Despite what they might sound like, make-up miles have nothing to do with applying blush, mascara or foundation. (Well, maybe foundation applies.) During the course of training, most of us will miss a run or two.
Usually, it's no big deal to skip the run and move onto the next one on the schedule. However, sometimes making up the miles can be a confidence booster, especially during the early stages of training, when we are still establishing our base mileage. (See? Foundation does apply.)
The Enthusiast was worried about missing a run earlier this week, when we were both trying to fight off a cold and battling the demotivational weather. She missed a three-miler, which could have been tough to make up. Luckily, last night's planned run was a short, albeit intense, hill workout.
We ran over to our closest hill and proceeded to run six repeats, which totaled just under two miles. Instead of heading right back home, we tacked on another two miles to catch up on the missed training. The final two miles were rough, with snow-strewn streets, tired calves and a balky right arch and left Achilles, but we toughed it out.
It's a good feeling to be right on track for this weekend's two runs.
Back Talk
Wherein we engage in smack talk.
Sun Runner thinks something's not right about my bathing practices: "You took a bath? What are you, like, 70?"
Answer: In college, a guy I worked with told me I was born to be 40, so yeah I guess 70 is about where I am now.
Barefoot Johnny O thinks it's all right to get into a pissing contest: "When I bought my sprints, Dec. '09, I had the guy throw in the pair of Originals I used for the trial fit, but I had to buy a pair as well. These two have lasted me over a year -- well worth the cost. But, oh, yea, I mostly run without them."
Answer: Your urine might go farther, but at least mine will keep your bare feet warm.
Happy Hour is nearly upon us, teammates. Have a finely brewed weekend. Run well and drink well. Cheers!
Showing posts with label abusive relationship. Show all posts
Showing posts with label abusive relationship. Show all posts
Friday, January 28, 2011
Friday, October 22, 2010
Flashback Friday: Lots of Waiting
Why does everything take so long when you're waiting? It seems like all I do is wait. Wait until payday before I can buy new running shoes. Wait until fermentation is complete before I can drink my beer. Wait until I'm good before I can melt your face off with my sweet banjo playing. All wait and no action.
This feels like waiting for Godot.
This weekend is shaping up to be a busy one. The Enthusiast and I are driving up to Windsor, Ontario, for a familial event (where we'll likely have to wait to clear customs). We have to drop off Dobson at the kennel (and we'll have to wait until Monday before we can pick him up). The pre-beer should be ready to transfer to its secondary fermenter tomorrow (and then we wait another week before bottling). And I'm hoping to fit in a long run if I can (I hope it doesn't have to wait until next week).
Back Talk
Wherein we battle envy and ignorance.
Brad is jealous of my homebrewing kit: "My wife just got me a cheap Mr.Beer kit this week for my bday to try out my hand at homebrewing. Might give it a shot this weekend. If things go well, might need to upgrade to a 'real' kit like you have."
Answer: Was this a ploy to get me to wish you a happy birthday? Well, you'll be waiting a long time for that.
Spike thinks waiting for bubbles is too complicated: "That all sounds like a ton of work. I thought it would be as simple as adding water and returning a month later."
Answer: It's not a fucking Chia Pet.
Happy Hour is almost upon us, teammates. Have a finely brewed weekend. Run well and drink well. Cheers!
This feels like waiting for Godot.
This weekend is shaping up to be a busy one. The Enthusiast and I are driving up to Windsor, Ontario, for a familial event (where we'll likely have to wait to clear customs). We have to drop off Dobson at the kennel (and we'll have to wait until Monday before we can pick him up). The pre-beer should be ready to transfer to its secondary fermenter tomorrow (and then we wait another week before bottling). And I'm hoping to fit in a long run if I can (I hope it doesn't have to wait until next week).
Back Talk
Wherein we battle envy and ignorance.
Brad is jealous of my homebrewing kit: "My wife just got me a cheap Mr.Beer kit this week for my bday to try out my hand at homebrewing. Might give it a shot this weekend. If things go well, might need to upgrade to a 'real' kit like you have."
Answer: Was this a ploy to get me to wish you a happy birthday? Well, you'll be waiting a long time for that.
Spike thinks waiting for bubbles is too complicated: "That all sounds like a ton of work. I thought it would be as simple as adding water and returning a month later."
Answer: It's not a fucking Chia Pet.
Happy Hour is almost upon us, teammates. Have a finely brewed weekend. Run well and drink well. Cheers!
Friday, August 20, 2010
Flashback Friday: Last Picture Show
Not much time today. I'm off to a company picnic and then to Fort Wayne, Indiana. Thanks to the Sun Runner for some suggestions on where to run well and drink well.
Back Talk
Wherein a picture is worth a thousand words.
Answer:
Xenia got all uber-bitchy with me about the wonderful Enthusiast patching up me toe: "Did smashing your toe impede your ability to bend over and tend to it yourself? My condolences to the immensely considerate Enthusiast."
Answer:
Happy Hour is nearly upon us, teammates. Have a finely brewed weekend. Run well and drink well. Cheers!
Friday, August 6, 2010
Flashback Friday: I Have No Legs Lungs
I suddenly feel woefully out of shape. Last night's run sucked the wind right out of me and I haven't been able to catch my breath since.
My schedule called for nine miles at tempo pace, but I was feeling like a hilly trail run. I set out to attack the uphills and put in a tempo-like effort. Within the first 30 minutes, my lungs dissolved and my chest tightened in their absence.
Even on the flat sections, my wind didn't return. For an hour and 20 minutes, I slogged along in the hot, humid evening, wishing for the end to arrive. Over the steep, rolling hills of the trails surrounding Sand Run, looping around the Buckeye Trail, across to the Towpath to connect to the Valley Link back to Sand Run -- all this time running without oxygen. Even this morning.
I have no solution.
There Is Another
During this morning's slower-than-it-should-have-been, lungless and barefoot run, I saw another. She was older and trotting around the block with a quick cadence. I was too far behind to catch up and talk to her before she stopped to talk to some people in a minivan. When I passed, I tried to slow down and acknowledge our sameness. I wanted to ask, "Hey, where are your shoes?"
Back Talk
Wherein the cheapskates shall inherit the earth.
Nitmos responded to my rebuttal to his comment: "Well, now that was a good rebuttal. I can get behind that reasoning -- all except for Salazar's comment. With the human form being what it is in so many different shapes/sizes/centers of gravity, etc., there can't possibly be 'one best way of running' for everyone. No way. Maybe if we were all similar clone-like machines like the droids in I, Robot we could identify the efficiency but ... we're not. However, there must be One Best Way of Running for YOU."
Answer: Fucking asshole.
Eric from Can You See the Sunset from the Southside? (CYSTSFTS) has seen the truth, but not the light, as he is on the verge of dropping way too many dollars on shoes: "I made myself some huaraches from some cheap old flip-flops and I love running in them. I'm thinking about getting a pair from Invisible Shoe since the soles are thinner and (thus) better."
Answer: I used Steve Sashen's site to make my huaraches, but mine cost half as much as his kit. You can get industrial rubber sheeting however thick or thin you want for about $6 online.
Happy Hour is nearly upon us, teammates! Have a finely brewed weekend. Run well and drink well. Cheers!
Friday, March 5, 2010
Flashback Friday: Getting a Jump on Laundry
My running clothes were in a bad way. The Enthusiast would scrunch up her nose at me and say, "Ew, you stink!" And this was before I went for a run.
So I have a tendency to rewear my running gear. But clearly, time had come to throw some quarters into the washer and clean my shorts ... and shirts and tights and socks and running underwear and, yes, I have special running underwear and wind pants and gloves.
Meanwhile, I had the urge to do something exercise-ish. So I decided to jump rope in the basement/washroom until it was time to put the clothes in the dryer.
