|Mr Trail Safety in his element. |
Photo by Andrea Feucht. Don't hold it agains her.
Now this is probably what you were waiting for. If you get offended easily, please read to the end of the post and get your money's worth. As Bette Davis once might have said..."Unbunch your panties, it's gonna be a fun ride."
At the Friday Nite Pre-race, the BIC Lighters were going off, and runners were throwing their shorts on the stage as Linda and Geri went through the pre-race usual. Amidst the lurking Barking Ducks I could hear "FREE-BIRD!" and so on.
The race started on Saturday at 0500. Lucky for me, I was still in bed. Several hours later I woke up and made some French Roast and watched the Japanese fleet sink into the Coral Sea. Bummer for them, I had an aid-station to Krewe. I donned ritual garb of white coveralls, with nary a wrinkle or crinkle, and had a solemn vest with totemistic numbers therein, several iterations of "69". Photos do not lie, and Komedy is Not Pretty.
After a rendezvous with Mile 44 Co-conspirators John Burke and Jim Kirby at the Big Motel, we decamped to the site. I arrived as Stan and His Ham-Krewe were in position, with bristling aerials a-go-go.
Taking an experienced survey of the site, I decided that I would have to deploy the 50lb Betty-Bait Salt Blocks with the Whistle attachments around the Aid Station. Available from D&L Industries, and are guaranteed to "Bring chix out of the stix!" John and Jim gave me skeptical looks. I bent to my task. They found it hard to believe that these salt blocks were going to lure nubile young women, but this is part of the Burden of Proof.
By noon the dirt road leading to the Aid Station was crowded with young women who were drawn mysteriously to this Aid Station. As the day drew on, they arrived eagerly and left only with great reluctance, even as ancient rhymes were recited. This one was enhanced by head-gear left by Geri in the supplies, a set of bunny-ears.
Here comes Peter Cottontail,We noticed that several runners who had previously considered lingering or dropping out rallied in a miraculous manner, and burst away in a blaze of speed, a moving testimony to the Power of Prayer.
Hopping down the Poontang Trail,
Sings a Little Song for you and Me!
If you think you've got it rough,
You ain't seen him in the buff,
He's the Magic Guy for you and Me!
In matters Gluteal. the most exuberant Display was by Rich Fisher and another Gentleman, who were the Battling Geezer Butts of All-Time. Mr Fisher put on an astonishingly vigourous exhibition, and was by far the Most Lively Ass We's ever seen. Las Vegas has many hidden treasures, fer sure!
RDs Linda and Geri stopped several times by to see how things were going. The Ejecto-Seats were in fine working order, and we didn't have to shoot any stragglers.
Jim Kirby had a bleeding toe. By application of stout ropes and brute force, an amputation was effected. He was anaesthetized by a playing of the latest "Capitol Steps", and by John Burke reading the letters of Mary Chesnutt.
Tracking the observations with HoosierMetrics, we found the following correlations:
Salt Blocks => Nubile WomenSo there you have it, by my Fine Hand, etc etc
Left hands => Scratching "parts"
Right Hands => Picking Nose
M&Ms => Pawed by hands
The end result: A lot of left-over M&Ms.
It must be noted before all is forgotten:
While we were setting up, two pear-shaped elderly white hikers in coveralls approached us. They wanted to know if "the trail was safe?"
"Safe from what?" was my reply.
"You know, safe."
Aaah. The subtext was "safe from unspecified non-white threat elements".
Then I saw they were packing. Strapped to their porcine frames were .32 snub-nosed pistols. I started to laugh at these trembly, fearful chubbies. Looking at their faces, their sun-protection was on their pink faces was melting like tallow.
I laughed in their faces and told them that the trail was fine. I imagined Chucky The Cheese-Kutting Cougar doubled over with helpless merriiment as he gnawed these Weebles while they frantically went for their pistols.