Restoration of a 50 Year Old Preacher Curl Bench

Gather some cleaning supplies. Just clean off filth first. God only knows what’s on it. Clean as best you can, spider feces, dog feces, human feces. Dead bugs, stains, dirt. I bought the preacher curl for $9.99 at a thrift store. Gym quality probably would now retail for over $229.00. It’s the real deal, maybe a York from about 1972? Real leather. Then sand it down by hand as best you can. Then use the cleaning supplies to clean off the rust powder.

The tools

Use what you can find or buy. Get hand sanders, it’s easier.

The pads

I used leather cleaner. Wiped it down on both sides including the wood.

The frame end view

You’ll want flat black paint. It’s very old school and provide a fine sandy grip.

The frame side view

Paint wherever you see light rust. Then paint everywhere. Clean the bolts with some glass cleaner fluid. Then when it dries, clean it with something like WD-40.

Sticky Pads

The floor pads add a nice touch.

The final product

You will then have to reattach the pads and clean 🧼 the chemical filth off of your hands. I prefer Lava soap. Rips paint right off your hands.

Cleaning Products

Total time about and hour and a half if you use fans to dry the paint 🎨. Ventilate well or you will die.

National Archives: President James Earl Carter, III Appoints Botendaddy as Head of the Crisis Running America Program 1977

From the National Archives, Library of Congress, 32 Iowa Avenue, N.E., Microfiche Number 308-14.601(a) Executive Department. Excerpt of Telecast of Press Conference, James, Earl Carter, III, Fireside Chat, White House Washington, D.C., December (Pronounced Dekembroish) 22, 1977

white house
Photo by Aaron Kittredge on

”Ladies and Gentlemen the President of the United States 🇺🇸 James Earl Carter, III (Pronounced Khoar-thair)”

President Zhimmi Khorthair

“Hello… America… I come to you tonight as your President… throughout American… history, our strength has always been that… we come together… in times of crisis with ingenuity and creative spirit… to solve national challenges. We have a crisis. This crisis is of unhealthy sloth and gluttony that threatens the very basis of our democracy.

man wearing black tank top and running on seashore
Photo by Leandro Estock on

So tonight, here with the great American runner, Jim Fixx, I appoint Mr. The Botendaddy as Chairman of the President’s Crisis Running America Program (CRAP), under the auspices of the Department of Energy. He is truly full of CRAP.

Heraldic Eagle – Grand Army of the Republic

Goodnight and God Bless America”


Botendaddy: ‘On Running’ from the 1954 Chautauqua Running Symposium Reproduced here for the first time! Forward by J.P. Sartre

« Permettez-moi de vous souhaiter une bonne soirée ici à Canisius. Si je puisse que vous sériez mise à date à propos de l’issue philosophique de courir 🏃‍♂️ c’est le solution pour paix à l’âge atomique. L’enfer… c’est le Botendaddy… » « L’être en Botendaddy, c’est l’être en soi »

J.P. Sartre 1ère Juin, Mille Neuf Cent Cinquante-Quatre

Chautauqua Institute for Criminally Insane Physical Culture – Symposium on Modern Running in the Nuclear Age.

woman in blue shirt on water
Photo by Andy Vu on

Bertrand Russell: “I welcome you all to Lake Canisius. I know that this meeting has been anxiously awaited since its cancellation in 1938 due to the advent of social irrationalism. I welcome Professor Albert Einstein, Jean Paul Sartre, Jack Kerouac, Frank Lloyd Wright, Le Corbusier, Ernest Hemingway, Jean Genet, Robert Moses, Thomas Merton, Frä Pareczenethy and so many others, plus our friends from Tanglewood, Woods Hole and Dumbarton Oaks.

I introduce tonight, the eminent scholar and humanitarian Nobeel Proze Winner, The Botendaddy.”

Botendaddy in Buddhist Robes and Sandals 👡 humbly approaches the podium.

”Dearest friends, it is not my part to welcome 🙏 you as you are already welcome. I also would like to thank our hosts at CICIPC. I was at the last Symposium here in 1934. My journey has been a difficult one since my temple in Bishing Anurachal Pradesh in the British Raj was seized by the unnamed progenitors of social irrationalism from the unnamed nation in the Northwest Pacific.

Many have asked how we can become the path to peace ☮️? The theme for this symposium is “Running for Peace”.

photo of person running on dirt road
Photo by Orest Sv on

But is it vanity to say that we are ‘for Peace?’ Do we imply that we are morally superior? The Buddha said that to achieve ‘Ahisma’ “You cannot travel the path until you have become the path itself.” that if we run 🏃 peacefully that is sufficient to project peacefulness.

ancient archaeology architecture art
Photo by on

St. John of the Cross in his 11th Century treatise “The Dark Night of the Soul.” instructs us that when we run 🏃‍♀️ we achieve mindfulness in the mind-eye. But do we need other runners to run? The Buddha teaches: If you find no one to support you on the spiritual path, run alone. There is no companionship with the treadmill.

People have come to me on my mountaintop to seek wisdom. They ask: ‘why do you still run?’ The answer is in mindfulness… I run because to run is to become one with the mind

The Monk, Which Nhat Hanh has said: “Runners usually consider Running on water or in thin air as a miracle. But I think the real miracle is not to run either on water or in thin air or a treadmill, but to run on earth.