After you push in the coin slot carriage to turn on the washer, the display reads "21." I thought this meant I would be jumping for 21 minutes. I had my stopwatch, but decided to use the washer as my timer. I can do 21 minutes of jumping rope.
About five minutes in when I had my first hiccup in jumping rhythm and snapped the vinyl jump rope against my calf, I looked at the washer to see how far the timer had ticked down. "21," it read.
Fuck.
Perhaps what the washer really meant was that I need to get started on Steve Stenzel's Twenty One workout. I looked at my watch and tried to calculate what time I started jumping. It was a little after 6 p.m.
Meanwhile, I could hear Dobson barking up a storm. I ran upstairs to see what was his malfunction. I settled him down, gave him a treat and ran back down to the washing machine. Now, the washer read "16."
OK, so maybe it does count down, but at odd intervals. I started jumping again. The washer read "14," then "13," then "10," then "9," then "9," still "9," it's stuck on "9" and my watch says 6:17. I decided I'd go until 6:25 if the washer didn't stop sooner. Of course, the washer didn't stop sooner.
I'm pretty sure I jumped for about 21 minutes. I have no idea how long that washer went. I had to go back upstairs to get ready for Dobson's obedience class. The washer stopped sometime before I got back down there to switch the laundry before we left for training.
Stupid washer. The good news is my running clothes are clean, and my jump-roping has gotten way better. I can do the two-foot jump, the running man jump and the one-foot jump. I'm awesome.
Back Talk
Wherein my readership two-ups me and undercuts my success.
Miss Zippy allows me some leeway with my Elevens workout, but goes right ahead and raises the bar: "We'll cut you some slack for the dog. I have made the 11s workout a part of the routine. Have done it for 2 weeks now and I definitely need to move the bar up--Josh and I discussed 13s, which is my goal next week. Can't really imagine ever making it to 21, can you?"
Answer: Crap! I'm falling behind in my own workout!
Meanwhile, Barefoot Josh has gotten even faster at kicking my ass at my own game: "I'm now at 4:08, with real sit-ups. I'm a machine."
Answer: Both you and Zippy are responsible for my new tag, jerks.
Happy Hour is nearly upon us, teammates. Have a finely brewed weekend. Run well and drink well. Cheers!
So I have a tendency to rewear my running gear. But clearly, time had come to throw some quarters into the washer and clean my shorts ... and shirts and tights and socks and running underwear and, yes, I have special running underwear and wind pants and gloves.
Meanwhile, I had the urge to do something exercise-ish. So I decided to jump rope in the basement/washroom until it was time to put the clothes in the dryer.
After you push in the coin slot carriage to turn on the washer, the display reads "21." I thought this meant I would be jumping for 21 minutes. I had my stopwatch, but decided to use the washer as my timer. I can do 21 minutes of jumping rope.
About five minutes in when I had my first hiccup in jumping rhythm and snapped the vinyl jump rope against my calf, I looked at the washer to see how far the timer had ticked down. "21," it read.
Fuck.
Perhaps what the washer really meant was that I need to get started on Steve Stenzel's Twenty One workout. I looked at my watch and tried to calculate what time I started jumping. It was a little after 6 p.m.
Meanwhile, I could hear Dobson barking up a storm. I ran upstairs to see what was his malfunction. I settled him down, gave him a treat and ran back down to the washing machine. Now, the washer read "16."
OK, so maybe it does count down, but at odd intervals. I started jumping again. The washer read "14," then "13," then "10," then "9," then "9," still "9," it's stuck on "9" and my watch says 6:17. I decided I'd go until 6:25 if the washer didn't stop sooner. Of course, the washer didn't stop sooner.
I'm pretty sure I jumped for about 21 minutes. I have no idea how long that washer went. I had to go back upstairs to get ready for Dobson's obedience class. The washer stopped sometime before I got back down there to switch the laundry before we left for training.
Stupid washer. The good news is my running clothes are clean, and my jump-roping has gotten way better. I can do the two-foot jump, the running man jump and the one-foot jump. I'm awesome.
Back Talk
Wherein my readership two-ups me and undercuts my success.
Miss Zippy allows me some leeway with my Elevens workout, but goes right ahead and raises the bar: "We'll cut you some slack for the dog. I have made the 11s workout a part of the routine. Have done it for 2 weeks now and I definitely need to move the bar up--Josh and I discussed 13s, which is my goal next week. Can't really imagine ever making it to 21, can you?"
Answer: Crap! I'm falling behind in my own workout!
Meanwhile, Barefoot Josh has gotten even faster at kicking my ass at my own game: "I'm now at 4:08, with real sit-ups. I'm a machine."
Answer: Both you and Zippy are responsible for my new tag, jerks.
Happy Hour is nearly upon us, teammates. Have a finely brewed weekend. Run well and drink well. Cheers!
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Of High Knees and Noodle Arms
Dobson got another strong run in, as we ventured across many unshoveled sidewalks through knee-high snow. Not the dog's knees, but mine. A route of just over two miles took me just under 30 minutes to complete, and I even stopped my watch for the dog's defecation delays. The pup is getting better at avoiding his instincts to sniff every flake of snow or the crotch of every passerby. Now, if I could just get him to pick up the pace.
The Notorious Jumping Blogger of Summit County
I bought a jump rope last night for $3 from Target. Now, either I'll injure myself the first time I use it or the snow will thaw and temperatures will rise and I won't have any desire for an indoor alternative to running.
Hating on Steve Stenzel
Sometimes I just want to hate Steve Stenzel. He runs faster than me. He runs farther than me. He blogs more than me. He posts more pictures than me. He has way more readers than me. He smiles more than me. He's certainly friendlier than me. My only hope is that I could drink him under the table, but you never know with those hearty Minnesotans.
I was reading Steve's blog yesterday and came across his "Twenty One" workout. Now, I really hate him. As he describes, you do 20 push-ups and one sit-up, then you subtract one push-up and add one sit-up each set until you do one push-up and 20 sit-ups. That's 210 of eachwhen if you finish.
This sounded like an interesting workout, but I knew that I couldn't do 210 push-ups and sit-ups. Not like that jerk Steve Stenzel. I thought, maybe I can do half that. [Faulty math alert!] You know, start with 10 push-ups and one sit-up. Thus the Eleven Workout was born! As it turns out, that equals 55 push-ups and sit-ups. OK, so not quite half. But close.
I knew I was in trouble when I got to the set of seven push-ups. My arms would give out and I'd free-fall from the raised position to the lowered position. Halfway through the set of five push-ups, I had to resort to girlie push-ups. Needless to say, my arms and chest are sore today. And I really don't care for that Steve Stenzel guy.
The Notorious Jumping Blogger of Summit County
I bought a jump rope last night for $3 from Target. Now, either I'll injure myself the first time I use it or the snow will thaw and temperatures will rise and I won't have any desire for an indoor alternative to running.
Hating on Steve Stenzel
Sometimes I just want to hate Steve Stenzel. He runs faster than me. He runs farther than me. He blogs more than me. He posts more pictures than me. He has way more readers than me. He smiles more than me. He's certainly friendlier than me. My only hope is that I could drink him under the table, but you never know with those hearty Minnesotans.
I was reading Steve's blog yesterday and came across his "Twenty One" workout. Now, I really hate him. As he describes, you do 20 push-ups and one sit-up, then you subtract one push-up and add one sit-up each set until you do one push-up and 20 sit-ups. That's 210 of each
This sounded like an interesting workout, but I knew that I couldn't do 210 push-ups and sit-ups. Not like that jerk Steve Stenzel. I thought, maybe I can do half that. [Faulty math alert!] You know, start with 10 push-ups and one sit-up. Thus the Eleven Workout was born! As it turns out, that equals 55 push-ups and sit-ups. OK, so not quite half. But close.
