program now rightly corrects it so that, all right, it stays wrong. {"Mar-a-thon-ing" beee-comes "Marat honing"; "LSD" is "ly-ser-gic a-cid di-e-thy-la-miiiiiiiide"!} Such electronic engineering must be a godsend. Certainly most humans wouldn't send it. If we even try to begin a sentence with an uncapitalized letter, your program won't allow it. If e. e. cummings were still alive, your programming wouldn't allow him either. {"Reddddd flow-ers are red, and greeeeeeeeeeeeen leaves are green!"} And the rest of us dweebs who'd like to format poetry, for example? We're out of luck. Because with your picayune language golden rules oversimplification, our lines cannot end with a comma--the next line immediately wraps up to join it--and when we insert an ellipsis, your program sees "period" and auto-capitalizes the very next letter. We can't make a new line-break without correct end punctuation and we can't start a new paragraph where you don't think one should go and gawd ferbid we should EVER wish to make up a new word, huh? {NO thankkkkkk you for doo-ing our think-inggggg for ussssss!!} So crack open an ice-cold Bud Light in your cubicle, O Unilateral Arbiter and Enforcer of The King's English, because if Mark Twain had used your word processor instead of his typewriter [he was the first American author to use one, you know], Huckleberry Finn would NOT be able to speak in Southern dialect; and your very own children would never even once in their lives be able to type "e" before "i" regardless of "c" or despite sounding like "a" as in "nieghbor" or "wiegh." {Mis-ter Enn-tiiiiiiiiiiiiiii-re-ly Too Hyped-Up Word-Proc-es-sing Au-to-Cor-rec-tive-Pro-gram-ming Soft-ware Ennn-gi-neeeeeeer!} 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: Now I'm trying to imagine how Chinese electronics might stifle English creativity.'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #70
[This one's not so much to do with running, as with writing about it, which is another pet peeve of yours, eh? Me writing about it all the time! :-) Grate dais ever body! And Happy All Hallows' Eve!!] Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss} Today we salute you, Mr. Entirely Too Hyped-Up Word-Processing Auto-Corrective-Programming ...
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Oct 29, 2010
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Nov 19, 2010
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7024
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[Per still more recently appertaining Ultralist threads... :] Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss} Today we salute you, Mr. Power Tools User and Remedier for All Your Foot and Toenail Woes. {Mis-ter "myyy cord-less e-lec-tric hedge trimmm-mer works just fine!!"} It's too bad we don't see more Black & Deckers lying around podiatrists' offices. According to you, medical practice for footcare has missed its calling. As you have loved to replay in delicious detail, there ain't nothing that quite works on hangnails like a Milwaukee Sawzall. {Yeeeeeeeee-ow-za! Barrrre-foot car-pennn-ter-ring!!} Blood blisters under your big toenail? Why, a 32nds-inch steel twist bit mounted to a variable speed power drill will relieve the pressure in no time. {It worrrrrrrrrrrrks like a minnnn-i-a-ture oil rig!} And we are all eyes as you describe just how fine a Fein MultiMaster works on feet. There are power attachments for every ailment. For calluses, you've got that perforated triangular sanding pad. For retarding the progress of wildly-growing-out-of-control nails: you just can't beat that patented rigid stopping knife. {Whaaaaaaat a-bout their pat-tent-ted osssss-cil-la-ting blades?} For other problems, like fungus and ingrowns, you've used routers and thickness planers. For truly excessive nail removal, they make electric lawn edgers. And for curing your hammertoes, you just squeeze them into a bench vise. {"Thennnnnnnnnn I can fit innnn-to size-smallll-er shoes!"} You've mentioned excessive blistering and toe losses. Dude, you could be referring to leprosy. Home Depot might not be able to help you there. {Maaaaaay-beeee the eeee-mer-gen-cyyyy room...} In your wisdom, you've actually suggested removing toenails permanently. And for that, you just can't beat a Craftsman Impact Hammer with spring retainer that accepts a multitude of shanks with variable chisel head designs. {Tryyyyyyyyyy to cut a-lonnnnng the fault plane!} So crack open an ice-cold Bud Light after surgery, O Marcus Welby, M.D., and chug it down while you heel, because there's no better way to buff and polish all those cute tootsies of yours after the pedicure's done, rather permanently, than by grabbing your DeWALT heavy-duty 15-gauge Finish Pneumatic Nailer and... finishing them. {Mis-ter Powww-wer Tooooooools U-ser and Rem-ed-diiii-er for Allllllllll Your Foot and Toe-naaaaaail Woes!} 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: Just trying to think how well one of those HILTI powder actuated tools might work on athletes' feet.'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #69
[Per still more recently appertaining Ultralist threads... :] Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss} Today we salute you, Mr. Power Tools User and Remedier for All Your Foot and Toenail Woes. {Mis-ter "myyy cord-less e-lec-tric hedge trimmm-mer works just fine!!"} It's too bad we don't see more Black & Deckers ...