(Full text re-prints available from the CICIPC Society, Canisius, New York for $16.95 or $11.95 with an annual membership)

Peace be the Botendaddy

I’m not going to Write about Tree of Life for a While

This site was always about the following things:

1. Poorly-written stories

2. Running 🏃

3. Workouts 🏋️‍♀️

4. The adventures of the Writer’s Workshop

5. Posts based loosely on the humor of S. J. Perelman

6. Impressions on my service in Iraq 🇮🇶 with the 1st Cavalry Division 🐴

7. Stories and posts about my home state of New York mostly Cooperstown and the City

8. Stories and posts about my adopted home of Pittsburgh

9. Literary and Film critique

10. The Existential Nihilist Philosophy of Häär Doktor Doktor 👨‍⚕️ Pareczenethy

It wasn’t supposed to be sad. It was supposed to be funny and light-hearted and occasionally crude and silly.

I don’t have anything to offer anymore on Tree of Life. We were just like anywhere else. We were just like your Synagogue 🕍 Church ⛪ mosque 🕌 Temple…. Always complaining about nothing. Showing up late. Making fun of other Synagogues. Showing up really late. Internecine conflict. Showing up incredibly late. Making fun of the people Who were sitting around us during the high holy days. Cutting up with my daughter when we were supposed to be praying. Getting yelled at because my daughter never paid attention in Hebrew school. Getting her to Hebrew school late. Getting dirty looks from other congregants for cutting up during services. Reading the announcements instead of the prayer books. Getting yelled at by the rabbi for not showing up or showing up ridiculously late. Hoping the appeals for fundraising would stop. Showing up spectacularly late.

Peace be the Botendaddy

I was back at Tree of Life for the first time since the Massacre

It was early evening, in the dark and in the rain. Fall is here. Today, Halloween 🎃 would have been my mother’s birthday. She had once been with Dor Hadash Congregation which was also hit last Saturday. She had strong opinions about the world. Despite all the evil she knew that there was also good.

I thanked the police and I left a stone for a couple of the dead.

I stood with mourners in the rain, Robert Merton, the monk, once said that there was a shred of divinity in all faiths, and yes they were all there together in the relentless light rain, Christian, Jewish, Taoist, Buddhist… I don’t know. All in different levels of pain. All feeling wounded themselves.

I mostly just stared at the building. I scanned it for scars. How this place had been hurt, almost like a living creature that was badly wounded. It was like watching a friend who had been grievously injured and you didn’t know if they would recover or not.

I thought of my daughter in the purple chapel last year at her Bat Mitzvah, so beautiful.

It was absolutely unbearable agony to stand there. I thought it the worst vanity to feel my own pain, but for the first time I had to.

I don’t care about the person who did this. Does it matter who does such a thing? He could live or die and I don’t care.

Does it matter the race or religion of those slaughtered? Is it any less or more when it happens to anyone else? Does God care more or less depending on who is the victim? I don’t think so. I think he mourns for all his children equally.

Then I walked away in the rain and I saw all the children trick or treating in sight of the temple. And I realized that despite such evil in the world, there is also good.

Love to all of my readers.

Peace be the Botendaddy



Why Running Sucks

Hi 1. If I want to be my best as a runner, I probably need to be BMI 19-20 at most. Even within ‘normal’ BMI 25, that’s not a runner’s build. Don’t take this as health advice. See your licensed physician.

By the way, I once passed an Army two-mile run at a weight of 290. I’m a lot lighter now, but my theory is that you can run your best 5k only if your bodyfat is sub 8%.

I’ve been as thin as 172 as an adult and I could run a 5:45 mile. I dropped my weight down to 189 two years ago and I ran a 27:42 5k. But years ago I ran a 26:16 5k at 242. I may have been a lot stronger then.

I’m going to experiment as I lose weight, as I track my weight every time I run. The truth in ten years of record keeping, there is a direct correlation between my lower weight and faster run times.

Even when I was young and strong 💪 like sexual ❤️ 🇬🇷 greek bull 🐄  (Pronounced bhoull) from bad 60’s black and white movie 🎥.

By the way CORRELATION STRONGLY IMPLIES CAUSATION! IT IS THE RULE, NOT THE EXCEPTION! IT’S SCIENCE 🔬 GODDAMNIT AND I AM A SCIENTIST 🔬  👨‍🔬! 🧟‍♂️ Lightning ⛈ thunder, shrieks (shroakes?) like Valkyrie (Pronounced Wall-Kye-Rhee) to the sky 🌌 laughing 😝 madly. “yes master!” (Igor groveling like Gollum)

All I’m saying is that the lower my BMI the faster I’ve run over the past ten years. Of course, if your bodyfat is too low and you run very long distances you might drop dead due to a lack of fat stores. Or I’m just rambling. SEE YOUR DOCTOR 👨‍⚕️! THIS COULD BE ALL BULLSHIT! (ALL CAPS IN HONOR OF SCARY TOOTHLESS OVECHKIN – the anti-Malkin)

2. I read an article recently that bicycling and running 🏃‍♀️ can actually make you fat. The theory is it sets off an anthropological reaction that you need to store fat to chase the Aurochs! Jawohl! 👍 or Mastodon or dinotherium or whatever the fuck they chased, so you have to eat like crazy.

Walking is best for weight loss as it implies the Cro-Magnon (Pronounced Krough-Maggggggggggggggggggnon) is on the move and needs to be lean, as he (yes he! a massive phallus-centric creature, they were all male, and thus never reproduced, as there were zero females and their species were wiped out in one generation) is seeking scarce food sources. I MAKE UP MY OWN SCIENCE 🔬!