I knew I was in trouble when I got to the set of seven push-ups. My arms would give out and I'd free-fall from the raised position to the lowered position. Halfway through the set of five push-ups, I had to resort to girlie push-ups. Needless to say, my arms and chest are sore today. And I really don't care for that Steve Stenzel guy.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Flashback Friday: Money Back Guarantees
The worst part of the New Year Reset is having to look at a fresh running log. It looks so barren, and the typical Ohio winter weather is not helping matters.
The fact is, my log looks barren because it is barren.
My only consistent log entry has been my weight, as I track the slow downsizing from the holiday feasting. One pound down, two pounds up, another pound down: a net change of 0.3 pounds.
All this talk about logs makes me think of one thing: What rolls downs stairs, alone or in pairs, and over your neighbor's dog?
It's L-O-G, bitches!
Also comes in Spanish!
Back Talk
Wherein we trash talk like old times.
Vanilla Ian isn't happy with my inspirational advice: "Actual, real advice? I want my money back."
Answer: I know how you feel. It's almost as bad as a "blogger" who only posts twice a month.
Happy Hour is nearly upon us, teammates. And so is the latest winter storm warning. Bundle up and have a finely brewed weekend. Run well and drink well. Cheers!
The fact is, my log looks barren because it is barren.
My only consistent log entry has been my weight, as I track the slow downsizing from the holiday feasting. One pound down, two pounds up, another pound down: a net change of 0.3 pounds.
All this talk about logs makes me think of one thing: What rolls downs stairs, alone or in pairs, and over your neighbor's dog?
It's L-O-G, bitches!
Also comes in Spanish!
Back Talk
Wherein we trash talk like old times.
Answer: I know how you feel. It's almost as bad as a "blogger" who only posts twice a month.
Happy Hour is nearly upon us, teammates. And so is the latest winter storm warning. Bundle up and have a finely brewed weekend. Run well and drink well. Cheers!
Friday, December 4, 2009
Flashback Friday: Sit and Spin, Readers
Yeah, you heard me. Sit. And spin. And while you're at it, take a nice long walk off a short pier. All of you who gave me shit for delaying a run should take a look in the mirror. (Yes, that means you, you and you.) I read your blogs. I know you sometimes just don't feel like running, whether it's because the sky is pouring down rain or because you're crabby that you didn't get a lollipop at the doctor's office.
Sometimes we all say, fuck it. And that's OK.
Don't act all high and mighty on me when I cop to an excuse for putting off my run. Guess what? I ran last night, and I'm back on schedule for this week's mileage goal. Shove that in your collective pie hole.
Back Talk
Wherein one of you actually appreciates all the things I do for you.
Mr. Loser pays attention to all the exciting items along the right side of this blog: "Two thumbs up for the new blogs of woe sidebar. I'm hoping the Brownies don't lose the #1 pick by winning a couple games. We need to blow the draft like we always do: by picking the wrong player on draft day."
Answer: The Browns will most certainly blow the draft by picking a quarterback who will get destroyed because the offensive line can't block on the right side.
As for other items of interest on my blog, you may want to scroll down and see my PRs in the "Fastest Stumblings" section or read about my most recent races in "Latest Stumblings." Better yet, you might want to get the hell away from this blog by doing as Mr. Loser has done and explore my reading recommendations, such as "Blogging is Overrated," where most of my fellow BHI teammates are; "Share Cleveland's Sporting Woes," with local sports blogs on the Browns, Indians and Cavs (the only unwoeful team in Cleveland at present); and below that "When All Else Fails, Pick the Banjer," which is a listing of banjo-centric blogs and sites. And of course, I have some words of wisdom, but that's way down at the bottom.
Happy Hour is nearly upon us, teammates. Have a finely brewed weekend. Run well and Drink well. Cheers!
Sometimes we all say, fuck it. And that's OK.
Don't act all high and mighty on me when I cop to an excuse for putting off my run. Guess what? I ran last night, and I'm back on schedule for this week's mileage goal. Shove that in your collective pie hole.
Back Talk
Wherein one of you actually appreciates all the things I do for you.
Mr. Loser pays attention to all the exciting items along the right side of this blog: "Two thumbs up for the new blogs of woe sidebar. I'm hoping the Brownies don't lose the #1 pick by winning a couple games. We need to blow the draft like we always do: by picking the wrong player on draft day."
Answer: The Browns will most certainly blow the draft by picking a quarterback who will get destroyed because the offensive line can't block on the right side.
As for other items of interest on my blog, you may want to scroll down and see my PRs in the "Fastest Stumblings" section or read about my most recent races in "Latest Stumblings." Better yet, you might want to get the hell away from this blog by doing as Mr. Loser has done and explore my reading recommendations, such as "Blogging is Overrated," where most of my fellow BHI teammates are; "Share Cleveland's Sporting Woes," with local sports blogs on the Browns, Indians and Cavs (the only unwoeful team in Cleveland at present); and below that "When All Else Fails, Pick the Banjer," which is a listing of banjo-centric blogs and sites. And of course, I have some words of wisdom, but that's way down at the bottom.
Happy Hour is nearly upon us, teammates. Have a finely brewed weekend. Run well and Drink well. Cheers!
Friday, November 27, 2009
Flashback Friday: Mailed in from the Depths of a Tryptophan Induced Food Coma
Warning, do not look at your scale today. The damage you did yesterday will takes days to fix. Move along. This calls for a liquid lunch. Here, Scotchy-Scotchy! Scotch, here ...
Back Talk
Wherein a short week calls for a short Q and A installment.
Morgan wonders if it's Pillsbury cookie dough that I feel like: "Does that mean if I poke your stomach you will giggle?"
Answer: If you poked my stomach, you'd get puked upon. And then punched.
Happy Hour lasts all day today, teammates. Enjoy your long weekends and long runs and long drinking shits. Run well and drink well. Cheers!
Back Talk
Wherein a short week calls for a short Q and A installment.
Morgan wonders if it's Pillsbury cookie dough that I feel like: "Does that mean if I poke your stomach you will giggle?"
Answer: If you poked my stomach, you'd get puked upon. And then punched.
Happy Hour lasts all day today, teammates. Enjoy your long weekends and long runs and long drinking shits. Run well and drink well. Cheers!
Friday, October 16, 2009
Flashback Friday: I'm the Best Around
As you know, I'm somewhere deep in banjo country, drinking beers, touring the Carolinas on the run, and running afoul of the local customs.
In a few short hours, I'll be soaking in the hooch as I prepare to act as best man for my oldest friend's wedding tomorrow. You can imagine something to this effect:
Back Talk
Wherein I ridicule your comments from afar.
Spike is totally jealous of my painfully tight abs: "Were you doing sit-ups while eating cookies, because that would be the second most awesome think you have ever done."
Answer: I did not realize I had done something awesome previously.
Gin, Ms. V and Jess were all duped by my post last Saturday: "ZOMG!!!1! You graced us with your presence on the weekend???!!ZOINKS!?"
Answer: Someone has to think about the nerds who surf the information super highways on their off days. It's called a scheduled post: pre-written and post-dated. Just to clarify, I wrote this post on Monday.
Happy Hour is nearly upon you, teammates. Have a finely brewed weekend and good luck to all you racers out there. Run well and drink well. Cheers!
In a few short hours, I'll be soaking in the hooch as I prepare to act as best man for my oldest friend's wedding tomorrow. You can imagine something to this effect:
Back Talk
Wherein I ridicule your comments from afar.
Spike is totally jealous of my painfully tight abs: "Were you doing sit-ups while eating cookies, because that would be the second most awesome think you have ever done."
Answer: I did not realize I had done something awesome previously.
Gin, Ms. V and Jess were all duped by my post last Saturday: "ZOMG!!!1! You graced us with your presence on the weekend???!!ZOINKS!?"