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Oct 22, 2010
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Nov 19, 2010
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6081
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[Per recent Ultralist appertaining threads... :] Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss} Today we salute you, Mr. Pitifully Worried Runner That All Others In The Race Are "Getting Some" Except You. {Mis-ter "noo-bo-dy loves me, ev'ry-bod-y hates me, I'mmm gon-na-eat-some-wormmms!"} Sure. You're looking around while you run. You spy that certain quick hand-hold, surreptitious hug, occasional wink, and you think: They *must* be sharing a room. They could even be ducking behind bushes for half-hours at a crack during this very race. Perhaps, by adjusting your pace, you might witness this. {"What's-wrong-with-meeeeeeeee that no-bun-ny's wink-inggg?"} Why *does* that young man have soiled legs and grass all over the back of his shirt? And why *are* the-chickie-he's-running-with's palms so dirty? Pretty tell-tale clothing stains as well. At this point, you are becoming increasingly certain there's conspiracies in these woods that you're just not a part of. {"There'll be mu-sic play-ying and bod-dies sway-ying and dan-cing in the sheeeeets!"} Bloody knees? Just imagine. Pretty rocky off-trail, too. And how else could she wipe off her chin except THAT'S why they *really* invented those roll-down arm sleeves. And why has that dufus-she's-running-with got such a toothy grin on his face? {"I'm yourrrrr ice cream man, stop me when I'mmm pas-sing by!"} What about all those tents in the campground? The constantly zippered ones with the taut rain flies? No wonder every body you see is so sweaty. {"They'rrrrre do-in' the horrrr-riz-on-tal bop!"} And surely there's a big hidden reason for having petroleum jelly at the aid stations. And now you're starting to question what's truly inside all those powder-white e-capsules to begin with. Just ahead, you even start sniffing that certain unmistakable burning "aroma" that wafted so romantically down dorm hallways back in college. {"OH EMM GEE! Some bod-ies hav-ing a parrrrrrrrr-tyyyy!!"} So crack open an ice-cold Bud Light after the race, O Captain Lonelyhearts, Patron Saint of the Disenfranchised, and sip it while watching the awards ceremony; because, really, there can never be any more solid proof of adult indiscretions or marital infidelities than when the race director hands that first-place female her trophy and they oh-so-suggestively shake hands. {Mis-ter Pi-ti-ful-ly Wor-ried Run-ner That Alllllllll Oth-ers-In-The-Race ARRRRE "Get-ting Some" Exxx-cept You!} 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: Ever watch a pretty cool chick take off her jogbra underneath a sweatshirt without ever showing any skin? Imagine now the instant alternative current that THAT could synapse inside some twisted nervous circuits.'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #68
[Per recent Ultralist appertaining threads... :] Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss} Today we salute you, Mr. Pitifully Worried Runner That All Others In The Race Are "Getting Some" Except You. {Mis-ter "noo-bo-dy loves me, ev'ry-bod-y hates me, I'mmm gon-na-eat-some-wormmms!"} Sure. You're looking around ...
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Oct 15, 2010
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Oct 22, 2010
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5916
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[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.'
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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 ...
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Oct 8, 2010
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Oct 22, 2010
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6277
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss} Today we salute you, Mr. Super-Popular Limited-Entry Ultramarathon Race Director That Refuses to Go To A Lottery. {Mis-ter "It's STILLLLL a fairrrr sys-stem of on-line ennnnnn-try!"} So, this year your entire field was filled in, what, less than six minutes? You get an annual permit from the National Forest Service for two-hundred-odd entries, and there are over fifteen thousand trail runners who desperately want to run your race. And just like you innovatively established back in the 1990's, the only way to enter Your Race is on-line via website, credit card, and personal computer. {"Whoa! We donnnnn't e-ven neeeeeeed the ma-il-mannnnnn?"} And at 12 noon on the appointed day all fifteen thousand are hovering over their keyboards, vaingloriously racing to enter a footrace for which footspeed is not a qualifier. Nope! It's "keyboarding." It's how freaking fast you can type, fill-in all the cyber-blanks, and peck out the numbers of your VISA card--including its expiry and that stupid 3-digit secret code on the other side--all within this "secure, digitally encrypted safe electronic environment" and all within a mere fraction of a minute. {"But... but... but... my billlllll-ing ad-dress is difffffff-ferrrrrr-ent!"} Please. Just one plunk of the Backspace key and your entire entry is thrown out of sequence. Peeps are penalized if their account numbers aren't pre-programmed or memorized. And the only runners to ever fill your field are never the best athletes, just the geekiest of all possible cyber-savvy geeks. {"Ya meannnnnn, I was sup-posed to learn how to hack-in and reggggg-isss-ter earrrrrr-lyyyy???"} So if ya don't know Fortran, Cobol, C++, Assembler, HTML, or how to author macros, you are SOL. You are *not* going to get into this footrace. And, btw? LOL! {"Thissss race was full beeeee-fore I even GOT to my ad-dressss!!"} So crack open an ice-cold Bud Light once that convenient cybertronic race-registering process switches from "active" to "full," O Masterful Cutting-Edge User I.D. and Forgotten Password Guy, because, while every other race director in the cosmos has at least tried to maintain fairness by going to a lottery, you still believe in your heart that computerized registration is the only way to go. {Mis-ter Suuuu-per-Pop-u-lar Lim-i-ted-Ennnn-try Ul-tra-mar-a-thon Race Di-rec-tor That Re-fuuuuse-es to Go To A Lot-ter-yyyyy!} 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: The whole trick to not burying yourself in a hole of your own making is to, well, just stop digging the hole.'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #66
Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss} Today we salute you, Mr. Super-Popular Limited-Entry Ultramarathon Race Director That Refuses to Go To A Lottery. {Mis-ter "It's STILLLLL a fairrrr sys-stem of on-line ennnnnn-try!"} So, this year your entire field was filled in, what, less than six minutes? You get an annual ...
