Marathon Man

I'm running a marathon. Let me rephrase that... I want to run a marathon.
Why?
It's for my own personal glory. There's nothing I can do to make my missus love me any more or my kids listen to me any less so... why not?
Since mid-march we went to Nashville and that put a kink in my training. I've also been recovering from illness the past week. This means that I'm back on a training schedule as of TODAY.
I'd be lying if I said I'm motivated to run. I'm not. I'm having to psyche myself up as I write this.
Would you, dear reader, do me favor? Please leave some encouragement for me so that when I don't feel like running, I can look at them and get motivated.
My mind says it's a good thing. My body says, : Oh, hell no!"
Thanks for all of your help.

String Cheese Article - Number Five

Never Fear, Political Underdogs are Here!
by Aryn Corley

I’m sick of politics.

To me, the presidential race is like a 10-day-old Thanksgiving turkey; it’s a cold, bland bird that’s outlived its usefulness and has little or no appeal. Much like Joan Rivers.

Just kidding, Joan. Can we talk?

With the way these candidates are taking shots at each other, Obama, Clinton, and McCain should be renamed Moe, Larry, and Curley, respectively. I must admit, though, I’d find the presidential debates more interesting if there was more eye-poking and a pie-in-the-face, or two. A town hall meeting would be the perfect place for the “Niagara Falls” bit.

Lately, the “Big Three” have been saying things, which weren’t exactly truthful. The candidates have “misspoke” regularly about their qualifications. It must be a virus. Personally, I enjoy the apologies and retractions. There’s been so much tap dancing that Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers, and Gregory Hines have all been rolling in their graves.

Sadly, they’ve failed miserably at inspiring me to vote for them. Come to think of it, they’ve all failed miserably at bribing me to vote for them. Who else is there to capture the hearts and whines of the American people?

I like rooting for an underdog.

Our country was founded by underdogs. Bookies went broke covering the bets on the Revolutionary War. Written in the Bible is the story of a young man who slew a giant who had a severe allergy to being hit with rocks.

If we didn’t like underdogs, Rambo wouldn’t be popular.

So, I did some searching around the net on a quest for the political underdog for whom my vote will most likely be cast. I wanted to find an “Average Joe” who tossed his or her hat in the political ring the same way a bug slams itself into a windshield.

It’s all or nothing.

I’ve narrowed my search down to the following three candidates who I feel are honest, willing to do what’s best for the country, and maybe a little odd.

The first candidate for president is a representative of the Vampires, Witches, and Pagans Party named Jonathan Albert “The Impaler” Sharkey. Mr. Sharkey and his Death Dealers (sounds like a ‘50’s band, eh?) will impale terrorists, drug dealers, and other criminals along with the police. As a practicing Satanist, you can bet prayer breakfasts will probably be a little freaky. I can totally picture this guy traveling around the country breaking hands and dropping babies.

The next guy, Lee L. Mercer, is a Houstonian, and is running for President to put a stop to the “Eye Spy Community-Military Intelligence (All Three).” It seems that the government put chips in our brains, which would explain why I sometimes dream about Doritos. Mr. Mercer vows to put an end to all this cloak and dagger stuff. Mercer would create such governmental entities like “The United States of America’s United States Department of Justice’s Research and Development Department” and “The United States of America’s United States Department of Defense’s Research and Development Department.” I’m sure the United States Department of Redundancy Department is sure to follow.

This final candidate is not in the same league as the previous two. I’m only including him because he’s got a great sense of humor, has a very slick-looking website, and his last name says it all. Steve Kissing (www.kissing4prez.org) declares “World Peace? Don’t look at me. I’m hoping to be president, not God.” You get the idea. If elected, Mr. Kissing promises that he and his wife will inaugurate the Lincoln bedroom properly. A politician who has relations with his wife? No way! The thing I found the most impressive about Mr. Kissing, besides his prompt response to my e-mail, is he’s the only third party candidate whose website didn’t have any grammatical or punctuation errors.

Truly a sign of insanity.

I’m glad to see there are everyday people who are running for president and being a part of the democratic process. They may not have a snowball’s chance, but neither did any of us when we were born. These folks are underdogs and I wish them all the best.

This discussion of underdogs reminds me of what Harry Truman once said: “If you want a friend in Washington, get a dog.”

String Cheese Article - Number Four

Thinking Terrorism? Try Again.
by Aryn Corley

I hate to fly.
It used to be a fun experience for me, but not anymore. My personal beef with Osama Bin Hidin’ is that he ruined it for me. I’ve even lost my taste for cruddy peanuts. To show my appreciation, I’d like to beat him senseless about the head with a pig’s leg.
No hard feelings.
My wife and I recently took a flight to Nashville. While I was looking forward to embarrassing her in another state with my antics, I wasn’t thrilled about the ordeal that was to occur at the hands of the Air Gestapo known as the TSA.
TSA stands for “This Stinks Already.”
Sadly, the jerks that hijacked those planes on 9/11 looked more like Mexicans than they did Swedes. It’s even sadder for me, because they all looked like my cousins.
The result: I get to enjoy an “extra” level of customer service that TSA has to offer.
Let’s face it: I probably look like a terrorist. An airport is not a good place for a brown guy, carrying a bag, hopped up on Starbucks. It makes people nervous.
My Hawaiian shirt is a dead giveaway. Nobody wears those anymore.
As I waited for my molestation, I watched the people and their facial expressions. The people standing in line looked like a snapshot of America — people from all over the globe hating to wait. Nobody seemed happy. The people in line looked like they were upset and the people with the white shirts looked like they wanted to club the people in line.
Maybe a huge block of government cheese would cheer things up?
I felt somewhat vindicated when I saw an elderly woman off to the side getting the “treatment.” She looked embarrassed to be spread-eagle in front of everyone. I remember thinking, “Al Qaeda must have one heck of a pension plan!” I bet they didn’t let her on the plane with her Ensure.
It is a liquid after all.
When it was my turn, I assumed the position and didn’t even use a fake Arabic accent like I had in the past. It seems that the sense of humor that used to predominate the airline industry went right out the window with our feeling of security. Jokes at the airport are about as welcome as the Hari Krishnas. Airports are now a comedic wasteland.
Gone are the days when you could win a bet by trying to sneak a foil-covered cucumber through the metal detector.
At first the whole affair was disconcerting, but now I find solace in the awkward groping of a complete stranger. It reminded me of the military physical I had to get before shipping off to basic training. The only difference is the absence of Dr. Extradigits poking around in my nether-regions.
The government sure knows how to make a guy feel special.
I’ve drunk the Kool-Aid and I know that these are the times we live in. I can’t question why the State of Texas gives me a gun, yet Uncle Sam doesn’t want me carrying a tube of toothpaste in my carry-on bags. If I have to strip to my boxers for the peace of mind of my fellow citizens, so be it.
But I don’t have to like it.
Please don’t think I’m bashing the TSA employees for having to enforce rules and regulations that seem to fly in the face of logic and reason. The government specializes in not making sense. I understand those men and women have a job to do and, if given the choice, they’d rather get paid for taking eight-hour coffee breaks.
In the war on common sense, I’m with the good guys.
After my shakedown, the TSA screener seemed cold and unfazed. No bomb this time. Maybe next time I’ll tape a bass or two to my chest. You know. Just to shake things up a little.
As I was investing myself of what I had been divested, I turned and saw a mom and baby being put through the same paces. To me, the only destruction this child looked capable of causing was in his diaper. As Momma was getting checked, he cried. Not to be fooling with the pair, the screener waived them on.
I made a note to myself.
The next time I fly, wear a diaper and cry a lot.