Answer: Someone has to think about the nerds who surf the information super highways on their off days. It's called a scheduled post: pre-written and post-dated. Just to clarify, I wrote this post on Monday.
Happy Hour is nearly upon you, teammates. Have a finely brewed weekend and good luck to all you racers out there. Run well and drink well. Cheers!
Friday, April 24, 2009
Flashback Friday: Keeping Promises
I know how much you readers love to root for my failure. So here is another chance. This month I embarked on a fool's errand to log more miles each consecutive month until the Akron Marathon.
To continue that trend, I must surpass 57 miles for April. Therefore, I need to run 26 miles in seven days. Complicating matters is a business trip Tuesday and Wednesday, which may prevent me from running on those days.
Will I do it? Place your bets now.
Back Talk
Wherein I unleash my irritable responses to your inane, insidious and insubordinate comments.
Responding to some criticism about his hypothesis about the limits to how fast a human can run a mile, gravityandlevity says: "Nonetheless, if any human runs a mile in under 3:39.6 during my lifetime, I'll eat my hat."
Answer: Pfft! Yeah, sure you will. I've heard that claim before.
Ms. V. proves that she has some weird fetishes for banjo players with blistered feet: "I simply have a little crush on you now Viper. First the blister, now the banjo."
Answer: Creepy! Anybody know the protocol for filing restraining orders against Internet stalkers? Next I'm going to find out you'll be in Akron for Founders Day. I'll be the guy with the beard and big sunglasses.
Spike doesn't care for my blister as much as Ms. V.: "That's it? That is your blister! Until it is the size of a nickle, don't complain."
Answer: Complain? I was showing off my sexy feet for my Internet stalkers with weird fetishes.
Happy Hour is nearly upon us, teammates. Have a debauched and depraved weekend. Good luck to all the racers out there, especially Mr. Not-the-Viper-banjo-man. Run well and drink well. Cheers.
To continue that trend, I must surpass 57 miles for April. Therefore, I need to run 26 miles in seven days. Complicating matters is a business trip Tuesday and Wednesday, which may prevent me from running on those days.
Will I do it? Place your bets now.
Back Talk
Wherein I unleash my irritable responses to your inane, insidious and insubordinate comments.
Responding to some criticism about his hypothesis about the limits to how fast a human can run a mile, gravityandlevity says: "Nonetheless, if any human runs a mile in under 3:39.6 during my lifetime, I'll eat my hat."
Answer: Pfft! Yeah, sure you will. I've heard that claim before.
Ms. V. proves that she has some weird fetishes for banjo players with blistered feet: "I simply have a little crush on you now Viper. First the blister, now the banjo."
Answer: Creepy! Anybody know the protocol for filing restraining orders against Internet stalkers? Next I'm going to find out you'll be in Akron for Founders Day. I'll be the guy with the beard and big sunglasses.
Spike doesn't care for my blister as much as Ms. V.: "That's it? That is your blister! Until it is the size of a nickle, don't complain."
Answer: Complain? I was showing off my sexy feet for my Internet stalkers with weird fetishes.
Happy Hour is nearly upon us, teammates. Have a debauched and depraved weekend. Good luck to all the racers out there, especially Mr. Not-the-Viper-banjo-man. Run well and drink well. Cheers.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Flashback Friday: All You Get
Friday, March 20, 2009
Flashback Friday: Speak the Devil's Name
Public statements sometimes have a way of coming back to kick you in the tender bits. Here's something I wrote only yesterday:
so far have not blistered." It's not too bad, mind you, but the instep of my left foot and the big toe of my right are a bit raw from last night's five-miler. I'm building callouses sooner than I expected.
Today is a rest day, and thankfully booze reduces pain and improves confidence. I won't be sidelined for long.
Back Talk
Something something you're stupid yadda yadda who cares. See, I can insult my audience too.
MCM Mama went against the Booze Hounds Inc. Code of Ethics and drank green beer on St. Pat's: "I actually drank a green beer for the first time in YEARS. The microbrewery we visited this weekend had dyed their pilsner green. I don't like most pilsners and I can't endorse green beer, but at least it was a free tasting."
Answer: Another article in the BHI Code of Ethics is "if it's free, it's for me." I seem to have a pair of docks. What do you have?
Nic really stepped into the Team BHI shithouse this week: "Yep, I had some green beer yesterday. I'd like to blame it on my wife, but she actually ridiculed me on your behalf when seeing it. It won't happen again, Viper. I promise."
But wait! That's not all he did: "Is it any consolation that the beer I dyed was Harp beer, per Glaven's comment?"
Answer: You dyed the beer, yourself? You're dead to me.
Happy Hour is nearly upon us, teammates. Run well and drink well. Cheers!
My feet so far have not blistered. Most running shoes are pretty foot-friendly and are virtually seamless. Even if my feet did blister, then they would form a callous when healed. So I'm not too worried about that.Through the magic of editing, let's revisit one particular sentence above to get to the truth as it stands today: "My feet
Today is a rest day, and thankfully booze reduces pain and improves confidence. I won't be sidelined for long.
Back Talk
Something something you're stupid yadda yadda who cares. See, I can insult my audience too.
MCM Mama went against the Booze Hounds Inc. Code of Ethics and drank green beer on St. Pat's: "I actually drank a green beer for the first time in YEARS. The microbrewery we visited this weekend had dyed their pilsner green. I don't like most pilsners and I can't endorse green beer, but at least it was a free tasting."
Answer: Another article in the BHI Code of Ethics is "if it's free, it's for me." I seem to have a pair of docks. What do you have?
Nic really stepped into the Team BHI shithouse this week: "Yep, I had some green beer yesterday. I'd like to blame it on my wife, but she actually ridiculed me on your behalf when seeing it. It won't happen again, Viper. I promise."
But wait! That's not all he did: "Is it any consolation that the beer I dyed was Harp beer, per Glaven's comment?"
Answer: You dyed the beer, yourself? You're dead to me.
Happy Hour is nearly upon us, teammates. Run well and drink well. Cheers!
Friday, January 23, 2009
Flashback Friday: To the Core
It was almost 30 degrees and it was almost light outside when I went for another three-miler last night. I was almost overdressed. What is this, Spring?
I took it easy on the run, but then I did some core strength exercises afterward, dusting off the stretchy bands along with some dumbbell curls, balance ball sit-ups, planks and metronomes. I wasn't sore this morning, but sitting in this office chair I can feel my body tightening. I may be walking around like a question mark come Happy Hour.
After I showered, I ventured to my grocer for some pizza fixings and what did I spy with my little eye? A glorious green plastic 51-ounce bottle. Baltika No. 9 Extra Lager, you are mine for $2.79.
Back Talk
Wherein ... wherein ... wherein I'm sick of trying to come up with different descriptions for a feature I've been running since last June.
While many of you kind readers tried to allay my concerns about being overrun, the edited-for-loquaciousness Glaven said: "I disagree with all of the commenters above. I think the two other runners handed you your @$$. I see no reason to pretend otherwise."
Answer: Thanks for the levity. And relative brevity.
Echoing a question Ms. V. asked earlier this week, Xenia asked: "Out of curiosity, do you have a race coming up or are you just going to run whenever old man winter isn't trying to chap your ass?"
Answer: Cleveland is in May. I'm trying to avoid a last-minute training push like last year.
Post Script: I just noticed that both comments used the word "ass" -- or in Glaven's case a symbolic representation thereof. Way to keep clean, guys.
Happy Hour is nearly upon us. Have a fine weekend, gentle readers. Run well and drink well.
I took it easy on the run, but then I did some core strength exercises afterward, dusting off the stretchy bands along with some dumbbell curls, balance ball sit-ups, planks and metronomes. I wasn't sore this morning, but sitting in this office chair I can feel my body tightening. I may be walking around like a question mark come Happy Hour.