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Sep 19, 2010
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Oct 22, 2010
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7023
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='Ingelhook Wineries present... REAL WOMEN OF GENIUS {Re-al gals of geeeeeene-yuss} Today we raise our glass to you, Missus OCD Ultrarunning Gal with the Multiple Unpronounceable Disorders. {Misss-sus perrrr-son-alllll-i-tyyyy out-the-ying-yannng!} You mean, it's 7:01 AM and you've not showered yet? This, after running your daily nine-point-three-eighth miles, which is six loops around the lake by the country club with those thirty-eight-hundredths being the *exact* distance from your side door to the trailhead? You're running late today! {"Ohhhhhh Emmmmmmmmm Geeeeeeeeeeeee!!"} You have a child that needs to get up, get dressed, get fed, have homework checked, bed made, toys filed, room cleaned, questions answered--only if there's time--lunch made, shoes-boots-and-raincoat on, planted in the carseat, and driven to grammar school before the first bell at 7:45. {"Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeere ARE those Fruit Loooooops?"} The husband can fend for himself. {"Geeeze-ziss, bay-bee! Shooould I book an ap-poinnnt-ment?"} If you hurry, when you get back from the drop-off and kiss-off, you'll have time to update your Facebook, post more photos, and still meet George at the gym and then have time for a swim. But that can only happen after today's required crunches and side planks, handling your online banking, returning all calls on your iPhone, and stopping by Le Petit Boutique to try on shoes--all before you even get to the gym. {"Whyyyyyyyyyyyyy won't-this-traf-fic-light-change??"} It's now only ten-thirty and you've already done more since 3 AM than most humans could do in a week. And yet, amazingly enough, you still have time to piss-off all those humans before you have to meet Sally and Joanie--just confirmed by phoney--for your "grrl power lunchie" at the club. {"Wee neeeeeeeeeeeed that taaaa-ble-by-the-bar!!!"} So ease the cork out gently when your waiter brings that second bottle of White Zinfandel to your table, O Super-, Cat-, and Wonder Woman all rolled into one, because, really, you know ya only go around once in life and so gotta grab for all the Gusto--and what's in Gusto's trousers--that you possibly, possibly can... all before Cosmo Husbo comes home. {Miss-sus O-C-D Ullllll-tra-run-nnnnning Gal with-the-Mul-ti-ple-Un-pro-nounce-a-ble Dys-orrrr-derssssss!} White Zinfandel yuppie wine: we don't drink it ourselves; we'd rather just guzzle beer. ( O_O ) Yours troubly, The Troubadour Yankee Folly of the Day: There are eight million stories in The Naked City, while in The Hamptons, however, they first need to shop for shoes.'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #65
Ingelhook Wineries present... REAL WOMEN OF GENIUS {Re-al gals of geeeeeene-yuss} Today we raise our glass to you, Missus OCD Ultrarunning Gal with the Multiple Unpronounceable Disorders. {Misss-sus perrrr-son-alllll-i-tyyyy out-the-ying-yannng!} You mean, it's 7:01 AM and you've not showered yet? This, after running your daily nine-point-three-eighth ...
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Sep 17, 2010
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Oct 22, 2010
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6476
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[No, friends, for right now we're going to resist writing about the apparent genuine or artificial "genius" who figured out how to beat the cyber-system and register for Umstead early. That one's too obvious. Today's contribution to the betterment of humankind is, uh, fictional?] Ingelhook Wineries present... REAL WOMEN OF GENIUS {Re-al gals of geeeeeene-yuss} Today we raise our glass to you, Miss Expecting of Racing Exceptions Always To Be Made Just For You. {Miss "IT'S ALLLL a-bout MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!"} It's a 100-mile footrace and you're scared of the dark. It's all on roads but you're petrified of mud. It's in the South and you're from Detroit. So what's a body to do? You telephone the race director and demand that exceptions be made. {"Caaaaaaaaaaaaaaan't you maaaaaaake the sun set laaaa-ter?"} "Why won't you let me start the race early?" you ask. "You need to block off *two* lanes of highway," you say. "That way I won't be forced into the ditch where there's mud." And this: "Couldn't you just move the whole race to Michigan?" {"Maaaaaaay-bee I could jusssssss' run your race HEEEEEEERE?"} You need a muling pacer to accompany you for the *entire* race? Sure, no problem. You're a lactose-intolerant diabetic vegan with ulcers, kidney stones, gall stones, rolling stones, and colitis? You have "special needs" which we'll need to be changing all menu items at all of the aid stations for? Why didn't you say so? Why certainly! We will be more than happy to completely rearrange our entire chromosomal balance in order for your gifted genetics and uniquely endowed special heredity to be satisfied. {Willlllllllll yoooou be doh-naaaaa-ting your boddd-y to sciiiiiiiiii-ence?} Puh-lease. Maybe bowling would be less traumatic. No? How about sex? The balls are lighter and you won't have to change your shoes. {Yooooooou prob-babb-bly have spe-cial sexxxxxx-u-al needs toooo!!} So go ahead and yank your cork quickly out of that "special dry" White Zinfandel that your servants have fetched for you, O Marie Antoinette, and let the rest of the indistinguishable masses of hoi-polloi eat cake. Because at this race, and every other race where there's more than just your highness involved, you still expect all of those peeps to kowtow to only yourself, The Queen of Tarts. {Missss Exxx-pec-tiiiing of Raaa-cing Exxx-ceppppp-tions All-ways To Beeee Made Just-For-Yoooou!} 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: Don't laugh. I have a Jewish mother-in-law.'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #64
[No, friends, for right now we're going to resist writing about the apparent genuine or artificial "genius" who figured out how to beat the cyber-system and register for Umstead early. That one's too obvious. Today's contribution to the betterment of humankind is, uh, fictional?] Ingelhook Wineries present... REAL WOMEN OF GENIUS {Re-al gals of geeeeeene-yuss} Today ...