3. I went mountain biking again today on the trails. It was horrible. It’s not easy, is it?

4. I’m down 12 pounds on my latest diet. All 🌽  🌶  🍅 and fruit 🍉 🍌 🍎. Basically not eating anything that tastes good.

Peace be the Botendaddy


Remembering Jaco

I swore to do no more public literary reviews or reviews of the arts. I even was at Krause Gallery again in Manhattan this summer with Herr Rochibauld Sachse-Heutelier and Doctor Otsego, but I wrote no review.

One of my favorite memories of Bosnia is driving alone through the cool air, headed towards Sarajevo past Velez mountain playing my Weather Report™ CD.

My favorite tune was ‘Birdland’, but I’m now partial to Jaco’s rendering of Pee Wee Ellis’ ‘The Chicken’.

What a classic funky jazz piece.

It’s right up there with Herbie Hancock’s amazing ‘Chameleon’.

At any rate, driving alone windows down, feeling the cool air, packing my useless 9mm Beretta it was a good feeling.

Imagine spending 22 years waiting to do something and never getting to do it?

What if you ran for 22 years but were never allowed to enter a race?

What if you went to Law School or Med School or Engineering School and you never tried a case, treated a patient or built a bridge?

You get the picture.

So there I was, after hanging out in Luxembourg, Germany, France, Belgium, England, Ft. Riley, Ft. Sill, Ft. Drum, Ft. Benning, etc., but never did a damn thing in the operational environment.

Sure, I ended up in Iraq well after Bosnia, but what a feeling! To be there! To be doing it! Missions! Minefields! Confrontations! Idiots shooting at each other, but not at me. Dubrovnik! The old walled city! The Adriatic.

So there I was listening to the funky base of Jaco. And I remember.

I did pass my APFT and my two mile run on the trail recently cleared of landmines on Mostar Base, but that’s another story.

Peace be the Botendaddy

Tesseracts and the Fourth Dimension

I was sitting on a bench overlooking Montreal from on top of Mont Royal. The Adirondacks loomed in the distance.

“You know, Librarian, you can’t explain an abnormal situation to people who are used to normalcy.”

It was cold but dry. I liked the cold, she did not.

“What in the hell are you talking about?”

“Let’s say you work somewhere that your boss is literally insane, a psycho, they torment you every day. If you try to explain the situation to someone who works in a normal environment with sane, professional people, your friend will give you advice that only works in a normal place.”

The Librarian looked through one of the 25 cents pay-magnifiers.

“OK, example…”

“OK, in the Army we had this commander who ran the unit like a cult, never gave anyone any free time, micro-managed everything down to the lowest level, demanded inane time-wasting reports and asked mindless questions about idiotic minutiae. Not an evil person, but either OCD or quite insane. So if you explained it to someone from another unit, they cocked their head like a dog who doesn’t understand human speech.”

I put my jacket around the Librarian because she looked cold.

“Maybe I get it, I don’t know.”

“Like in Bosnia, I could be walking side by side with the Canadian and I would get threatening look or even verbal threats. The Canadian had no awareness at all because it wasn’t directed at him. Or the psycho boss I had at work who timed how long I spent in the bathroom and every time I asked for direction she would say I shouldn’t have to tell you your job, and we would have to guess the agenda.”

Ducks have no idea what you are saying to them


“Like in Twilight Zone when the little girl went into the Fourth Dimension or when the officers of the Caine went to visit Admiral Halsey. You can’t explain the inexplicable to people who only have normal as a reference. You can’t go over your crazy boss’ head if his boss or HR thinks your boss is wonderful.”


“OK, a tesseract is a cube in the fourth dimension. You can’t describe it to a person in the third dimension. It would be like explaining a cube to Flat Stanley, there is no frame of reference.”


“It’s about advice. The person who lives in normalcy always tries to give advice to the person who lives in crazy world. The advice giver doesn’t understand that the rules are totally different. If you’ve never worked for an irrational boss how can you give advice to the person who works for a crazy boss who is supported by even crazier management? If you’ve always been thin, how do you give weight loss advice to someone who has always been fat? If you run a five minute mile how do you give advice to someone who just started running, has bad knees and runs a thirteen-minute Mile?”

“I get it, crazy world has a totally different set of rules. Roberts Rules of Order don’t apply to street gangs, terrorists don’t follow the Geneva Convention and there is no Marquis of Queensberry Rules in a bar fight. You can’t give advice if you don’t know what the fuck you are talking about.”

“Correctamundo, hence the tesseract.”

“Shut up and f@&k me, you useless f&$cking idiot.”


Peace be the Botendaddy

Restoration of a 45 degree Leg Press and a Leg Curl Leg Extension Machine

So I ran that fast 5k yesterday.

I ran a 10k trail run a couple of weeks before that.

I’m still watching what I eat.

But I need to improve my leg strength.

I need that lower body work to get the extra kick I need to get my 5k down to 27:00 by year’s end.

And yes, I need to get my BMI down to normal, but I’m close.

Original Botendaddy Central Park Photo

A good leg routine for me is:

  1. Squats
  2. Deadlifts of some sort
  3. Calf Raises
  4. Leg Press
  5. Leg Extension
  6. Leg Curls

I sold my old leg press and leg extension about three months ago.

My home gym was lonely and melancholy.

