She’s Gone, Oh I, Oh I’dbetter learn how to face it.
She’s Gone, Oh I, Oh I’d pay the devil to replace her.
She’s Gone…what went wrong?
Remember “She’s Gone,” that song by Hall & Oates? Well, now that Louise has left me as a running partner, that is one of the songs that I perpetually listen to on my iPod as I run back and forth on the West Side Highway, unattended and abandoned, an outcast forgotten and forlorn. Like Neil Diamond once sang, I truly am a “Solitary Man.” That is another tune that I listen to while solitary forging ahead in my marathon training. The other melodies this woebegone loner listens to while I melancholically and miserably count the miles I tread are “One is the Loneliest Number” and “All By Myself.” I also listen to “Someone Left a Cake Out in the Rain” by Richard Harris, but that has nothing to with my running companionless. I once left a strawberry shortcake out during a thunderstorm, and I just really relate to that tune.
Yes, dear readers, I have been betrayed and discarded by my running mate. Yes, dear readers, it is true, I am a running cuckold. At first, I believed the lecherous Louise’s explanation that she was now working for TOP CHEF and could no longer participate in the marathon training. But now I have my suspicions that she has left me for another runner, and I am plagued by self-doubt: Am I too slow? Is my gait off? Are my calves to small? My quads undersized? Do I sweat too much? Should I start wearing underwear when I run so my balls don’t hang out of my shorts? Man, that’s a GROSS image.
I’ve been keeping my eye on Louise. I would keep both of my eyes on her, but I lost one orb three years ago when a beautician with dangerously long nails accidentally skewered my left eyeball while plucking my monobrow. I won’t tell you what happened when that beautician waxed my nether regions using those same Freddy Krueger-like talons, suffice to say that I’m now circumcised and, like Hitler, only possess one testicle. Man, that’s even a GROSSER image. (OK, I pledge, no more ball jokes.) Anyway, Louise says that she isn’t running anymore. She swears that she doesn’t have the free time now that she’s constantly working and, plus, she claims to have hurt her neck while mimicking Steve Wonder’s side-to-side head sway during a live performance of “I Just Called to Say I Love You.”
But I suspect that Louise is running behind my back. Last week, she was wearing her running shoes and wolfing down energy bars. Another time, I saw her varnished in sweat. And Louise NEVER sweats unless she has the DTs or is failing a lie detector test. Then, two days ago, I barged into her apartment and caught her watching RUNNING MAN with a Kenyan wearing a headband and a JACKRABBITS RUNNING CLUB T-shirt. Yes, dear readers, I think I have been played for a sucker. I believe my marathon compadre has ditched me for a better runner. Also, yesterday probably cinched it for me when I spotted Louise running by me on the West Side Highway with Renaldo Villarubios, my despicable archenemy and also the best runner on Team Tiger. Still, I’m not sure. Maybe they were just walking together really fast.
Lachrymose, disheartened and dewy-eyed, I am a lost and broken man, traveling this world alone like David Banner in THE INCREDIBLE HULK—except I’ve never been exposed to Gamma radiation and only turn green when I drink too much whiskey. Damn it, I’m welling up again. I promised myself I wouldn’t cry. Between Louise going all Judas on me and Brett and the Packers fighting, I’m a friggin’ mess. Like my sole testicle, I have no counterpart to hang with. (OK, I truly avow to tell no more ball jokes.) I run. And I run alone. Actually, it’s time for me to hit the West Side Highway right now. Excuse me, dear readers, I must go. “She’s Gone” is playing on my Ipod, and this sniveling, broken-hearted shell of a man must train for a marathon. I only hope I have the balls to go through with it. OK, I had to tell one more sophomoric gonad joke…
STATS for 8/5/08
RUNNING
9 miles
DRINKING
2 Smuttynose IPAs (32 oz.)
1 Victory Baltic Thunder (12 oz.)
1 Stoudt’s Fat Dog (12 oz.)
2 Brooklyn East India Pale Ales (24 oz.)
1 Sierra Nevada Anniversary Ale (12 oz.)
Flying Dog Wild Dog Dopplebock (12 oz.)
Ommegang Chocolate Indulgence (12 oz.)
SLEEPING
4.5 hours
Yes, dear readers, I have been betrayed and discarded by my running mate. Yes, dear readers, it is true, I am a running cuckold. At first, I believed the lecherous Louise’s explanation that she was now working for TOP CHEF and could no longer participate in the marathon training. But now I have my suspicions that she has left me for another runner, and I am plagued by self-doubt: Am I too slow? Is my gait off? Are my calves to small? My quads undersized? Do I sweat too much? Should I start wearing underwear when I run so my balls don’t hang out of my shorts? Man, that’s a GROSS image.
I’ve been keeping my eye on Louise. I would keep both of my eyes on her, but I lost one orb three years ago when a beautician with dangerously long nails accidentally skewered my left eyeball while plucking my monobrow. I won’t tell you what happened when that beautician waxed my nether regions using those same Freddy Krueger-like talons, suffice to say that I’m now circumcised and, like Hitler, only possess one testicle. Man, that’s even a GROSSER image. (OK, I pledge, no more ball jokes.) Anyway, Louise says that she isn’t running anymore. She swears that she doesn’t have the free time now that she’s constantly working and, plus, she claims to have hurt her neck while mimicking Steve Wonder’s side-to-side head sway during a live performance of “I Just Called to Say I Love You.”
But I suspect that Louise is running behind my back. Last week, she was wearing her running shoes and wolfing down energy bars. Another time, I saw her varnished in sweat. And Louise NEVER sweats unless she has the DTs or is failing a lie detector test. Then, two days ago, I barged into her apartment and caught her watching RUNNING MAN with a Kenyan wearing a headband and a JACKRABBITS RUNNING CLUB T-shirt. Yes, dear readers, I think I have been played for a sucker. I believe my marathon compadre has ditched me for a better runner. Also, yesterday probably cinched it for me when I spotted Louise running by me on the West Side Highway with Renaldo Villarubios, my despicable archenemy and also the best runner on Team Tiger. Still, I’m not sure. Maybe they were just walking together really fast.
Lachrymose, disheartened and dewy-eyed, I am a lost and broken man, traveling this world alone like David Banner in THE INCREDIBLE HULK—except I’ve never been exposed to Gamma radiation and only turn green when I drink too much whiskey. Damn it, I’m welling up again. I promised myself I wouldn’t cry. Between Louise going all Judas on me and Brett and the Packers fighting, I’m a friggin’ mess. Like my sole testicle, I have no counterpart to hang with. (OK, I truly avow to tell no more ball jokes.) I run. And I run alone. Actually, it’s time for me to hit the West Side Highway right now. Excuse me, dear readers, I must go. “She’s Gone” is playing on my Ipod, and this sniveling, broken-hearted shell of a man must train for a marathon. I only hope I have the balls to go through with it. OK, I had to tell one more sophomoric gonad joke…
STATS for 8/5/08
RUNNING
9 miles
DRINKING
2 Smuttynose IPAs (32 oz.)
1 Victory Baltic Thunder (12 oz.)
1 Stoudt’s Fat Dog (12 oz.)
2 Brooklyn East India Pale Ales (24 oz.)
1 Sierra Nevada Anniversary Ale (12 oz.)
Flying Dog Wild Dog Dopplebock (12 oz.)
Ommegang Chocolate Indulgence (12 oz.)
SLEEPING
4.5 hours
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