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Sep 10, 2010
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Oct 22, 2010
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6166
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[First of all, I'd just like to say "thanks"--reelly and troubly--to all the many folks who've--so far--responded so positively to all this negativity... ( O_O ) ...and who have even sent me e-mails which I hope they'll forgive me for not always answering... ...and to my good buddy Bill Thom for even offering to upchuck allah dys whack onto his ver kewl website inna furs playce. Other than that, in the second place? I need to apologize for being so late today--which tardiness was because of my back porch not being rebuilt, which was caused by "inspectors," which was because of THEIR having a bad day, all of which was caused (again) in the first place by a TORNADO (some months ago) that, furshur, wuz jus' havin' itseff a grand ol' time!] Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss} Today we salute you, Mr. Automatic Notifier to the Listserv That "I'll Be Gone Until Hell Freezes Over" Guy. {Mis-ter aaau-toe-maaa-ti-cal-ly innn-to our In-box no-ti-fy-er guyyyyyy!} Please. To each and every single individual e-mail? Your automatically pre-programmed mega-corporate cubicle computer spits out four-thousand-messages-per-minute just to say that you're "not there"? {"Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease leave a messs-sage!"} And you'll return *when*? And what *exactly* are you doing away from your desk until that Tuesday, the day after the holiday, in the year 2525? {"I'm go-iiiiiing to beeeeee trav-vel-ling to a gal-ax-y far far a-wayyyyy!"} Does the boss know you're gone? Or for that matter, does "Jerry in Accounting" know? Now that you have painstakingly explained throughout your completely automatic message that, should we have any type of sales emergency, or if the Megawhompus Hoochee-Callit Thingamabob that you sold us doesn't work, or if our own firm is growing impatient waiting for delivery, or if we've been waiting for your call-back since 1896, or if we have any other questions, we should direct them to Jerry in Accounting until, in fact, you get back? {Buttttttt WHOA! Weeeeeeeeeeeee could be dead by thennnn!} What guarantee do we even have that Jerry in Accounting will still be employed by "The World's Exclusive Manufacturers of The Megawhompus Hoochee-Callit Thingamabob"? {"They commmmmmmmmmmmmme in three siiiiiii-zes!!!"} And did you need to program your message to respond like this to all your personal e-mails, too? Not to mention each and every single little e-address of the already five-to-twenty-thousand automatically-disseminated-to subscribers of this very listserv that you have somehow managed to join--and read and blog to--all on company time? {Ev-'ry-one's block-iiiiiiiiing you annnn-y-wayyyyyyyyyy!!} So crack open an ice-cold Bud Light over the Labor Day Holiday, O Awesome Pre-Programmer of the Internet's Equivalent to the Answering Machine, because, really, when you do finally return to your desk on Tuesday and turn on your computer? You will find every single one of four hundred thousand automatic replies left in *your* Inbox which were themselves automatically sent out to respond to your own automatic replies. {Mis-ter Au-to-ma-tic No-ti-fi-errrr to the List-serrrrv "I'll Be Gone Un-til Hell Freeeeee-zes O-ver" Guy!} 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: The only thing that could possibly be worse would be 400,000 "requested receipts" sent back by that many people who did indeed receive all those automatic e-mails to begin with.'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #63
[First of all, I'd just like to say "thanks"--reelly and troubly--to all the many folks who've--so far--responded so positively to all this negativity... ( O_O ) ...and who have even sent me e-mails which I hope they'll forgive me for not always answering... ...and to my good buddy Bill Thom for even offering to upchuck allah dys whack onto his ver kewl website ...
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Sep 5, 2010
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Oct 22, 2010
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6159
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[This special talent was first discovered to be ever so widely "spread" in--where else?--Caliphrenia, home of this weakened's Angeles Crest 100. Good luck to all runners everywhere over the next couple "daze," and, hey, as my old idol Frank Zappa used to sing: "Please don't eat that yellow snow!" ;] Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss} Today we salute you, Mr. Trailrunner Figurer-Outer of How To Relieve Yourself On-The-Fly. {Mis-ter burrrrrrr-ning dee-sire-errr to haaaaaaaaaan-dle a fiii-re-hose} No wonder most of the time most of the first finishers are men. And you're the reason why, aren't you? You have, perhaps single-digitally, figured out how to never actually have to "take a pause for the cause," because you, sir, don't actually have to stop--ever!--to take care of business. {Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaat a-bout the toiiiiiii-let pa-per?} You, O Terrific Mr. Whiz-zard, can whiz out your fly on the fly. {"The worlllllllllllllllllllllllllllld is my baaaaaaaath-room!"} All these squiggly lines of moisture we see along the trail? Here we'd been thinking that it only "rains in California" in cloudbursts a quarter-inch wide and about nine wiggly meters long. But no. It's been you all this time, hasn't it? {Therrrrrrrrrrre could've been some thunnnnnnnnnnnnn-der-storms!} Being able "to go" as you go? Why, a talent like that ought to make a splash around the world. You should ask for endorsement deals. Perhaps with Menard's or the garden department at Home Depot. Have them take big pictures. Yours could be the poster hose that they put on display. {"They commmmmmmmmmmmmme in three siiiiiii-zes!!!"} Just think of the time savings. At approximately forty-five seconds per pee, over the course of a 100-mile course your special ability saves you approximately thirty-five minutes. Or less, depending upon your present level of dehydration or the advancing shut-down rate of your kidneys. {Youuuuuuuuuu could beee com-ing down with rhab-do-my-ol-y-sissssss} So crack open a lukewarm Bud Light to replenish your fluids ASAP, O Great Dampener of the Entire Forest Floor, because you are, no doubt, the coiner of that wonderful phrase: "All my forest fires have been peed on." {Mis-ter Traiiiiil-runn-nner Fig-gur-er-Ou-ter of How To Reeee-lieve Yourrrrr-self On-The-Fly!} 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: There's even a special-order weirdly-shaped plastic product that allows women to "do it" too! Butt no, I do not have a financial interest in this product.'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #62
[This special talent was first discovered to be ever so widely "spread" in--where else?--Caliphrenia, home of this weakened's Angeles Crest 100. Good luck to all runners everywhere over the next couple "daze," and, hey, as my old idol Frank Zappa used to sing: "Please don't eat that yellow snow!" ;] Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al ...