I found an ad on an {unnamed site} where a guy was selling a rusted-out old leg press/leg extension machine and an old-school, rusty 45 degree leg press.

Costs and supplies are as below, you could obviously do it cheaper, but whatever.

Purchase price for both: $180.00

$60.00 for delivery.

Paint: 12 cans of white primer and white gloss: $48.00 (Home Depot, Walmart™ and Lowe’s)

Leg Extension/Curl after initial cleaning

Friction tape and foot grip strips (Lowe’s): $10.00

Plastic 2″ end caps (Sears™), washers and brass flanges (Sears and Lowe’s) (expensive but keeps the bolts from riding against the bare metal frame): $80.00

The primer on the leg extension/curl

Sandpaper, Clorox™ cleaning cloths, WD-40™, Brillo™ pads and wooden dowels $25.00 (Lowe’s™ and/or Home Depot™)

New 3-1/4 caster wheels from Grainger™: $70.00

Painting the frame of the leg press

One inch collars from Dunham’s™: $3.99

OK, roughly $500.00 total

Almost the final step

Long story short: TL;DR

Order the parts needed, buy the supplies needed.

Take apart the equipment by removing the pads and every part that can be unbolted and disassembled.

1. Step one: Remove as much rust as possible from the frames, footpad, rocker arms and bars with a power sander, sandpaper sponge and a sandpaper hand tool. Jam Brillo through the tubes with the dowel a few times. Doesn’t need to be perfect, just done. Then wipe it down with the Clorox cloths.

2. Step two: Any nuts, bolts, Allen bolts, washers etc., that are rusty, throw in a pan and cleanse with WD-40. Screw and unscrew all bolts when you are done, so they thread smoothly.

3. Step three: in a very ventilated area with exhaust fans, use the white primer until the frames and other painted parts are white everywhere. Spray into the tubes as much as possible. Top, bottom, inside, outside. Wait until dry, repeat with white gloss or flat paint. Hand paint instead if you like.

4. Step four: Once it is solid white everywhere, wait for it to dry. Next, clean the leather as much as possible. My finishing touch will be to restore the leather – clean and repair tears. I’m going to buy leather cleaner. Maybe in another post I will tell you how it went. I only cleaned the leather with Clorox cloths and I removed the biggest splotches of paint. I washed the leg curl/extension pads with soapy water. I cut off the padded hand grips as they were too tattered to be saved.

Awesome ‘Jack Reacher’-style urban Pittsburgh machine-age street scene

5. Step five: reassemble. Use bronze flange bearings so that the bare bolts of the smaller casters don’t rub against the bare metal holes on the leg press frame. Get all the casters on in the correct place on the foot pad. Make sure everything moves smoothly.

6. Step six: use friction tape on all hand grips. Use the grip strips on the leg press foot pad in a symmetric pattern so that it looks professional gym-quality.

7. Step seven: Insert all the end-caps where you can. Put plates on each machine. Put the one inch collars on the leg extension/curl plates.

The corrected leg extension/curl

Step eight: don’t screw up the reassembly like I did.

I’m using the machines right now.

The leg press was super-smooth.

The leg extension was ‘slown’ down by the paint, but it should be OK in due time. I may put some graphite in to smooth the motion.

Manhattan Winter Solstice

Peace be the Botendaddy


The Obscure and Mysterious Account of Mlle. Pym-Braithwaite-Smythe

It was in the City of New York, and the same-said County and State: “Excelsior!”, high above the teeming streets, that I was the only female attorney in the magnificent Law Offices of our hallowed, masculine, ancient, free and accepted Law firm of Carstairs, Synchon and Manderville. I found myself summoned to grovel low before the masculine, withered, gnarled and stately senior partners of said Firm to discuss serious matters of a private yet very important nature.

The Distinguished Firm

“It has been brought to our attention that the nubile free-spirited Mlle. C., daughter of one of our oldest and most prestigious and may I add wealthiest clients, a Monsieur C., known well to all of you, his daughter thus having been degraded and seduced by one not unknown to us. It is none other than one vile and depraved individual, I shudder at using the word gentleman, who is known by the name of ‘The Botendaddy’.

Unfortunately, scilicet scirelicet, it is due to his vast wealth and the macabre nature of his existence, that the local authorities are either unwilling, unable or otherwise ultra vires, to intervene. Ceteris paribus, I am called upon to ask that our senior female Solicitor, volunteer to undertake a perilous expedition by passenger train and then horse-drawn coach to his mysterious, mountaintop estate and in such manner of ruse, gather enough information to rescue the aforesaid maiden from his hideous clutches.

The senior barrister pointed to me and thus quoth he: “‘Aequam memento rebus in arduis servare mentem! May I remind you of his awesome and terrible powers. Should you fall prey to his seduction, I must warn you that your feminine ‘capacity’ must be beyond enormous to accommodate his massive masculine prodigiousness: homo giganticus enormarum.”

I felt it my turn to assure the firm that as a liberated, modern, strong, suffragettistical woman, being 87.3% of a human being under the State Constitution and 88.4% of a great ape, I was up to the task, both with my wit and my physiological capabilities. I stood in front of the hallowed council, as if I were speaking before the bar.