After I showered, I ventured to my grocer for some pizza fixings and what did I spy with my little eye? A glorious green plastic 51-ounce bottle. Baltika No. 9 Extra Lager, you are mine for $2.79.
Back Talk
Wherein ... wherein ... wherein I'm sick of trying to come up with different descriptions for a feature I've been running since last June.
While many of you kind readers tried to allay my concerns about being overrun, the edited-for-loquaciousness Glaven said: "I disagree with all of the commenters above. I think the two other runners handed you your @$$. I see no reason to pretend otherwise."
Answer: Thanks for the levity. And relative brevity.
Echoing a question Ms. V. asked earlier this week, Xenia asked: "Out of curiosity, do you have a race coming up or are you just going to run whenever old man winter isn't trying to chap your ass?"
Answer: Cleveland is in May. I'm trying to avoid a last-minute training push like last year.
Post Script: I just noticed that both comments used the word "ass" -- or in Glaven's case a symbolic representation thereof. Way to keep clean, guys.
Happy Hour is nearly upon us. Have a fine weekend, gentle readers. Run well and drink well.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Sweaty Hats Go Well with Crow and Coors
Vanilla has been all like "I'm not eat'n mah hat even thoe I sed I wud." And then he goes on and on and on about Expressionism or something dumb. But then I found this ...
I'm guessing that he got hungry after one of his fabled marathon training runs. He's probably going to claim he didn't do this to his favorite hat, but look at the teeth marks. Have you seen that brother's chompers?
I'm guessing that he got hungry after one of his fabled marathon training runs. He's probably going to claim he didn't do this to his favorite hat, but look at the teeth marks. Have you seen that brother's chompers?
Friday, November 14, 2008
Flashback Friday: Conservatively Compassionate
Two things I liked during my seven-miler last night:
Sitings Elsewhere
Payback is a bitch.
Sarah gives thanks to me (and a few others).
Apparently, I'm Ms. V's fountain of youth. Read on to find out what mine is.
Captain TL;DR (or GQ to most of you) thinks I'm a wounded soul and, for some reason, a red-head. It's not the first time, nor the last, that he's been wrong.
Vanilla doesn't think too highly of my snot-rocket technique. Fair enough, I never thought highly of him.
Marcy shares the struggle to run.
Mike at Running Is Funny didn't think I was funny this week. Coincidentally, neither was he.
Reader Contributions
Well, wouldn't you know it, one of you actually wrote something in the comments worth sharing. There's a first time for everything.
Ms. V shares some very important lab studies, which if successful will help the Viper live for 120 years. Some drunk geeks at MIT have been brewing "BioBeer," which contains a specially engineered yeast that produces resveratrol, the anti-aging chemical found in red wine. [Drunkard's note: Team BHI reported on these benefits of red wine and some additional health benefits of beer in February.]
Back Talk
Wherein I hurt your delicate feelings to make myself feel better about myself.
Joyrun tells me how I should have reacted to the Jackass in White Shorts: "I woulda passed him & tripped his sorry ass up on the way. But hey, I'm a vindictive b*tch like that."
Answer: Yes, you are.
Al is a little more compassionate about my fall: "I would have asked if you were ok, and seeing that you were, then laughed."
Answer: This seems to be a common sentiment among myjerk readers.
Turi is a little too fixated on cockles: "Warm cockles. Yeah, that's why I'm doing early morning runs on the treadmill. Too chilly out. Didn't think of trying cider. How do you apply that to the cockles?"
Answer: We'd have to use a bone saw to open up your chest plate and pour the cider directly on your heart to warm the cockles. Dr. Viper is willing to perform this back-alley surgery for a nominal fee.
Happy Hour is nearly upon us, teammates. Enjoy your weekend. Run well and drink well. Cheers!
- The two young men on the street corner who dropped a beat a when I ran past them, a perfect rhythm to my imperfect stride. The beat was in my head for the rest of my run.
- The fellow in the SUV who pulled alongside me when I approached an apartment driveway, stopped in the road, and waved me on when I looked at him. He gets the Good Motorist Award for communication and courtesy.
- The schmuck who pulled his junker sedan halfway into the bank driveway I was crossing and then looked at me as if his right of way was being violated. This clever move forced me to stop running before he completed his turn. This jackass motorist gets added my ever-growing list of grievances (previously stated here and here).
Sitings Elsewhere
Payback is a bitch.
Sarah gives thanks to me (and a few others).
Apparently, I'm Ms. V's fountain of youth. Read on to find out what mine is.
Captain TL;DR (or GQ to most of you) thinks I'm a wounded soul and, for some reason, a red-head. It's not the first time, nor the last, that he's been wrong.
Vanilla doesn't think too highly of my snot-rocket technique. Fair enough, I never thought highly of him.
Marcy shares the struggle to run.
Mike at Running Is Funny didn't think I was funny this week. Coincidentally, neither was he.
Reader Contributions
Well, wouldn't you know it, one of you actually wrote something in the comments worth sharing. There's a first time for everything.
Ms. V shares some very important lab studies, which if successful will help the Viper live for 120 years. Some drunk geeks at MIT have been brewing "BioBeer," which contains a specially engineered yeast that produces resveratrol, the anti-aging chemical found in red wine. [Drunkard's note: Team BHI reported on these benefits of red wine and some additional health benefits of beer in February.]
Back Talk
Wherein I hurt your delicate feelings to make myself feel better about myself.
Joyrun tells me how I should have reacted to the Jackass in White Shorts: "I woulda passed him & tripped his sorry ass up on the way. But hey, I'm a vindictive b*tch like that."
Answer: Yes, you are.
Al is a little more compassionate about my fall: "I would have asked if you were ok, and seeing that you were, then laughed."
Answer: This seems to be a common sentiment among my
Turi is a little too fixated on cockles: "Warm cockles. Yeah, that's why I'm doing early morning runs on the treadmill. Too chilly out. Didn't think of trying cider. How do you apply that to the cockles?"
Answer: We'd have to use a bone saw to open up your chest plate and pour the cider directly on your heart to warm the cockles. Dr. Viper is willing to perform this back-alley surgery for a nominal fee.
Happy Hour is nearly upon us, teammates. Enjoy your weekend. Run well and drink well. Cheers!
Friday, November 7, 2008
Flashback Friday: Horse Face Futility
Last night, the NFL Network was kind enough to remind me why I hate Colorado, the city of Denver, the sports teams that reside there, and especially the Broncos and that horse-faced former quarterback, John Elway. (Not to mention the fact that the people who live in that state are slow.)
During its coverage of the Denver-Cleveland game last night, the NFL Network showed highlights of how, 21 years ago,that dick Elway helped instill in me the proper, dysfunctional attitude and apoplectic flinching that accompanies watching your teams climb to within reach of the absolute height of success.
And then fail, dismally.
I, as a Viper pup, sat at my papa's knee and watched the Cleveland Browns play Denver in the AFC playoffs, one game away from the Super Bowl, a game in which Cleveland has never played because the first Super Bowl was in 1967 and the team's last championship was in 1964.
On that day in January, Cleveland was ahead 20-13 in the fourth quarter and had Denver pinned deep in its own territory with five minutes remaining when Elway rattled off a series of plays that became known as The Drive.
Cleveland lost. It was stunning. A season that was so exciting to watch had suddenly and quite finally ended. And then, I uttered those fateful words, "Maybe next year."
Next year has never come.
I have since watched the Browns leave Cleveland for Baltimore in 1995, return in 1999 in absolute dismal fashion, with only two winning seasons in that time, one of them last year, when it looked like just maybe this team might become respectable again, only to look like dog -- oh, I'm sorry -- dawg turds again this year, as they looked last night. Maybe next year.