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Aug 27, 2010
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Aug 27, 2010
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6646
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[w-w-w-dot-welcome.bak-forward-slash-2-me-slash-tilde-after-2-wiks? Nah. It wasn't actually that grate a vacation, but it did go a tad better than badly--right up until sometime before dawn in the darkening foggy horrors of the Marin County Headlands. Which has subsequently haunted me right up until now, when I finely realized that life somehow--despite all off-cliff-plunging urges to the contrary--must go on. And suddenly--bingo!--here in my Inbox I find yet one more excellent topic suggestion from our good friend Eric Vaughan, who now has my still-teetering-on-the-brink expression of great wobbly thanks!] Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss} Today we salute you, Mr. Helpful Friendly Solution-Provider For That Annoying Butt-Chafing Problem. {Mis-ter Butt/yoooooou have givvvvv-en us such won-der-full re-lieeeeeeeeeeeeeeef!} Only you could spend countless hours of study, and then send out even less well enumerated emails pertaining to the caveman's oldest and most perplexing personal problem: how to keep both cheeks from slamming together and rubbing themselves raw, hour after hour and day after day, while running or walking upright. {Buttttttttttttttttttttttt isssssssssssssssn't that what shorts are forrrrrrrrrrrrr?} You are to be commended. This is evolutionary progress at the highest level. Whereas the gorilla solves the problem by having longer arms and running generally through the jungle on all-fours, you, from your breakthrough findings of exasperated research, have discovered that humans should simply put a paper towel square "back there." {"Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease DON'T squeeeeeeeeeeeeeze the Char-min!"} You are kidding us, right? Paper that a good fart could blow apart will now somehow keep all that slime aligned? And separate both halves to keep them comfortably at a safe distance? Provide that dry moistureless lube that's oh-so-necessary to maintain fluid motion? Shucks, even Quaker State needs to be changed every 3,000 miles. {Mayyyyyyyyyyyy-be just shaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa-ving should help?} Puh-leeease. Kleenex would hold up better in your Corvette, stuck between the clutch and the flywheel. {Yourrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr en-gine is red-liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiining your liii-ning!} Compared to rasping all our half-asses into coarse-grit sandpaper, we think that maybe we'd rather run naked. Or, maybe--just like our planet of apes did once before--get down and boogie and run again on all-fours. {Or mayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy-be weeeeeeeeeeee should jus' take a sitz bath!} So crack open a nice refreshingly cool Bud Light and head back to the drawing board, O Grate F. Lloyd Wright of the diaper rash salve industry, because after your ass scrapes itself clean all over your next hundred miles of biped locomotion? You're gonna want that beer for a bidet. {Mis-ter Help-fullllllll Friend-lyyyyy So-luuuuu-tion-Pro-viiii-der-for-that-an-noy-ying Butt-Chaaaa-fing Prob-blem!!} 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: Yet one more good reason why the overwhelming majority of all Americans remain sedentary.'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #61
[w-w-w-dot-welcome.bak-forward-slash-2-me-slash-tilde-after-2-wiks? Nah. It wasn't actually that grate a vacation, but it did go a tad better than badly--right up until sometime before dawn in the darkening foggy horrors of the Marin County Headlands. Which has subsequently haunted me right up until now, when I finely realized that life somehow--despite all ...
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Aug 24, 2010
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Aug 27, 2010
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7566
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1 hr ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[Today, friends, I'm the non-angel barely bearing no gnus of grated joi. Nah, actually it's HUGE NEWS of GREAT JOY!!! As follows: 1) My good buddy Bill Thom is giving me space (soon! maybe today!!) on his wonderful website: http://www.runrace.net/ 2) For any or all those who've written over the past mini daze to ask where all the old RM/WoGs are? There ya go! (Well, mostly. There's still more to, like, unearth, dust off, and post up; but you'll at least get the gist.) And... 3) The idea for this edition today comes from Eric Vaughan. Thanks, man! And THANKS to Bill and everybunny (and body) else who have helped to make this, like, one of the very "wurst" of our usual BJF offerings by or about "brats" ;-] Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss} Today we salute you, Mr. Quad-Quint-Obsquattamatillionth Unassisted Barefoot Badwater Crisscrossing Stud. {Mis-ter yoooooou have gotttttt to be kiiiiiiiid-ding meeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!} You, sir, aren't all that likely to enjoy sitting and doing your life's work inside some air-conditioned office cubicle, now are you. {Butttttttttttttttttt the com-paaaaa-ny has a gym and a showwwww-wer!} No. And for the record, let's see if we understand "the record." In order for you to carve out your niche in the crypt under the eternal flame of human "infame," you need to triple-, quad-, quint-, or duodecimally run, walk, or crawl across the scorching desert floor of Death Valley, California, from Badwater to Mount Whitney, during the heat of summer--without so much as a spare canteen, decent sunblock, helpers, bicycle, ambulance, or... SHOES? {Weeeeeee wonnnnn-der what the ruuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuules are?} This is, what, The Return of Mahatmas Gandhi? You are leading the non-violent (although plenty bruised) revolution all over again against the British Empire? Is this a social protest movement-of-one (slowly)? Or, is this your very own curious way of washing your mind clear of all the other catastrophic failures in your life? {"I haaaaaave a dreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeam toooooo-day!!"} Ah, we get it now. You want to re-learn again what the Neanderthal long ago gave up on: "trying to redefine what is humanly possible." {Thissssssssssssssssssss IS where fi-re wassssssss innn-ven-ted!!!} So crack an ice-cold Bud Light next year when you're done, Oh Great Siddhartha of the Sand Dunes, because really, by the time you've finally reached your Nirvana of Clear Conscience, both your tombstone--and you--will be cinders. {Mis-ter Quad-Quint-Obs-squat-ta-ma-till-ionth UN-ass-sis-ted Bare-foot Bad-water Crissssssssss-crossssing Stud!} 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: Next we want to see who can do a double or triple crossing of Badwater in record time on their hands, without gloves!'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #60
[Today, friends, I'm the non-angel barely bearing no gnus of grated joi. Nah, actually it's HUGE NEWS of GREAT JOY!!! As follows: 1) My good buddy Bill Thom is giving me space (soon! maybe today!!) on his wonderful website: http://www.runrace.net/ 2) For any or all those who've written over the past mini daze to ask where all the old RM/WoGs are? There ya ...
