It was cold today. Bone-cold. Windy, dry, sunny, but deliciously, bone-chilling, adjective inducing cold.
I like the cold, but one problem. To avoid being cold, I wore the following clothes:
- Neck warmer
- Full grey 1910-style old-school 100% cotton hoodie sweats
- UnderArmour™ shirt and pants
Probably adds at least six pounds. The excess weight is noticeable.
Needless to say there was no flukey quick running time today.
First mile: wasn’t bad, but not very good either. The dieting, lack of protein maybe is rendering me weak.
Second mile: included a steep uphill, it was atrocious.
Third mile: started well, but then, all of a sudden, out of the blue, I heard steps behind me.
‘Was it the psycho stalker-wench? Muscular Ramon? The crazy Librarian-broad? The creepy CEO-chick? The fabulous park ranger?’ I mused?
“Hi old fatty, half-dead grandpa, sh&tty old Sasquatch Botendaddy.Where’s your shorts, you smelly old creeper? You wore them the other day when it was unseasonably warm? You dirty old AquaLung™, creeping around the park. I see you are wearing UnderArmour™. It wicks away the sweat. What in the h3ll does wick mean? I never heard that word in relation to sweat. What a bunch of Madison Avenue phony advertising-word bullcrap.”
It was the wacko-model-writer-punker-dame. *hot* doesn’t describe her. Hollywood Starlet, New York runway supermodel, beauty queen good-looking.
At least we were running downhill as she harangued me. She was dressed in the usual, blue tassel cap, blue zippered bicycle shirt, spandex with extreme thigh-gap, cross-way-breezing, camel toe. Her camel toe was so graphically outlined that I hearkened back to Grey’s Anatomy. Not the TV show that I’ve never, ever watched, but the academic book. I may have actually seen her uterus and Fallopian tubes outlined by the spandex. It was too late to unsee it.
“I agree with you. ‘Wick’ is the fakest of fake words. I hate the feel of UnderArmour™. I prefer 100% cotton next to my delicate skin, but it does keep me warm for some reason. My Khufu, girl, shouldn’t you wear a running skort™ or something? Cover that thing up for Khufu’s sake. A Squirrel might try to hide in there, or better yet a full-sized groundhog and/or raccoon. possibly an entire coyote…”
“Shut up! Shut up! Oh yon Botendaddy, you vile, monstrous, diaper-wearing Franken-freak! How dare you insult my precious junk! You know how bad you want it. A decrepit, slimy, sweaty, *red-hot* old man like you, I can just imagine you slobbering, sweating, drooling all over my nubile body. Oh the shame, the degradation. Ah the smell of it!”
“I’m not wearing shorts because it’s cold, bone cold. No point in freezing, but the extra weight of the clothes is just enough to be annoying. I believe it can really slow you down.”
We jogged on down the hill on the trail. She was looking flustered, angry, psychotic.
“Your advice is boring and stupid.”
I was worried about her. There was definitely something wrong with her. Why else would she talk to your dear Botendaddy in the first place?
“Don’t you have any friends? Is there someone you can talk to? Have you ever even been on a date? You’ve never even kissed a boy have you?”
I tried to focus on the path and avoid the icy mud. I ran through the little tunnel past the kiddie park and up onto the bridge. I was hoping she would get lost in the woods. Instead, she began to shriek very loudly just as we passed the first University, where crowds of people were taking their children to the flower show:
“You miserable ag-ed freak! How dare you insult me in my self-imposed loneliness! You mock my misery! I’ll show you clothing, you want to see clothing New York critic-boy? Get a taste of these babies…. you horrifying carnival side-show freak. Do you want this bodeeee? Do you want this sexy boddeeee?”
She tried to expose her breasts, but I was able to pull off my sweatshirt and throw it around her in time to spare the children and nice families the horror of her firm, exposed, nubile, perfect, sweaty, glistening breasts. Did I mention glistening? It proved to be a mistake, as we kept running she pulled my sweatshirt tighter and sniffed it dramatically, shuddering and almost crashing into a vintage gas light.
“Oh Botendaddy, at your age, no woman may ever touch you again, you will never reproduce, you will die old and alone, with only your sh&tty laptop and your pathetic, third-rate, illiterate, poorly-written, bad adjective-stoked literary reviews to keep you company, you will be steeped in your own steaming, delectable filth…. I am your last chance at life! You crypt-keeper, you Edgar Allan Poe creation, you evil undead Monroeville Mall™ black-and-white mummified zombie! Ah… the stench of your long-dead malodorous musk, your hideous fetid smell of ancient death, your macabre, reeking swamp decay…I am madly, passionately head-over-heels in love with you, there… I said it! Mock my pain! I must have you now! Take me! Free me from my last shred of dignity Oh ancient one!”
We ran past the library. I was hoping beyond hope that we wouldn’t see any more children or families.
“Crazy *hot*-young-writer-model-punker chick, have you no sense of decency? There are children out here. Do I have to give you a spanking?”
“Oh Botendaddy…. Oh Botendaddy… spank, me oh yes spank me… I’m such a naughty girl.” She said shuddering and staggering in ecstasy.
I had just reached the four-mile mark. My time was mediocre at best. Another 12 pounds and I would be at a barely-acceptable running weight. While she was distracted, I ran up the steps into the public library. She chased me past shocked patron and librarians saying ‘shusssshhhhh’. I lost the punker girl in the stacks…for now. I saw an interesting old tome of New England Poetry. I pulled it from the shelves only to see a pair of angry glowing eyes.
Peace be the Botendaddy