Trump: “He’s a bum, he’s terrible. I hate Botendaddy! I love Botendaddy. He’s a gem!”
Obama: “All Americans can hardly bear to watch how sad his running has become.”
Ghost of Arlen Specter: “According to Scottish Law, Botendaddy’s running is ‘Not Proven’.
CNN: “Botendaddy’s Running was hacked by Putin.”
Code Pink: “Botendaddy is a fascist!”
“Botendaddy! What are you doing? You’re running at like three miles an hour.” Said the Punker Model Writer Chick.
“I’m daydreaming. I hate this. I have no desire to run any more.”
“You’re so old. I don’t know why I hang out with you. I think I’m avoiding men my own age. You’re like ten years older than my dad.”
“I don’t get it either. All of you should be hanging out with someone your own age. It’s not my fault. We are all in the writer’s workshop. I don’t tell anyone who to hang out with. The professor is 75, we hang out. If I’m too old for you, find someone else to spend time with.”
I was lumbering up the steep hill. She was right next to me.
“I’ll do what I want. Don’t tell me what to do. You aren’t my dad you old, shitty, slow, talentless bum. I’m a free agent, I can do what I want…”
She droned on and on shouting at me, pointing, punching my arm. She was quite attractive but clearly insane. Why wouldn’t she go away? Why was I still running? I said the only thing I could think of (ending a sentence with a preposition, but since it was a Germanic-root compound verb it was OK) “Bonino! Bonino! Bo-ni-no-o!”
“You’re an idiot. Now I know why we all hang out with you… BECAUSE ITS IMPOSSIBLE TO CONVINCE ANY NORMAL PERSON TO GO RUNNING! Now make love to me, damn you, you shitty old, decrepit goat!”
My run times were awful and getting worse. Should I give up running?
Obama: “Every great American has quit running. But you are no great American, Botendaddy.”
Trump: “He’s terrible. I love him! I hate him!”
Peace be the Botendaddy