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Jul 30, 2010
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Aug 27, 2010
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7075
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3 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[This one--or is it two?--presented itself the other day. And again, I just can't resist. Also please, "fictional characters that bear no resemblance to real-life characters," take no offense! OK? ;-] Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss} Today we salute you, Messrs. All-of-a-Sudden Just-Now-Invented Vol-State "Relay Team." {Mis-ters hur-ried-ly con-coc-ted sec-ond-chance race teeeeeam in-ven-torrrrrs!} So, after two-hundred-and-who-knows-how-many-miles, you suddenly want to quit? But then, just-as-suddenly you now discover you don't have to? You simply grab some other guy and declare yourselves to be instantly in a relay, so that HE can take over YOUR running? {Heeeeeee's the first res-ted dude to showww up in a veeeeeee-hic-cle!} This is brilliant. We'd pay hard money to watch this. Just imagine some goofily willing well-rested runner showing up in an air-conditioned golf cart, willing to be your pinch-runner for another hundred miles, and you get to rest in the dugout. It's like you've died and gone to heaven, man! Major League Baseball isn't even this good. {Now yoooooooooooooooooou get to drive the golf carrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrt!} Making up the rules as y'all run along? Is this kosher? Is it "according to Hoyle"? Was there ever any "hint" that you even ever were--or had ever intended to be when you signed up and agreed to run the race solo and unaided--a "relay team"? {Were thoooooose U-S-A-T-F innnn-sur-rance paaaaaa-pers changed?} Let's see if we have this straight. You entered the race as one runner--who amazingly became two. You started out and ran until just slightly before death. Then, lo, there was this genius brainpower afoot in the Kingdom of Heaven and an angel shows up, driving a cool car. You get in, the angel gets out, and just like as if a miracle occurred and the Holy Ghost himself spooked you out on Highway 61, your race-day entry application gets back-dated to show you're a two-member team. {"Wellllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllcome to the Pleas-ure Dome!"} And what's even better, of course, is that there are no other relay teams in the race. So you and your Real Angel of Genius are going to win that division! {"Owe Myyyyy Goddddddddddd! How much do we now owe God??"} So crack open--whilst your partner hoofs it--an ice-cold Bud Light from that heavenly ice chest in the trunk of your Cloud 9 car, O Reverend Misters Best Evangelical Co-Faith Healers Ever, because like no other human beings in history, you two have been "touched by an angel." {Mis-tersss All-of-a-Sudddddd-den Just-Now-In-vennnn-ted Vol-State "Reeeeeee-lay Teeeeeeeam"!} 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: www.contemporaryinsanity.org/audio-video/bud-light-real-men-of-genius.html There's that and, of course, some real danger that yours troubly's course record for slowest-possible-ever-finishing-time-on-the-course is in real danger of being broken!'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #59
[This one--or is it two?--presented itself the other day. And again, I just can't resist. Also please, "fictional characters that bear no resemblance to real-life characters," take no offense! OK? ;-] Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss} Today we salute you, Messrs. All-of-a-Sudden Just-Now-Invented Vol-State ...
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Jul 23, 2010
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Jul 30, 2010
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7813
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[How could I possibly resist? ;-] Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss} Today we salute you, Mr. Impossible-Even-To-Believe Vol-State Inventor and Race Director. {Mis-ter HOT tenn-ness-ssee cross-staaaaate foot-raaace in-ven-torrrr!} Three hundred and fourteen complete and entire miles, on foot, in ten days, and kitty-corner across the full State of Tennessee in the middle of July. You have got to be out of your mind. {It reeeeea-ly stands for a hunnn-dred times "pi" wiiiiiith-out a-ny ex-tra dec-i-mallllllllls!} You're imagining, of course, that there actually IS some slim statistical chance that someone will remotely, actually survive. At least we can remotely assume this; but, of course, if THIS is any indication of just how your mind does work, we'd rather actually not assume. Not anything. Not ever. Not in this life or the next, nor on this earth or the next. {Verrr-ry fewwwwww can hope to liiiiiiiiiive to tell aaa-bout iiiiiiiiiiiiit!} Blisters? Hot pavement? Mean attacking "junk yard dogs"? Please. The only things your wickedly concocted footrace possibly DOESN'T have are discount coupons to any of the local funeral homes. {"Wheeeeeeeeeere would-you-liiiiiiiike-us-to-ship-the bodddddd-y?"} And daily you report to us such pearls of wisdom as "he was happy" and "so-and-so was sleeping behind a burger joint"--no doubt for eternity--and "the long walk is like shaking a box of crackers thru a sieve." But of course, all of our crackers just scream when we do this, which, of course, is something else we've never done. {Sommmmme of the crack-kers wiiiith-arms-and-legs gettttttttt stuck!} So crack, yes, open an ice-cold Bud Light from the front seat of your pace car, O Culinary Master of The Jedi Pedi, because while you are text-messaging the profundities of your roadway philosophy, twenty billion shoeless and starving children are dying in China, while only just over a dozen are doing it right there. {Mis-ter Im-posss-sibb-ble-E-ven-To-Bee-lieve Vol-State In-vennn-tor an' Race Di-wreck-torrrrrr!} 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: http://www.contemporaryinsanity.org/audio-video/bud-light-real-men-of-genius.html Here's the one I like best: "Mr. 80 SPF Sunblock Wearer," which today... might just actually BE rather appropriate!'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #58
[How could I possibly resist? ;-] Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss} Today we salute you, Mr. Impossible-Even-To-Believe Vol-State Inventor and Race Director. {Mis-ter HOT tenn-ness-ssee cross-staaaaate foot-raaace in-ven-torrrr!} Three hundred and fourteen complete and entire miles, on foot, in ten days, ...
