There are so many intelligent and articulate people covering the hard-hitting
issues in our country these days, that I felt it was my duty to cover the
rather inconsequential bullshit that tends to make up the vast majority of
our lives. Actually, I'll just be griping a lot which, if you weren't aware,
doubles as a synonym for complaining, and as a descriptor for
a sharp pain in the bowels.

Thursday, July 15, 2010

Charles Barkley on the American Flag

I was going to say and now that I'm typing it I guess I am saying that it is hotter than monkey tits out. I don't even know that monkey tits get that hot. Probably not, since those dude[tte]s live in some pretty tropical climates and have all that fur and yet don't combust or anything. It's also muy humid, which is my homage to Spain on winning the World Cup. I have to get around to learning some Spanish. Muy caliente, not to be confused with muy caliendo, which is synonymous with not being funny but then getting your own TV show called Frank TV but then dropping off the face of the Earth soon after. I take that back, nothing against Frank, he just wasn't for me. I hope he got paid a lot of money and is retired nicely somewhere. I would like to do that too.

My brain is addled from excessive writing attempts, but I needed a mid-month update in here to keep pace so here it be. Some props to Charles Barkley because every time I wear his Phoenix Suns jersey I get props galore from humans on the street. Thanks Chuck. Similarly, American flag stuff goes over huge. I was rocking my American flags shorts as referenced in the last entry here, strolling down the Lake Shore path (is that a proper noun, I don't know) this time when I was stopped by a bikini-clad twelve year-old. By strolling I mean running and I should also probably point out I was wearing mismatched shoes, another frequent occurrence for myself. She was with several other children of her approximated age and she asked if I would take a picture with them. Normally I hate to stop during runs, but since I'm not good at running anymore, I said yes. I mean, that's a tenet of improv anyway, say yes. So there I am, drenched in sweat, arms around two giggling twelve year-old girls in bikinis while a couple of dudes and I believe one more girl get into frame to have a photo taken by yet another child of similar age. What these kids were doing out there by themselves who knows. "Yeah, 'cause this isn't weird," is all I could muster. I wish I'd given them my email so I could post the photo, I really do. Good thing I never plan to run for public office.

The very next day, I yesterday learned, one of my Second City classmates witnessed me running down this path. He then proceeded to do an impression of my running. I have long known I run like a total goof, but seeing impressions of it never gets old. I hope I do not look like he made it out that I do, and yet it would explain the insane looks I get from most everyone I pass on the path. That, my short length (and by this I mean the length of my shorts), and my propensity for dancing to the tunes flowing through the old noggin.

But I've got to go outside and soak through my t-shirt again and then go for one of these runs I was talking about. Stay tuned for more unexciting adventures.

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