I have seen the Cleveland Indians go from a team that was so bad they made movies about it, to a team that, in a new, record-settingly full ballpark, reached and lost the World Series twice in the 1990s, one time just two outs away from winning the whole damned thing, then all those players left Cleveland for bigger paychecks (bon voyage, Albert; bye, Jim; see ya, Manny), while the Indians got "rebuilding years," until last year when I saw the team win its last post-season game, putting them one win away from another chance to lose the World Series, only to lose three straight games to Boston, which won the Series, something Cleveland has not done since 1948, when ironically the team beat both Boston teams. This was supposed to be their year. Maybe next year.
I have seen the Cleveland Cavaliers, a team that has never won a championship in its existence, a team that in the late 1980s to mid-1990s was one of the best basketball teams in the league, a team that unfortunately had to play against a guy named Michael Jordan, who played in the same conference and prevented the Cavs from ever reaching the NBA Finals, eventually leading the team to break apart and fall into such futility that I stopped watching basketball altogether, until the team was so bad that it got the first pick in the 2003 draft and selected Akron-born phenomenon, LeBron James, who has returned the team to success, taken them to the playoffs three consecutive years, to the NBA Finals in 2006-07, losing to the San Antonio Spurs, returning to the conference finals again last year, only to lose, of course, to Boston. This is supposed to be their year. Maybe this is next year?
I have seen The Drive, The Fumble, The Shot, The Move, The Blown Save. I have seen coaches and players leave Cleveland to win championships elsewhere. (Oh, hi Jim, Manny, Bill and Ron! Thanks for joining, Charlie!) I have seen hope dashed, smelled its decayed flesh, and tasted its rancid bitterness.
I watch sports not thinking my team will win, but knowing it will figure out a way not to. I cheer for players who are rumored to be on the first flight out of Cleveland when their contract is through. I wincingly root for teams that I'm scared will build me up just to let me down (let me down) and mess me around and then worst of all (worst of all) they never call, baby, when they say they will (say they will) but I love them still.
I am a Cleveland sports fan. And I know why they brew good beer with 10 percent ABV.
This is my baggage. Thank you for listening.
Back Talk
Wherein I'm just too angry at my local sports team to be all that clever in response to your comments this week, but it doesn't matter because your comments are never all that good anyway.
Marcy thinks everyone whose name starts with V looks the same and admits to a perverted fetish for odors: "Are you and Vanilla the same person? You both said the SAME damn thing in your comments HAHAHHAAA I'm anal about smelling. I also put deodorant on before bed."
Answer: No, Vanilla and I are not the same person. I'm the faster and better looking one, whose only children are illegitamate. I also know how to copy and paste. Please keep the anal smelling talk off my site.
Xenia has some advice in regards to my not running: "Let's see -- you have poor eyesight, a propensity to drop your pants, and somehow hurt your leg while scooting closer to your desk. Perhaps if you laid off that extra-curricular activity of yours, you'd be able to run. Just saying."
Answer: Next, your going to tell me that forearm soreness is not a common running injury.
Ms. V shows why she is a good teacher: "Okay, I know it looks like we've been on your blog for like, 15 minutes, but seriously, my 5th period class spent all this time watching Soul 2 Soul and explaining to me that it's a REALLY old group.
"I'm like, NO, this guy that put this up is really young and hip. Except for the fact that you're experiencing some age related aches and pains."
Answer: My SiteMeter clocked you at 13:48. I'm glad to see your students are learning under the influence of my alcoholy writing. I'm a premium role model.
Thanks for stopping by everyone. I'm sorry if your comments didn't get the treatment you felt they deserved. Maybe next year.
Happy Hour is nearly upon us. I hope you brew a fine weekend for yourselves. Run well and drink well. Cheers.
During its coverage of the Denver-Cleveland game last night, the NFL Network showed highlights of how, 21 years ago,
And then fail, dismally.
I, as a Viper pup, sat at my papa's knee and watched the Cleveland Browns play Denver in the AFC playoffs, one game away from the Super Bowl, a game in which Cleveland has never played because the first Super Bowl was in 1967 and the team's last championship was in 1964.
On that day in January, Cleveland was ahead 20-13 in the fourth quarter and had Denver pinned deep in its own territory with five minutes remaining when Elway rattled off a series of plays that became known as The Drive.
Cleveland lost. It was stunning. A season that was so exciting to watch had suddenly and quite finally ended. And then, I uttered those fateful words, "Maybe next year."
Next year has never come.
I have since watched the Browns leave Cleveland for Baltimore in 1995, return in 1999 in absolute dismal fashion, with only two winning seasons in that time, one of them last year, when it looked like just maybe this team might become respectable again, only to look like dog -- oh, I'm sorry -- dawg turds again this year, as they looked last night. Maybe next year.
I have seen the Cleveland Indians go from a team that was so bad they made movies about it, to a team that, in a new, record-settingly full ballpark, reached and lost the World Series twice in the 1990s, one time just two outs away from winning the whole damned thing, then all those players left Cleveland for bigger paychecks (bon voyage, Albert; bye, Jim; see ya, Manny), while the Indians got "rebuilding years," until last year when I saw the team win its last post-season game, putting them one win away from another chance to lose the World Series, only to lose three straight games to Boston, which won the Series, something Cleveland has not done since 1948, when ironically the team beat both Boston teams. This was supposed to be their year. Maybe next year.
I have seen the Cleveland Cavaliers, a team that has never won a championship in its existence, a team that in the late 1980s to mid-1990s was one of the best basketball teams in the league, a team that unfortunately had to play against a guy named Michael Jordan, who played in the same conference and prevented the Cavs from ever reaching the NBA Finals, eventually leading the team to break apart and fall into such futility that I stopped watching basketball altogether, until the team was so bad that it got the first pick in the 2003 draft and selected Akron-born phenomenon, LeBron James, who has returned the team to success, taken them to the playoffs three consecutive years, to the NBA Finals in 2006-07, losing to the San Antonio Spurs, returning to the conference finals again last year, only to lose, of course, to Boston. This is supposed to be their year. Maybe this is next year?
I have seen The Drive, The Fumble, The Shot, The Move, The Blown Save. I have seen coaches and players leave Cleveland to win championships elsewhere. (Oh, hi Jim, Manny, Bill and Ron! Thanks for joining, Charlie!) I have seen hope dashed, smelled its decayed flesh, and tasted its rancid bitterness.
I watch sports not thinking my team will win, but knowing it will figure out a way not to. I cheer for players who are rumored to be on the first flight out of Cleveland when their contract is through. I wincingly root for teams that I'm scared will build me up just to let me down (let me down) and mess me around and then worst of all (worst of all) they never call, baby, when they say they will (say they will) but I love them still.
I am a Cleveland sports fan. And I know why they brew good beer with 10 percent ABV.
This is my baggage. Thank you for listening.
Back Talk
Wherein I'm just too angry at my local sports team to be all that clever in response to your comments this week, but it doesn't matter because your comments are never all that good anyway.
Marcy thinks everyone whose name starts with V looks the same and admits to a perverted fetish for odors: "Are you and Vanilla the same person? You both said the SAME damn thing in your comments HAHAHHAAA I'm anal about smelling. I also put deodorant on before bed."
Answer: No, Vanilla and I are not the same person. I'm the faster and better looking one, whose only children are illegitamate. I also know how to copy and paste. Please keep the anal smelling talk off my site.
Xenia has some advice in regards to my not running: "Let's see -- you have poor eyesight, a propensity to drop your pants, and somehow hurt your leg while scooting closer to your desk. Perhaps if you laid off that extra-curricular activity of yours, you'd be able to run. Just saying."
Answer: Next, your going to tell me that forearm soreness is not a common running injury.
