Gym nauseam

“We wants it, we needs it. Must have the Precious. They stole it from us. Sneaky little hobbitses. Wicked, tricksy, false!”

Gym Gollum (R-Wrestlemania) may not be getting his Precious after all.

The wizards in DeeCee hint darkly that his high-pressure tactics — enlist an army of orcs and goblins to screech at various members of the House of Reprehensibles, their families, friends, and house pets — did not constitute what we in the rasslin’ game call “a submission hold.”

Asked for comment, a spokescreature for Sauron the Terrible hissed: “It’s the Cracks of Doom for this bozo. He could fuck up a One Ring circus.”

Post holes

Taking the long view between hill repeats.

I knew my internal scribe was out walking a picket line with the Writers Guild of America when I considered titling a blog post “Maui wowie.”

Clever? Maybe. Funny? Most definitely not.

It’s been a bit of a rough patch for an old newsie who doesn’t give a fiddler’s fart about Barbie, the Iowa State Fair, Taylor Swift, a fish-slapping dance involving Zuck and Schmuck, Hunter Biden, or the latest freakout over artificial intelligence. (Texting Jesus? Seriously? Dude’s only been Holy Ghosting you people for a couple thousand years.)

We’re just 13 days into August and already I’m being served Halloween-related ads as I shamble around the Internets in search of inspiration.

But I’m having trouble envisioning anything more horrific than getting chased into the ocean by the deadliest American wildfire in more than a century and hearing later that some blogger made a lame joke about it.

Just a sec; gotta block this Jesus dude. He wants to know why the poor sods in Lahaina didn’t just walk to the mainland instead of jumping into the sea.

“That’s what I’da done,” he texts.

“Not with those holes in your feet,” I reply. “You’re not seaworthy anymore, skipper. More leaks than Ginger Hitler’s White House.”

Hah. Nailed it.

Erin go blaugh

Snow makes the coffee taste even better.

I will never be smart. But occasionally I am correct.

On Wednesday, I had been thinking about going for a run, but decided to gallop around Elena Gallegos Open Space on a cyclocross bike for 90 minutes or so because Thursday’s weather was looking iffy and I’d probably need to run then.

On Thursday, the weather was indeed iffy — as in raining — and I considered taking the day off entirely. But then I reconsidered and Herself and I went for a run, because Friday was shaping up to be even worse.

And now, here it is Friday, March 17, and it is snowing. From several directions at once, too.

Emboldened by a short streak of rightness, I announced with authority, “This almost never happens.”

And boom, just like that I was back to being not-smart. Also, wrong.

This is why we take notes. I glanced back through a half-dozen old training logs and found reports of March snow in 2019 and 2022, and as late as April 28 (2017 and 2021).

The forecast for St. Patrick’s Day — and for several days afterward — is for more of the same. I guess it’s a good thing I made a big pot of soup last night, because it sure doesn’t look like we’ll be getting a Paddy melt today.