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Jul 19, 2010
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Aug 27, 2010
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7601
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3 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[Fiends, roamins, cross-countrymen, lend me your eyeballs. Today's "offering"---yo, I usually get the feelin' I'm trying to "sacrifice (stuff like this) to the angry gods," so that they'll redirect their tornadoes somewhere else---was actually first suggested by Joe Judd, who, if I understand anything at all, MAY right now be running Hardrock. Anyway, Joe'll see this whenever the wolves have left his door and he has, once again, a little more time to unlax. And BTW? Thanks, Joe. You're a pal.] Ingelhook Wineries present... REAL WOMEN OF GENIUS {Real gals of geeeeeene-yuss} Today we raise our glass to you, Miss Earphones-Wearing Runner Who Has No Clue What She's Listening To. {Miss haaaaaaaas-en't got-a-clue whaaaat-the-heck she iiiiis lis-ten-ing toooo!} Of course it's nice to see you out here with the rest of us, slogging boucou obsquattamatillion endless laps around this pond for the next 24-to-48 entire hours; but did you also feel obligated to SING? {"I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I jus' lov-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-e tooo sing-a-long-with thissssssssssss song!"} "You cooked Mick Hall not long"? "You cooked Mick Hall not long"? Or is it: "U-mistook-my-Haul lite wrong"? Really?? We appreciate how intently you're listening to your iPod and entertaining us by loudly repeating whatever you hear, of course; but did you even know the words to AC/DC's endlessly, ENDLESSLY repeated chorus in the first place? {Weeeeeeeee al-ways thought it was "shook me"!} "I want a no, have ewe Eva peed Lorraine, coming down from Sunny D?" Please. Even we could tell Creedence Clearwater Revival wasn't singing THAT back in the day, and we were all stoned out of our heads. {Mayyyyyyyyyyyy-beee you WERE borrrrrrn in a buy, you?} We run like crazy to get ahead of you, of course, but on our very next lap? There you are again! Singing, at the top of your--rather formidable--young lungs, something we're pretty sure we've never heard before, and takin' a pretty good guess you're not hearing it either. {Yoooooooou might-just-have the worrrrrrrrrrrrds wronnnnng?} So ease your cork out gently from that "pretty cool" bottle of White Zinfandel, O Madonna of the Chorus, because--even though you appear to be ADHD--we all pretty well know that what you're really doing is marching to the beat of a different--a very, very different--drummer. {Miss Ear-phones-Wear-ing-Run-ner Who Has Noooo Clue What-ev-ver She's Lis-ten-iiiing To!} 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: http://www.contemporaryinsanity.org/humor/bud-light-real-men-of-genius.html And wouldn't you know, today's not about beer. Today is all about taking your pleasure "on the rocks." Like, whine. Whine on the Hardrock(s). Good luck to everyone "out there" now... oh, probably somewhere lookin' up--high up--their third mountain.'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #57
[Fiends, roamins, cross-countrymen, lend me your eyeballs. Today's "offering"---yo, I usually get the feelin' I'm trying to "sacrifice (stuff like this) to the angry gods," so that they'll redirect their tornadoes somewhere else---was actually first suggested by Joe Judd, who, if I understand anything at all, MAY right now be running Hardrock. Anyway, Joe'll ...
