Los Varados: A Tale of Run Number 600

“Los Varados, it is eSpanish for ‘the stranded ones’. That is who we are mis amigos. Botendaddy, you are the singularly most del.ic.io.us man-fleisch I have ever seen. I am madly, passionately, romantically in love with you.” Soliloquatified Ramon.

“I think Botendaddy shit his pants. I think he made an enormous, brownuous, steaming, tasty, muscular bowel movement in his del.ic.io.us adult diaper. He is the sexiest man alive, he is MINE, you shitty homo Tierra Del Fuego Argentine Penguin-F&cker!” Said the Voat Fat People Hate Verified Shitlady.

“Eat filth you miserable Carribbean territorial American wannabe icky icky girl with your smelly stinky v491n@ parts. I say yuck! Yuck to you!” Answered Ramon.

“Will you two shitheads shut the f&ck up?” Said the librarian.

“Its Botendaddy’s 600th run since May of 2005! Number 600! But I’m freezing my v@91n4 off.” She continued.

img_6525

The coal chute

“No-one cares about Botendaddy’s tasty shit-filled diaper. No one cares about his stupid run number 600. He should make love to me and not to you three stupid nitwit fucktard douchebag twats. I hope you get run over by a big Mack Truck trimultaneously.” Added the No-one cares lady.

My first mile was lackadaisical, maybe 9:37. We wound our way through the sub-rural neighborhood. We were shadowed by a loud, smellifulous garbage truck driven by shitty derelict, unshaven, deviate, perverted, creepy queer gay homo garbage men who ignored the women and started at Ramon’s muscular buttocks and my giant adult diaper.

Botendaddy's office at the University

Botendaddy’s office at the University

The second and third miles were worse, almost as bad as the company I kept. Ramon was right. We, the erstwhile (no-one knows what that word means-ever) intrepid members of the Pitt Bolean Nationality Classroom Writer’s Workshop were Los Varados (pronounced Ba-Rah^-Dos, rising intonation on the Rah), we were stranded, like when I was stranded at the shitty airfield in Al-Kut in Iraq back during the war. I was like Camus, one of the great French desert writers.

“Watch where you are going, Botendaddy! You almost got hit by that gay garbage truck.” Said the librarian.

“He’s dreaming about being Camus again.” Added Ramon.

“He’s a stupid fat Laardvark with Beetus brain deathfat heffalump hamplanet talentless, vapid idiot. Oh lord Beetus strike him dead!” Shrieked the VFPHVSL.

4.46 miles. It was 33 degrees, snowing and humid. I just didn’t have the energy.

“Hot tub?” Asked the librarian.

“Horchata?”

Peace be the Botendaddy

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About Botendaddy

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

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