‘I was caught driving behind a ‘Sloak’ on the way here. That’s a word meaning ‘Slowpoke’ but shortened.’ He had really ‘Slown’ down. You see, when an old man wears a hat, it constructs blood flow to the right foot, causing the foot to contract off of the gas pedal, thus causing ‘Sloakish’ driving.” Said the WFDC as we ran on the trail.
“I think you are joking, I hope. Why am I running so ‘Sloakishky’? I feel like that anxiety dream where you try to run, but you can’t move.” I said.
“You are just running for mileage today, so psychologically you don’t care about speed. Plus, it got cold and you are used to running in heat. 87 degrees the other day and 50 today.”
“Running is worthless for losing weight. You burn like 800 calories on a four mile run twice a week and then blow out all the calories you burned on one big meal or a few snaxx.” Inpontificated.
“Listen, shit-heads, I’m tired of your shit-covered whining. Noone cares about you fake syndromes. Here:
1. Sleep Apnea = Sleeping while fat.
2. Celiac’s disease = statistically so rare it is almost non-existent.
3. Plantar fasciitis = your feet hurt, so butch up, Mary.
4. ADD = can’t pay attention.
5. Learning Disability = stupid.
6. Alcoholism = Not a disease.”
The No One Cares Lady had joined us out of nowhere.
The run was horrible. We average 11:15 per mile. I had no energy.
“You’re an ass.” Said the WFDC to the NCL.”
“No one cares what you think you freakish foreign Himalayan Mountain-twat.” Offered the NCL.
“I will beat the faeces from you, you shit-covered devil-woman!”
I ran in between then to keep them separated.
We hit two miles around 23:30. Horrible.
“I can smell your pungent, reeking, del.ic.io.us adult diaper. You should change it later and clean off that massive, copious, brounuous, rotting bowel movement. How can you run like that? Ah the smell of it! But no one cares…”
“Iced Nutmeg Latte?”
Peace be the Botendaddy