Ms. V shows why she is a good teacher: "Okay, I know it looks like we've been on your blog for like, 15 minutes, but seriously, my 5th period class spent all this time watching Soul 2 Soul and explaining to me that it's a REALLY old group.
"I'm like, NO, this guy that put this up is really young and hip. Except for the fact that you're experiencing some age related aches and pains."
Answer: My SiteMeter clocked you at 13:48. I'm glad to see your students are learning under the influence of my alcoholy writing. I'm a premium role model.
Thanks for stopping by everyone. I'm sorry if your comments didn't get the treatment you felt they deserved. Maybe next year.
Happy Hour is nearly upon us. I hope you brew a fine weekend for yourselves. Run well and drink well. Cheers.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Flashback Friday: Terror-rific Edition
See what happens when you don't run fast? Happy Halloween!
You know what's scary? My tempo run last night. It was scary as heck!
First of all, it was dark. And the temperature was chilling.
The trees clacked together in a spooky rendition of the "Purple People Eater." And then, it was all deserted because all those pansy runners are apparently scared of the dark.
Creatures in the woods made rustling noises as they stalked their prey (squirrels and chipmunks and birds -- oh my!). And my pace was eerily similar to my last three tempo runs, right at 9:07 per mile.
Back Talk
What's really spooky is how the quality of comments this week has been so poor.
Ms. V was not impressed with my detox run: "Sorry about the headache. Hasn't anyone taught you about aspirin before bedtime? ... amateur!"
Answer: Amateur? The amateur drinks himself under the table and spends the next day in bed. A professional deals with the occasional headache in stride.
Jess had an idea of why I've been so slow: "Maybe you're getting your period."
Answer: Boy, I hope not. I don't think I can afford the therapy.
Nic is guilty of annoying others with his running by recounting his last race, which was just 50 miles: "You'll be happy to know my wife was positive I was hungover on Sunday morning. I told her I ran 50 MILES and THAT was causing my headache, mild nausea, and car sickness on the way home."
Answer: If that's true, too bad. I don't think hair of the dog works in that situation.
Happy Hour is nearly upon us! Enjoy your weekend. Good luck to you racers out there. Run well and drink well. Cheers!
Friday, October 24, 2008
Flashback Friday: Tainted Love Edition
There has been a lot of talk about "taint" this week. So, let me talk about it even more.
First, for clarity's sake, a little tainted etymology.
And as a display of my sweet lexicography skills, here is a tainted definition:
Taint (taynt) - n. 1. a trace of something bad, offensive or harmful; 2. a trace of infection, contamination or the like; 3. a trace of dishonor or discredit; 4. Slang (vulgar) -- the perineum, the area between the genitals and anus, male or female; although the term is said to originate from the saying, "It ain't pussy and t'aint ass" -- vt. 1. to modify by or as if by a trace of something offensive or deleterious; 2. to infect, contaminate, corrupt or spoil; 3. to sully or tarnish (a person's name, reputation, etc.) -- vi. to become tainted; spoil.
Of course, I know when you read the tainted title of this blog your inner ear immediately heard one thing: ERNT-ERNT!
And now to the tainted comments!
Back Talk
Wherein I taint your minds further with tainted rebuttals to your tainted comments.
Responding to my statement that "I didn't not taint one of the batches of [Ommegang] beer with anything too toxic," the erratic epicurean asks: "[S]o you DID add something toxic then? [O]r has being away affected your grammar?"
Soon to be running his first race ever, but tainted by the same question above, Vava asks: "What did you not 'not taint' it with?"
Hoping to lend some tainted clarity to the matter with a comment that may fall under the category TL;DR, the loquacious Glaven Q. Heisenberg suggests: "You need to say something along the lines of 'I didn't not untaint the not already not untainted by me taintless (or wasn't not it?) de-tainted taint-free-less untainted trippelbock by not undipping my untainted taint in it. Not.'
"Then, while the grammar cops are doing the math ('wait, wait! ... carry the "not," divided by the cubed root of "un-" multiplied by Pi ... IS THIS WHOLE FREAKIN POST IN BASE 8?!?! Start Over!!") you could have another post ready explaining that grammar's one thing and math is something entirely else.
"Not!
"Show of hands - whose mind is TOTALLY blown?
"Please confirm that you did NOT dip your taint in any beer."
And Chia? Well, her mind is in the gutter: "He said 'taint.'"
Answer: I'd say that pretty much sums it up.
Some of you posed some questions and offered your own advice on cold weather running.
Vanilla suggests: "If you wear a scarf or something to cover your mouth and chin then don't forget to move it before you spit. I know a guy who always forgets to do that."
Answer: That guy sounds like a Class A moron.
Mr. Heisenberg (again) poses a tainted question: "Does that really work with the shaving cream on the glasses? Hmmm ... stands to reason, then, that Visine on my bikini area should be helpful in some way. But dare I risk my defiling my taint?"
Answer: Yes, the shaving cream works on glasses. Keep your defiled taint to yourself.
TFH shares a dated lesson: "The most important lesson I learned from my high school cross country coach was: your sleeves are not gloves. He was dismayed to see thumb holes in the lower sleeves of most of his runners."
Answer: Running gear today is too expensive to put holes in it ... says the guy who wants to drill holes in his shoes.
Big suggests an alternative to my advice: "If the 'run faster' isn't working, try the run shorter, it gets you home even quicker."
Answer: But then you might miss out on the exciting sensation of numb-face.
Xenia recognizes my brilliance, but asks a ridiculous question: "Well, aren't you Mr. Know-it-all. So, does this mean you're going to become a morning runner for the winter?"
Answer: No. (Duh!)
Ted reveals a peculiar penchant for lubrication: "If the weather gets miserably COLD, you can apply Vaseline over your face. It acts like an insulation. It works !"
Answer: Whatever floats your boat.
The Addicted Tiger suggests you keep warm by robbing a bank: "Like the tips about cold weather running ... I'm willing to try anything. But I will add one -- go out looking like you're going to rob a bank -- you'll prevent chronic bronchitis with the ski mask."
Answer: What kind of weapon do you suggest?
And as usual, Nitmos tries to brow beat me into treating my running shoes like trash: "Use them. And discard them. Stop being a wuss."
Answer: You see, Nitmos treats his objects like women.
Right Back at You
Lastly, I somehow stumbled into the Carnival of Running at Running Is Funny. Thanks a lot. Now, I'm paranoid that my hands are small and that I smell of cabbage.
Have a fine weekend, teammates. Good luck to all you racers out there. Run well and drink well.
First, for clarity's sake, a little tainted etymology.
And as a display of my sweet lexicography skills, here is a tainted definition:
Taint (taynt) - n. 1. a trace of something bad, offensive or harmful; 2. a trace of infection, contamination or the like; 3. a trace of dishonor or discredit; 4. Slang (vulgar) -- the perineum, the area between the genitals and anus, male or female; although the term is said to originate from the saying, "It ain't pussy and t'aint ass" -- vt. 1. to modify by or as if by a trace of something offensive or deleterious; 2. to infect, contaminate, corrupt or spoil; 3. to sully or tarnish (a person's name, reputation, etc.) -- vi. to become tainted; spoil.
Of course, I know when you read the tainted title of this blog your inner ear immediately heard one thing: ERNT-ERNT!
And now to the tainted comments!
Back Talk
Wherein I taint your minds further with tainted rebuttals to your tainted comments.
Responding to my statement that "I didn't not taint one of the batches of [Ommegang] beer with anything too toxic," the erratic epicurean asks: "[S]o you DID add something toxic then? [O]r has being away affected your grammar?"
Soon to be running his first race ever, but tainted by the same question above, Vava asks: "What did you not 'not taint' it with?"