“Distinguished gentleman of the firm, I am five foot ten inches tall, most grand for a member of the fairer sex, may I also add that prior to my unfortunate divorce, I gave birth to three children. I assure you that the physical ‘capacities’ of which you speak can accommodate any manner of masculine endeavor no matter how titanically prodigious on behalf of said anguis in herba.You gentlemen, being of the superior, hirsute, masculine gender and thus superior to me in every way, are free to examine me, individually or en masse and sample my person more closely, in private, by any means to your satisfaction to determine my feminine worthiness for this task.”

The Train

The gentlemen being thus satisfied with my feminine prowess, I engaged a sleeping car on a train from Pennsylvania station. I traveled west for several days through strange deep sylvan woodlands and across the thick Allegheny Mountains and into the savage Laurel Highlands where the brutal, muscular and hirsute beast was known to dwell.

The journey was pleasant, but as we traveled westward, the towns became fewer, the habitation sparser and the woodland more dense.

By day, I observed many curious woodland creatures who appeared suspicious, yet unmoved by the approach of the giant machine. At night, through the drapes in my car, I could observe a lone wolf howling at the savage moon as if to announce our approach.

Arrival at Somerset

In the early morning hours, we arrived at the Somerset train station, where I disembarked. I was the only passenger to so alight and the station was deserted, yet perfectly clean and maintained in the highest order.

I summoned a coach to take me high atop the mountain to the abode of said wicked  Botendaddy. I inquired of the coachman if he knew of said Gentleman.

“Ah, yes Mum. I know him quite well. He is a gentleman of the highest order and most generous to the good people of this county. We only see him rarely though, and I pay me no mind to the comings and goings at his estate, if ye catch my meaning. Ye might be wise to turn back now, Mum, as ye appear to be a Lady of good family and fine breeding, if I may speak out of turn, Mum.”

I inquired further, but he closed his eyes, bowed low and escorted me into the coach.

The Botendaddy Manor Estates

After a long, inexorably deliberate climb up the mountain over many dangerous turns and switchbacks, the kindly old coachmen took my leave me at the gate.

A few of the servants of The Botendaddy mingled quietly, and did not look up, whilst they were ‘rhoakeing‘ an odd form of Tobacco herb from a strange pipe.

They seemed so distracted by this herb, that they seemed utterly disinterested at my approach.


“Lowly, servile, groveling, boy-servants!”

I called out to them, in the most polite respectful vernacular of the day. My bags had been deposited on the stone walkway by the coachman.

“Where is your lord of the Manor?’

The first boy came over and groveled like a peasant, bowing and scraping.

“I shall escort you to the butler, Mum, he is more fit to properly introduce ye to M’lord, it so being, M’Lady.”

I was escorted through the garden to the waiting foyer where the aged, distinguished Butler would be in attendance.

Enroute, I heard the ethereal hooting of savage, carnivorous owls that I could not see and I perceived the intermittent screech of Red-Tailed Hawks high overhead.

The massive, hoary trees seemed almost alive and as such, appeared to point their gnarled branches to herald my approach.

Upon my arrival at the foyer, the Butler, being impeccably attired, rose, then bowed low.

“Mlle. Pym-Braithwaite-Smythe, I shall have the groveling, peasant-servants fetch your baggage and the Maids shall make you a comfortable stay. I shall bring you to the tea room, as it is almost four in the afternoon and the Master always has tea served precisely at the stroke of four on the ancient clock.”

I was escorted through several magnificent rooms, each decorated with paintings in the romantic style of Géricault, depicting the long past heraldic, glorious Botendaddy ancestors, each in full, colorful regalia of the late heroic epoch.

Every room was equally magnificent, with the finest silver and perfectly-preserved antiques, many from the 18th century.

At long last, we arrived at the tea room, where a most exquisitely beautiful young woman of about 18, greeted me warmly, holding both hands and peering into my eyes.

4:00 Tea with the The Boten-Daughter

“M’lle Pym-Braithwaite-Smythe, I am the Boten-daughter, the only child and devoted adopted daughter of my dear beloved Boten-daddy. I am, as fate may have it, the last of the noble and ancient, free and accepted House of Boten. Some day when I die, the House of Boten shall perish with me, I am afraid. But enough of this melancholy talk, it is a breach of courtesy go on so. It is my custom to meet guests more cheerfully after such a long passage. I am certain that as you are duly tired from your journey, you might care for a refreshing tasse of tea, my dear?”

The Boten-daughter waived off the lowly maids and she poured me a tea to my liking. It was of a rare East Indian vintage and utterly divine.

“You are very beautiful M’lle, your sepia-tinted-photo-gravure-daguerreotype does not do you justice. But beware, Mademoiselle, the Boten-daddy is quite taken with feminine beauty. He can be quite disarming… (Even though he is a savage beast!) she whispered.”

“You too are utterly charming, young Boten-Daughter. O’ Venus! Goddess of Beauty! Your spectacular loveliness is a marvel far surpassing any description of purest feminine charms that I received heretofore in the cable I received from this Estate.”

She closed her eyes and curtseyed low in response.

Haunting harpsichord fugues of the immortal Bach, meticulously played, could be heard from a distant room. It echoed eerily throughout the Estate.

“So, your father, he is quite the musician?” I inquired, sipping my tea.

The Boten-Mommy

“Yes my dear, he loved to play for my mother. It is the first time in years that I have heard him play. I believe that news of your arrival has cheered him greatly.” The Boten-Daughter said wistfully. She pointed with a dainty, milky-white, lace-covered hand up at a portrait of the Boten-Mommy on the wall.

I stood up to examine the painting closely.

“She was a most exquisite creature, your mother. I pale before her beauty.”

