My knees were killing me. I hadn’t run for about five days. I split a Tibia from the top down in Iraq, cracked a ball and socket in Bosnia. No, for real, I did.
I had surgery back in I think maybe 2009? But every now and then it is still quite painful. I will probably run tomorrow.
I was carrying a large 1970’s boombox in my knapsack playing ‘Born to be Alive‘ Patrick Hernandez, © CBS 1979.
So, I decided, against my better judgment to walk on the little path through the swamp. Ah to breathe the shitty, rotten air of ancient macabre decay. It reminded me of the loneliness of some dark elegy of early heraldic 19th Century romantic loss. I arrived in the densest, foulest part of the brackish fen, when I peered through the briars and I saw her, a sorrowful, lonely woman sitting just off the trail up in a hunter’s stand. She jumped down to the trail to approach me. She was wearing super-tight sweats and she was carrying binoculars around her neck. As she got close, I realized that it was the CEO. The CEO of what, I’m not sure. I think maybe a large bank of some kind.
She stood arms akimbo and she angrily shook her dark black hair. She was sporting a very tight body for her age, (She is still younger than me of course) but also a very obvious camel-toe. I tried to avert my eyes, but it was far too late, I had seen the enormous, gaping, hideous, delectable camel-toe.
“See something you like there fat-boy? You shitty pervert. Hmm, Botendaddy. You know you want to ravage this sumptuous body, you fat slob. I’ve been waiting here for you. I could hear your shitty music a half-mile away. Seems you’ve been seeing some others behind my back? Oh, allow me to recite (she said looking up and counting on her fingers) The Stalker, The Librarian, Ramon, The Park Ranger, The Punker-Model Girl to name a few. You’ve been busy… CHEATING ON ME YOU SWEATY, ANCIENT, BLOB OF FAT!”
“Cheating on you? I barely know you, and I barely know those lunatics either, you freaking psycho. Why don’t you get out and meet people?”
She looked me up and down. I was wearing powder blue hospital scrubs (for no reason).
“So looks like you’ve lost a few pounds of disgusting lard, what’s your secret, you hulking mass of blubber? You smelly, tasty, zesty missing link.”
“I’ve lost 3.8 pounds. Well, you know I’ve been counting calories, but one easy trick, is to give up your two favorite vices. My two favorite vices are chocolate in any form and super-high calorie gourmet coffee. You can save over a thousand calories a day…a day, mind you. But remember, please make sure you consult a licensed, I repeat, LICENSED Physician before you start any diet program.”
She jumped on me, knocking me on my back on the trail and she started, groping me, pawing at me like a wild animal. She was drooling all over my neck.
“Well my two vices are making money. Lots and lots of money… and you, Mr. Botendaddy, critic-boy: you are my vice as well! You lazy, fat, repugnant, slobbering, ignorant, smelly Frankenstein. MAKE LOVE TO ME NOW! I COMMAND YOU! YOU IGNORANT NOTHING! YOU MEANINGLESS PILE OF FILTH! TAKE ME! CAN’T YOU SEE THAT I’M CRAZY ABOUT YOU!”
She shrieked at me in CAPITAL letters.
I gathered my wits and I threw her into the fetid, shitty mud and I made a run for it, the whole while playing ‘Freak-a-zoid‘ by midnight Star ©Unidisc Music Group, 1983. She chased me for a while and almost caught up to me, but I threw a canteen cup of water in her face and she collapsed to the ground shrieking: ‘Look what you’ve done, I’m melting! I’m melting! What a world!”
Peace be the Botendaddy.