A horrible humid hill run

The Parkour guys were outside the University Research Center.

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Extrême Parkour

They hang out there from time to time. We don’t mind them at all.

I was with the CEO.

“It’s awfully hot and humid. You are going to overheat in that enormous, gargantuan, huge, del.ic.io.us adult diaper. Imagine the sweet-hot, zesty, sweaty, yeasty stench… I can almost taste the diaper! I am hungry for pungent Boten-diaper!” Said the CEO 👩‍💼  as we stretched.

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New high performance data processing equipment

“Don’t you have something to do? Like move money around?” I said.

We ran past the first University, then down into the gully. No train 🚂 thank Khufu.

The plan was to do hill 🏃 running and fart 💨 👅 licks. (fartleks n. Nor. – smarmy European interval training).

“Botendaddy, you are a shitty, shit-covered, adult-diaper wearing, pathetic slow runner. It looks like some kind of giant lumbering prehistoric beast in its death 💀 throes.”

First mile 9:00 despite running downhill – horrible.

Then, as if on cue, the MapMyRun™ app from UnderArmour® involuntarily ‘paused’ again for no apparent reason and I had to track the time from my watch. It was so hot and humid that I stopped at the water fountain, like a shit-covered, snarling, mangy, mongrel, cur, spit-on-head-by-the-Outlaw-Josey-Wales© dog. (Pronounced Joe-see, the ‘s is soft).

Second mile 19:46 – minimally acceptable, then we hit the ‘Jail Trail’ along the river.

“What is it? Over 80° Fahrenheit (That’s something, some degrees Celsius, whatever the f*&k that is – “I’m not a Jacobin, so I don’t give two f*&ks about the Bolscziewieczk metric system. What is it today, the 37th of Brumaire?)” Asked the CEO, replete with actual parenthesis while she was talking.

Dominant, muscular Napoleon Buonaparte (Pronounced Bone-uh-pahr-tay) on the 37th of Brumaire at 9 degrees Celsius

We hit the hill of doom. It was horrible.

It went up.

And then up.

And then up some more…

And then it went up.

Three mile time, horrible.

5k time horrible.

We ran past the University. We had been Fartlekking every other minute. (Fart-licking)

“Botendaddy? Don’t you think my body is perfect for my age? I mean look at it. LOOK AT MY BODY YOU DECREPIT OLD F*&K!”

She pulled her shirt up to expose her rather firm breasts.

“Stop it! There are kids Parkour-ing around her for god’s sake. I work around here, you stupid tw@t!” I shouted, while muffling my voice with my hand.

She started to pull out the front of her running shorts to expose her steaming, naked, refreshingly yeasty, reeking, sweaty, dripping (and entirely otherwise appetizing), rotting 51m14n v491n4 (pronounced simian vah-jeen-uh).

“Stop it! Why don’t you hang out with normal men your age, like executives and other business people or politicians or whoever you rich people hang out with?” I inquired.

We stopped in front of the museum (pronounced Muhz-z’yum).

“Botendaddy, none of them are over six feet, low body fat, in-shape, still have hair, have huge p3n1535, are self-sufficient, academic, military, have huge inherited estates high upon a hill. F*&k me goddamn you! I am a woman! I need it! You disgusting, sweaty, sweet-hot, diaper-wearing Frankenstein! Make me feel like a woman, goddamn you!”

“Coconut Mocha?”

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, Dining, Exercise, Fashion, Food, People, Running, Technology, Weather and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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