The painting was indeed mysterious and the eyes, the eyes! Seemed to stare back at me as if ALIVE!

“Thank you M’lle. Mother was a lovely and unique woman. At times, late at night, I stand by the ancient altar at the cliff’s edge and when the wind blows gently on the mountain, I believe that I can still hear her voice whispering to me as if the house itself is in mourning of her passing. But alas, it is some trick or artifice of my spirit, I suppose. But I digress, you know, my dear Mademoiselle, that the Botendaddy, a known physical-culturist is accustomed to go running at 5:30 sharp in the afternoon. I understand that you too enjoy the pastime of running? There are many excellent trails on the grounds of this massive Estate. Often, I run with my father, but I have been slothful of late and abandoned him to run alone, I fear.”

“I brought my running gear, Miss Boten-Daughter, I anticipated that your dear father might like to run in the company of a lady, although I presume that he prefers your unsurpassed beauty above all others to accompany him on a long run.”

“While, I thank the Mademoiselle for her kind words, I must caution you my dear M’lle, that I have verified your 5k times, you are much faster than the Master. No matter what happens, do not ever run ahead of him. Not ever. If you should become separated from him on the mountain trails, it could become…perilous? And, it might be difficult to come to your assistance. I shall only advise you once, Mademoiselle, if you don’t think me appallingly rude for saying so.”

“No my dear, your cautious avertissement is nothing but the greatest kindness.”

I heeded her warning. I would pace the slow, hulking, muscular, hirsute,, fragrant Boten-daddy. At any rate, it would give me the chance to query him about the matter of Miss C. in the Socratic style, as was my wont.

We sipped the delicious tea and we consumed the sweet Scottish Biscuits in amiable silence.

The Botendaddy

After a fashion, I looked up with a start to see a magnificently frightening, green-glowing, muscular, hideous and terrifying, but nonetheless impeccably dressed in 19th century fashion, a hideous yet alluring Beast! It was the amazing, spectacular Botendaddy!

Some indescribable and most wicked delight came over me in a sudden feminine, estrogenic rush! the untoward and primitive quivering of my unspeakably aromatic and wicked, and ungodly, feminine parts, OH THE BOTENDADDY! OH MY HEAVENS THE BOTENDADDY, YES, YES, YES! I thought.

My mouth remained daintily closed, but my very soul erupted in feminine ecstasy! I could scarcely hide the rhythmic, hysterical, distaff contractions of my weak, utterly submissive, 19th-century fairer sex.

Could I do my duty to the firm? Or would I succumb to the vile, depraved, horrific magnificence of his effervescent masculinity and allow myself to be degraded and delectably defiled?

He kissed my hand in the old style of a proper gentleman, and the ecstatic sensation arose in me again with an explosive cascade of ecstasy.

My most intimate underclothes were now so be-sotted with the warm, liqueous effusion that it would appear to a casual observer, that I had lost all control of my urinary bladder in a most untoward fashion. I determined, to my horror, that I had in fact emptied my entire bladder in my uncontrolled dainty, feminine hysteria.

“Mademoiselle, you are truly a lovely creature. Welcome to my humble abode!” Said the Botendaddy, unaware of my disgraceful predicament.

“I thank you for your most courteous invitation, my dear sir.”

“I would be most pleased, if I am not imposing upon you my most beautiful Mademoiselle, if you would do me the kind service of joining this ancient, withered, yet turgid Botendaddy on my afternoon constitutional trail run.”

He bowed so low that his long, magnificent crop of hair almost scraped the marble floor. Ah the Botendaddy! The smell of him! I felt faint.

The butler noticed my horrifically embarrassing situation and he politely inquired of the Botendaddy if the lady might draw a bath before the run and be thus refreshed.

I was escorted by one of the maids to a delightful chamber, where a warm bath was awaiting. She took my soiled clothes to the wash chamber, making not a mention of their soaking wet, warm, humiliating aromatic condition.

During my bath at precisely 4:20, I smelled a strange odor emanating from the first floor along with strange laughter, low-toned philosophizing and the sound of ravenous beasts consuming some sort of crunchilious food-stuffs.

After my bath, during which I had so manupulated my person to relieve myself of much of the hysteria, I changed into my running clothes, along with my most exquisite incontinence underwear, so that I might join the terrifying Beast on the 5:30 run.

The Four Mile Run

We met at the gate. The Beast was in his 19th Century Under-Armour™ running gear. His pocket watch had an elaborately engraved ‘App’ called ‘MapMyRun’®, that would track our sylvan journey through the wooded mountaintop.

“I must advise you my dear, as I am certain my impetuous daughter has already thus apprised you, not to become separated, as there can be many dangerous ‘fauna’ afoot, and the trails can become treacherous in the gloaming.”

“Certainly, as your humble guest, I offer my self to you utterly in any imaginable way to your liking and I shall obey your every word with utter submissiveness.”

“Shall we?”

And with a wave of his hand we crossed the massive estate on a carefully sanded path that lead to an ancient gate into the dark woods.

According to my ancient time-piece, the Botendaddy was running at about a 9:45 pace per mile, just as I had suspected, from reading the ancient parchment race record of his recent past performances.

The trail was wider than I expected and very well maintained. Tree-roots had been meticulously removed, rocks removed or covered with dirt, holes filled in and drainage was perfect.