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Jul 9, 2010
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Aug 27, 2010
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7506
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss} Today we salute you, Mr. Bluetooth Earset Wearer and Talker While Working-out Runner. {Mis-ter ennn-ter-taaaiiii-ner of the whole darn raaaaace!} Pardon us for interrupting your most important conversation, but do you think you could possibly stop yakking just a second to listen, to be aware of your surroundings, and let us pass? {"I'mmmmmm try-ying to get the baaaaase-ball scorrrrrrrrrrrrres!"} "I am now passing the two-mile marker, sweetheart!" Please. Has your "sweetheart" been hired by CNN? Is she giving live feed to the cable network via satellite? Is she uploading all your voice transmissions as live eyewitness on-the-spot road and/or trail running reporting? {"This iiiiis John Cam-er-on Cam-er-on dowwwn-towwwwwwn!"} What could possibly be so important to yak about, so as to stack up three hundred runners behind you, poking along that super-skinny single-track trail throughout the biggest woods in Virginia, who cannot possibly get by you--because YOU CAN'T HEAR THEM!! {Mayyyyy-be some-one should jus' tack-le your ass liiiiiike in foot-balllll?} "I think I left my billfold in the nightstand drawer underneath Gideon's Bible. Yes! For safety. Did you check-out yet?" Pause. "Yes, I am VERY concerned that Junior is having to pee his pants!" Pause. "Do you think you could talk the maid into letting you back in?" Such snippets of wisdom. Such conversational brilliance. And we also appreciate your talent for adjusting the tone of your voice so as to better enhance your color commentary on the impending catastrophe. {"Was he reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeal-ly out at home plate?"} We're not sure, but you could also be that fitness guru we trip over in the health club--while you're not so much doing sit-ups as yakking to your ladylove on your earphone. And when you hop up on that treadmill? Nobody watches the TVs anymore, because they're all straining to pick up on those pearls of wisdom being broadcast by your mouth! {"SWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-TEE, can you hear me NOWWWWW?"} So crack open an ice-cold Bud Light afterwards, O 21st-Century Descendant of Alexander Graham Bell, because while you have been so entertaining to those health-clubbers around you, you are currently pissing off everyone--and everything--who are now trying to run in the George Washington National Forest. {Mis-ter Blue-toooooth Eeeeeear-set Wear-rer and Talk-ker While Wor-king-out Run-nerrrrrrrrrrrr!} 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: http://www.contemporaryinsanity.org/audio-video/bud-light-real-men-of-genius.html. And by the way? A tip of the old tri-cornered hat goes out to whatever geniuses in American history decided that July 4, 1776, was "Independence Day." That actually was nothing. That's when the war with England officially BEGAN. Real independence only came AFTER the war was won (duh!), specifically when Good Ol' Ben Franklin & Co. signed the Treaty of Paris with King George's peeps on September the Third, 1783. Google it to reassure yourselves, and have a nice holiday weekend!'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #56
Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss} Today we salute you, Mr. Bluetooth Earset Wearer and Talker While Working-out Runner. {Mis-ter ennn-ter-taaaiiii-ner of the whole darn raaaaace!} Pardon us for interrupting your most important conversation, but do you think you could possibly stop yakking just a second to ...
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Aug 27, 2010blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='sys_update', rowValue=''
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6519
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5 hrs ago
blip 2/15/17 18167 rowField='story', rowValue='[Friends, I am NOT supposed to be here--figuratively and, perhaps, literally. I'm supposed to be doing "The Beer Run." However, this past Wednesday--naught but three long exasperating days ago--in fact just after having posted my tribute to Scott Jurek--directly above this house roared an F1 tornado. Talk about "learning how to dance in the rain"!!! Anyway, that helps to explain today's "day late and, so far, 20,000 dollars short," but this special edition is dedicated to Paige Troelstrup, who IS running The Beer Run and who sweetly suggested half-a-week ago that maybe this Beer Run could yield another RM/WoG. Quite the prophetess, eh? So, yeah, this Beer Run has in fact upchucked another "inspiration," but certainly NOT in the way imagined.] Bud Light presents... REAL MEN OF GENIUS {Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss} Today we salute you, Mr. "The Most Interesting Man in the World" Writer. {Mis-ter, "howwwwwww can yooooooooooooou be so up-beat?"} "Positivity Wednesdays"? Dude, what kind of surreptitiously grown plantlife leaves have YOU been harvesting, compacting, rolling, and smoking? The last thing you did "positive" on a Wednesday was pay your real estate taxes. {WHOA!! Look out! Therrrrrrrre's a storm commmmm-ming!!!} "Learning to dance in the rain," you write? Please. Just how does one dance in the driving sideways sleet that fronts the leading climatological edge of a class one tornado? You do the "Hokey Pokey" perhaps. You put your left leg out and some storm door shears it off; that's what it's all about? {Mayyyyyyyyyyybe it's just "twist-ing a-gain like-we-did-last-sum-mer!"} Listen to you. Sitting all high and pompous upstairs in your second floor office, transmitting "positive vibes" over the cyberwaves, pretending as if any peeps anywhere pay any attention at all to your slack-jawed awe gushed over sundry running heroes; meanwhile the storm is vibrating your foundation right out of its rivets, big trees are smashing your van roof, and that giant redwood is taking down your back porch--which *was* all decked in redwood. {"We uuuuuuuused to watch Jul-y Fourth fiiiiiiiiiire-works from there!"} So it must be payback time from the flora and fauna's union of Park Fricking Forest. Big lightning bolts are frying your breaker panels, wind is whipping down the power lines, and who-knows-what happened to your DSL-activated telephone land line--but meanwhile? That twister just did its "dance" right over your roof. {How lowwwwwwwww can yoooooooooou go in the Lim-bo?} So crack open a lukewarm Bud Light after you clear a path from your stairs to your kitchen and that powered-down fridge, Oh Mister Positive Rogers, and put on a sweater and change your running shoes, because, really, as far as a nice day in the neighborhood goes? This one's about to turn into Red Cross Nightmare Village for about the next month and a half. {Mis-ter "Theeeeeee Most IIIIIIIn-terrr-res-ting Man-in-the-Worrrrrrld" Writer!} 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: It occurs to this Yankee that there may even be some few "peeps" out there who HAVEN'T heard the original "pipes": http://www.contemporaryinsanity.org/audio-video/bud-light-real-men-of-genius.html Have a nice weekend, everybody--especially those doing Western States AND, of course, "The Beer Run."'
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Real Men/Women of Genius #55
[Friends, I am NOT supposed to be here--figuratively and, perhaps, literally. I'm supposed to be doing "The Beer Run." However, this past Wednesday--naught but three long exasperating days ago--in fact just after having posted my tribute to Scott Jurek--directly above this house roared an F1 tornado. Talk about "learning how to dance in the rain"!!! Anyway, ...
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