Campus Circuit Run

I hadn’t run for a week due to a muscle tear of some sort in my right extreme, muscular pasty-white pimple-covered buttockeal-gluteal muscle.

I ran a 4K route around two University Campuses in the evening twilight.

It was warm, about 58 degrees. I used a few baby aspirin to dull the sharp pain. I ran very slow just to run. I must have looked terrible, as several other runners cheered me on for making the effort. It was kind of them. One runner wasn’t as kind, however.


She was obviously a college student out for a twilight jog. She had a perfect, lithe, super-hot body. She wore tight spandex with apparently no panties. ‘Doesn’t that chafe?’ I wondered out loud. She turned her punk purple-dyed-hair head towards me.

“It chafes no more then your enormous, filthy, reeking, yeasty, scrumptious adult diaper, Mr. Botendaddy. You disgusting, hideous, bloated, adjective-inducing, perspiring, old man. I am sickened with the thought of your huge, red-hot, old, sweaty, delicious, hairy body undulating, grinding, panting, slobbering on top of me over and over hour after hour like some shitty Jabba the Hut…”

“Get ahold of yourself young lady, for Khufu’s sake!”

“Oh Mr. Botendaddy, Mr. literature, Mr. critic like some character out of a bad Michael Chabon novel. All the young men want me at school. They stare at me in class, in the gym. I was a model you know. In New York. I didn’t need to come here, but only this city had the property literary milieu for me to prosper.”

“Redundant.” I muttered about her Chabon comment as we paced across the CMU campus, the scene of the crime so to speak. Young men and women turned they heads as we ran by, in order to either gawk at her amazing beauty or rather stare in shock at my fabulous, macabre horror. Beauty and the hideous shitty beast so to speak.

“Chabon makes Brian Celio look like Mark Twain.”  I observed.

“Oh Botendaddy, why don’t we run to my apartment. I have various ‘toys’. You see, I need you to utterly dominate me in every sense of the word. I need your hideous, vulgar, ancient smelliness to make me feel dirty and utterly degraded. I need my senses, my very soul to be putrified irredeemably with your rotting deathly stench”

“Look Miss, stop that. You know a woman loved me once. Many years ago…” I uttered dramatically, wiping away a wistful tear.

“I know what you need. You need to carefully nurse your lower body injuries. If there is an actual tear, signified by enduring severe pain you must seek the advice of a board-certified Physician. Otherwise, wait at least a week or do very low impact short workouts, but don’t exacerbate the pain and stop if it gets worse.”

“Oh Botendaddy, you talk as if you were at one time a licensed {REFERENCE DELETED} who lost his {REFERENCE DELETED} license due to an ‘incident’ so sick and depraved that it is now urban legend.”

“Completely false. I was never a {REFERENCE DELETED} and I was never in the Navy either. All abject lies.”

“Whatever…you stupid, fat, old, unnecessary-adjective-stoked, sickening, malodorous mountain of rotting, tasty, carnal flesh. I am tired of this jabbering! No man refuses me! I am the goddess of all beauty you fat slob! I love you against all reason! There I said it! I love you I love you I love you! You monstrous carnival sideshow freak! Take me right here right now! I yearn for you tragically! Ruin me! Defile me! Steal my very mortal soul! Oh thou hideous, green-glowing, demonic beast born of the fabulous Yog Sothoth!”

She crashed into a hedge while she was raving and I limped away into the gloaming. I was safe for now, but who knows whence I would ever encounter her verbal savagery again.

Peace be the Botendaddy





About Botendaddy

Three times voted extreme sexiest man acclamation. I run because I must...I must!
This entry was posted in Critic's Corner, Exercise and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s