Yet the forest was dark. The Botendaddy did not speak as he ran until late in the second mile, when I assumed that the beast had finally caught his breath. We barely met 20:58 at the two mile mark.

Ancient Colonial stone mile markers designated each milepost with the surveyed perfection of none other than Monsieur General Washington, himself.

“Mademoiselle, would it most untoward of me to say that having your company at my estate brings me great joy? To have your intellectual conversation combined with your great beauty will make for a most enjoyable dinner this evening. You will of course join me in the parlor afterwards to listen to the Somerset String Quartet and sample some of our imported liqueur?”

How could I refuse? At any rate, I felt that it was my duty to submit to the Botendaddy and ensure that every desire, every vile lustful wish, every fantasy that I could pleasure him thusly was the very least I could do, both as a guest and as a Solicitor for the Firm.

All proper 19th Century ladies of good breeding were duty bound to so offer themselves up utterly in the most exquisitely degrading manner for the sake of their distinguished employers.

We ran deeper into the woods, it appeared that the Botendaddy wished to run a four-miler. His three mile time at 33:15 while not awful, it was nothing to cable New York about either.

The Ancient Stones

As we ran, I noticed that deep in the woods, were several macabre tombs, monuments of sorts, decorated with weeping angels and devout cherubs, peering skyward. Other, darker, more ominous monuments of earlier origin, were in the shape of strange altars, wicked pyramids and forgotten obelisks, so adorned with the most evil, shocking and unspeakable creatures.

Then an icy fear slowly gripped my mortal soul. Would the firm have delivered me as an unholy sacrifice just to satisfy a wealthy client? What if this sequence and strange arrangement of ancient and hoary stones stood to conjure the unspeakable old one! The shocking Yog Sothoth!

The last Mlle of the trail was close enough to the precipice that a long tumble would send an unsuspecting runner plummeting to their demise. As the trees opened, there was so revealed a breathtaking panorama of the valley below and the ancient village of Olde Uniontowne.

The Botendaddy picked up his pace as if to avoid the ignominious 47 minutes four miler, but in the end we arrived at a meadow where the fourth mile marker signified the end of our run. The Botendaddy appeared tired but invigorated as we checked our pocket-watches to reveal a time of 45:45.

The Botendaddy bowed low and took my hand. I curtsyed and blushed as his powerful, sweaty hand held my dainty virginal, petite hand. The moment that our hands touched caused me once again a burst of explosive hysteria, but this occasion I was prepared with the incontinence undergarment when I lost all physical control.

“I would be most pleased if you would join me for dinner tonight, promptly at 7:30. I thank you again for honoring me with this run. I so enjoyed your exquisite company, you are a ravishing beauty and sleek of form.”

“Oh Dear Sir Botendaddy, it was entirely my pleasure. I have not run in the company of a real man for quite some time. Just spindly weaklings with no backbone, pale and gaunt, lacking in manly, hirsute form and smelling of lavender. None reeked of hideous, delicious, masculine musk stench, like yourself, my dearest Sir.”

He held my hand as he led me back into the ancient vine-covered manse. Ah the smell of it! Like Horatio of heroic olden days, hideous and utterly repulsive of visage, but gentlemanly and muscular in his romantic, dominant maleness. Would I be ready for his full, masculine onslaught? I smiled smugly knowing that I could accommodate whatever lay ahead.

Dinner in the Great Hall

After my bath, my presence was requested in the great dining hall. It was decorated with trophies of the hunt and heraldic portraits of heroes long dead and their fair maidens. Old dueling swords and crossed matchlocks adorned the space above the exquisite fireplace.

I was seated in the middle of the table across from an aged gentleman known as Herr Doktor Karl Calegari Fontenot Feldjäger.

The young lady of the manor sat at the far end of the table across from her father. I feared her judgment of me as a once-high lady of society, now scandalized by divorce and brought low by endless debauchery, caused by my incurable, lustful, feminine hysteria, which had not abated despite having three sons of age and my being a mature woman of four and forty, yet possessing a feminine form of body that was the envy of all New York.

The dinner was exquisite. Small breads with different sweet local butters, fresh engraves and a main course of pheasant, smoked goose, elk pâté and cured wild boar. Desert was a tantalizing selection of small cakes, fresh pie and crème brûlée in a brandy glaze. We chatted mostly about running as I sought to avoid more painful subjects.

“It is a pleasure to have feminine company,  my Dear Mademoiselle Pym. Since the loss of the great Lady of the manor, it is rare to have such divine company where I can discuss matters of concern to the fairer sex.” Said Lady Boten-Daughter, idly twirling her brûlée.

“What was she like?” I inquired. I felt if I could understand the Lady of the house, I could unravel the secrets of the great Botendaddy.

“I miss the moments. We would be outside together grooming the horses. Sometimes, we were short with one another as if we thought the three of us would be together forever. If not I had more time, but fate is cruel.” Said the Botendaddy, looking into the fireplace as if transfixed.

“As we ran, I noticed many magnificent stones. Are they from Indian times or something more ancient.” Said I, trying to change the melancholy topic.

“Young Lady”, said the aged Doktor. “This Estate was once owned by a strange Frenchman back before <>. What you Americans call the French and Indian War. He was clearly mad. He believed that the grounds up here were the site of an ancient Iroquois religious site where the savage, muscular natives sacrificed living victims to the unspeakable old ones, the name cannot be spoken, lest he be thus conjured. It is said that rites were performed at each of the stones before heading to the hideous altar by the cliff. But my observation from examining the stones is that they at clearly Gallic in origin and I believe they were transported by the madman Jean-Luc Sevigny Ste. DeBlois des Lauriers from ancient worship site in the high Vosges. But others claim they are just statues from the grounds of the old house.” The professor sipped his brandy.