Hoping to lend some tainted clarity to the matter with a comment that may fall under the category TL;DR, the loquacious Glaven Q. Heisenberg suggests: "You need to say something along the lines of 'I didn't not untaint the not already not untainted by me taintless (or wasn't not it?) de-tainted taint-free-less untainted trippelbock by not undipping my untainted taint in it. Not.'
"Then, while the grammar cops are doing the math ('wait, wait! ... carry the "not," divided by the cubed root of "un-" multiplied by Pi ... IS THIS WHOLE FREAKIN POST IN BASE 8?!?! Start Over!!") you could have another post ready explaining that grammar's one thing and math is something entirely else.
"Not!
"Show of hands - whose mind is TOTALLY blown?
"Please confirm that you did NOT dip your taint in any beer."
And Chia? Well, her mind is in the gutter: "He said 'taint.'"
Answer: I'd say that pretty much sums it up.
Some of you posed some questions and offered your own advice on cold weather running.
Vanilla suggests: "If you wear a scarf or something to cover your mouth and chin then don't forget to move it before you spit. I know a guy who always forgets to do that."
Answer: That guy sounds like a Class A moron.
Mr. Heisenberg (again) poses a tainted question: "Does that really work with the shaving cream on the glasses? Hmmm ... stands to reason, then, that Visine on my bikini area should be helpful in some way. But dare I risk my defiling my taint?"
Answer: Yes, the shaving cream works on glasses. Keep your defiled taint to yourself.
TFH shares a dated lesson: "The most important lesson I learned from my high school cross country coach was: your sleeves are not gloves. He was dismayed to see thumb holes in the lower sleeves of most of his runners."
Answer: Running gear today is too expensive to put holes in it ... says the guy who wants to drill holes in his shoes.
Big suggests an alternative to my advice: "If the 'run faster' isn't working, try the run shorter, it gets you home even quicker."
Answer: But then you might miss out on the exciting sensation of numb-face.
Xenia recognizes my brilliance, but asks a ridiculous question: "Well, aren't you Mr. Know-it-all. So, does this mean you're going to become a morning runner for the winter?"
Answer: No. (Duh!)
Ted reveals a peculiar penchant for lubrication: "If the weather gets miserably COLD, you can apply Vaseline over your face. It acts like an insulation. It works !"
Answer: Whatever floats your boat.
The Addicted Tiger suggests you keep warm by robbing a bank: "Like the tips about cold weather running ... I'm willing to try anything. But I will add one -- go out looking like you're going to rob a bank -- you'll prevent chronic bronchitis with the ski mask."
Answer: What kind of weapon do you suggest?
And as usual, Nitmos tries to brow beat me into treating my running shoes like trash: "Use them. And discard them. Stop being a wuss."
Answer: You see, Nitmos treats his objects like women.
Right Back at You
Lastly, I somehow stumbled into the Carnival of Running at Running Is Funny. Thanks a lot. Now, I'm paranoid that my hands are small and that I smell of cabbage.
Have a fine weekend, teammates. Good luck to all you racers out there. Run well and drink well.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Flashback Friday: On Holiday By Mistake
The Viper is not here. He is on vacation (hint) and will return Tuesday. But you are so in luck. Amy and Tom of Runners' Lounge fame have come through for you. Go check out Open Mic Friday at the Runners' Lounge blog for an exclusive interview with your favorite blogger. (Only the second interview the Viper has given to date.)
The Viper, meanwhile, in his magnanimous benevolence, has compiled the rest of this post in advance for your amusement. Be sure to thank him for his kindness, as you pine for his return.
Back Talk
Wherein I think of those witty comebacks too late.
Xenia has a question for me: "Do you have a Jekyll and Hyde personality or something? You sound so positive and helpful to others when you run a marathon but not so much when you're not. Interesting. And by interesting, I mean wtf."
Answer: I was born under a bad sign.
Adolpho sends me this bit ofspam advice to consider after the Towpath Marathon: "Boozehound is a physical tonic that when equipped causes drinking alcohol to restore a small amount of EVE, rather than draining it. Drinking too much too quickly will cause your vision to blur for a short time."
Answer: Maybe you should avoid commenting while drunk, adolpho.
[Drunkard's note: If any of you are willing to go on a Team BHI mission, feel free to click on adolpho's links in Monday's comments. I won't do it.]
Laura is apparently on a recruitment drive, as she offers her idea on what I should do with my running for the rest of the year: "I'm with Nitmos ... do another marathon and join the Maniacs!"
Answer: I don't trust people who are with Nitmos. And as Karl Marx said, "I don't want to belong to any club that will accept me as a member." That's also why I'm no longer a Commie.
Ms. V begs and pleas for my sympathy (but I don't mind): "Hey, how about rooting for the Dodgers so I don't have to wait ANOTHER 20 years."
Answer: Are you kidding me? I've waited 29 years for Cleveland to win the World Series. The city itself has been waiting for like mathisnotmystrongsuit since 1948! And that's just for a baseball championship. Go Phillies! (I'm also rooting for a No Sox Series! Go Rays, you devils!)
And finally Sarah thinks she's hot shit because she's got less stubble than me: "I need to shave my 5K stubble time. Mine's 23:19. What's yours? OOOOHHHHH ... Burn, baby burn!"
Answer: Remember, it's not how much you start with, but how much you shave off. And you have to shave from a PR, whereas I don't. Marinate in that for a minute.
Good luck to Sarah and Nitmos at the Detroit Marathon. Good luck to Chia at the Grand Rapids (Mich.) Marathon. And if I forgot to wish you luck on your race, it's because you have not paid you team dues. But good luck anyway. Run well and drink well this weekend, teammates. Cheers!
Also, congrats to Ted, who may or may not have posted his 100th post recently.
The Viper, meanwhile, in his magnanimous benevolence, has compiled the rest of this post in advance for your amusement. Be sure to thank him for his kindness, as you pine for his return.
Back Talk
Wherein I think of those witty comebacks too late.
Xenia has a question for me: "Do you have a Jekyll and Hyde personality or something? You sound so positive and helpful to others when you run a marathon but not so much when you're not. Interesting. And by interesting, I mean wtf."
Answer: I was born under a bad sign.
Adolpho sends me this bit of
Answer: Maybe you should avoid commenting while drunk, adolpho.
[Drunkard's note: If any of you are willing to go on a Team BHI mission, feel free to click on adolpho's links in Monday's comments. I won't do it.]
Laura is apparently on a recruitment drive, as she offers her idea on what I should do with my running for the rest of the year: "I'm with Nitmos ... do another marathon and join the Maniacs!"
Answer: I don't trust people who are with Nitmos. And as Karl Marx said, "I don't want to belong to any club that will accept me as a member." That's also why I'm no longer a Commie.
Ms. V begs and pleas for my sympathy (but I don't mind): "Hey, how about rooting for the Dodgers so I don't have to wait ANOTHER 20 years."
Answer: Are you kidding me? I've waited 29 years for Cleveland to win the World Series. The city itself has been waiting for like mathisnotmystrongsuit since 1948! And that's just for a baseball championship. Go Phillies! (I'm also rooting for a No Sox Series! Go Rays, you devils!)
And finally Sarah thinks she's hot shit because she's got less stubble than me: "I need to shave my 5K stubble time. Mine's 23:19. What's yours? OOOOHHHHH ... Burn, baby burn!"
Answer: Remember, it's not how much you start with, but how much you shave off. And you have to shave from a PR, whereas I don't. Marinate in that for a minute.
Good luck to Sarah and Nitmos at the Detroit Marathon. Good luck to Chia at the Grand Rapids (Mich.) Marathon. And if I forgot to wish you luck on your race, it's because you have not paid you team dues. But good luck anyway. Run well and drink well this weekend, teammates. Cheers!
Also, congrats to Ted, who may or may not have posted his 100th post recently.
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