It was hot out.
“Sure is hot out today.” said the Punker Model Writer Chick. “So don’t be releasing any Bowel Genies while we run.”
“Ah, the Bowel Genie!” Chimed in Hiroyuki. “It is a giant, twisting, laughing brownuous cloud of rotting bowel gas emanating from a reeking adult diaper. Ah the smell of it! In ancient Japanese legend it is told that there was a Samurai, NOT A RONIN! A SAMURAI! Who was on his way from Tokyo to Naoshima Prefecture. He was traveling with a group.”
We started running. Not only did I have no energy, but I really didn’t care about the run. It was just to rack up mileage.
“Hiro, please don’t tell this story. You are even more disgusting than the Botendaddy.” Said the PMWC woefully.
“PMWC, at least I clean my stinking fish-taco more than once a week. I wonder why you don’t get more yeast infections with your filthy shitty twat. Wash your shitty yeasty clothes, too, you stupid brat.” Barked Hiroyuki.
I separated the warring girls before they killed each other. The one mile time was lame, about 11:40. We were running a steep uphill in 84 degree heat.
“Listen, girlies, I was at a funeral for some guy I barely knew. He had been a funeral home director. He had drug and alcohol problems. Apparently, it affected his family greatly over the years. I never knew any of this. All I knew about him is that he took care of the funeral for me for free when my baby died. Most people in the audience knew nothing of his problems. But the family proceeded to air it out in front of the shocked mourners. Very inappropriate. De mortuis nihil nisi bonum dicendum.”
Two miles was about 23:30, still mostly uphill.
“I agree. The reality is that it only makes the family look bad and it is awkward for the guest. Bad mojo.” Said Hiroyuki.
“Right. I’m a Dutch blue blood. Appearances are everything. Etiquette is a way of showing that you care about the feelings of others, it’s not about putting on airs. And by the way I showered this morning and I washed my filthy twat, Hiro. Do you want to whiff it make sure it’s clean?” Said the PMWC.
Three miles was awful 37 something. I’d been sick about a week. And I worked out immediately before the run. Who knew why I was so lame? Heart rate? The hamstring tear had healed.
“Allright, who released the Bowel Genie?”
Peace be the Botendaddy