“Fascinating history of these delectable, mysterious Laurel Highlands.” I said cheerily.

The Veranda at Cliff’s Edge

“Let us adjourn to the veranda for a rhoake of the local schmiee.” Offered the Botendaddy.

We proceeded to a massive dimly lit exterior portico that seemed to extend over a massive cool expanse of empty dark space.

The four of us, the good Herr Doktor, the delicate Boten-Daughter, myself and the deliciously, freakishly hideous Botendaddy.

We roaked the local Schmiee, we sipped brandy and we spoke of myriad lore of the ancient legends of the mysterious Laurel Highlands.

After a fashion, I noticed that the good Doktor had retired and the Boten-Daughter had take her leave, causing me to remain alone with the savage, sumptuously delectable beast.

The Revelation

“I know why you are here Mademoiselle Pym. We are not children, foolish ruses do not become us. You are here about the matter of Mademoiselle C. Whose recent utter, repeated, ravishment and self-imposed degradation has become a subject of interest to your firm. She is a woman of 20. Most women in our society are long since married with several children by that age.  She demanded that I introduce her to the dark, carnal arts, leaving her groveling in an utter state of gooey, slimy, sticky sloppiness in which she reveled at no end. Her nubile pelvis survived the pelvic-bone-stretching onslaught no worse for the wear. Her family should be thanking me for helping her cross the threshold of womanhood in such a complete and humiliating manner.”

We leaned over the veranda wall peering into the misty gloaming.

“Perhaps, Dear Sir, if I am not being too forward, a demonstration would be in order this evening, so I may validate your words and alleviate the concerns of my illustrious client?”

The Botendaddy paused and put his hand on his chin as if in contemplation.

“Mademoiselle. Meet me in my chambers at 10:30 P.M. sharp and please ensure that you are physiologically… prepared?”

Upon the Botendaddy’s invitation, I lost all control of my bladderious capabilities and I soaked my incontinence undergarment fully.

The Encounter with the Beast

At 10:30 P.M. sharp, I met the Botendaddy in the second floor hall and I accompanied the him to his chamber. The maids and butler were nowhere to be found. I began to hear the large organ in the main hall, once again playing Bach. Could it be the Boten-Daughter? Was it a sinister ruse to drown out the frightful sounds that were soon to emanate from the Botendaddy’s chamber.

I was overwhelmed with fear, trepidation, yea terror! Once again I lost all control of my bladder. yet I was also curiously aroused in may I say, dear readers, a most decadent manner? What sinister delights could possibly await in the Botendaddy’s Chamber of horrors? Was I ready for the task?

I followed the Botendaddy into his chamber. I was overwhelmed with proper 19th century shame. Was I to succumb to the vile predations of the Botendaddy?

The rest is a whirlwind, but I shall describe the events which transpired to the degree that decorum allows. Before I knew it, both the Botendaddy and I were on the great bed in a state of undress.

After a fashion, it was my time to receive the Botendaddy. His masculine delight was so massive that I had to strain every feminine muscle and tendon, I had to focus entirely on receiving his enormity. I began to sweat on my forehead uncontrollably.

The massiveness passed slowly inside me as if I were giving birth to a baby Rhinoceros in reverse! When it became clear finally that the Botendaddy had fully entered my chamber of femininity, he was shocked that I was able to accomplish this massive feat. I was very proud that I had not let the firm down. I could actually feel the very bones in my pelvic region stretching and creaking.

All the while, the music from the giant organ played below, louder and louder. I realized that I had been screaming uncontrollably throughout the entire endeavor! Not a normal scream of terror, but an unholy scream as if I were being murdered from the inside out.

“O’ Venus! O’ Aphrodite! O’ ancient gods!”

I cried out as the Botendaddy had his way with me in every possible fashion. I continued to shriek and scream with utter disregard for decorum. The organ music was perfectly heightened to mask my primeval, carnal, hysterical sounds!

I dimly became aware of the passage of time throughout the night. By 3:00 A.M. I was completely exhausted. My body had been subjected to physical stresses that would have destroyed a lesser woman. Yet I persevered!

How proud was I of my accomplishment. I was fully saturated with the most vile of the Botendaddy’s reproductive fluids. Every crevice, my hair, my visage, my nostrils, my very bowels were sticky with the hideous, delicious, viscous matter. Ah the smell of it!

Eventually, the Botendaddy put me over his knee and began to spank me with his muscular, calloused hand. My fair, soft, milky-white cheeks absorbed ever more violent slaps with a thunderous crack!

“O’ virtue! O’ shame!”

I shouted. Ah the agony of my misconduct! The Botendaddy was forced to spank me until I cried, so that my horrific sins of feminine naughtiness could be expiated by pain and red welts. He then made me stand in the corner and apologize for being such a wicked girl and so violating the mores of our gilded age.

Ah how delectable the shame! O’ joy! I wallowed in the intensely tasty, sumptuous humiliation of my proper punishment. The Botendaddy then clapped his hands and I was escorted from the chamber by two of the maids. One of them carried my soiled clothing. The other wrapped my person in a monogrammed ladies bathrobe. Then I went back to my chamber and I fell into a deep sleep.