To put this morning's temperature in terms that may be more meaningful to you: When I got back from my run I immediately came down here to the Macintosh and pulled up the raunchiest Intertubal porn I could find and after staring at it for a full minute, for the first time in my life in such a situation, the stiffest part of my body was not located below the waist! Hahahahaha! It's funny because I'm frostbit!
But I've been pussificatorily putting runs off lately because of the weather — snow; ice; sky like unto blood and the moon as if sackcloth — and so when I came down here, looked up the weather, and saw it was 7 degrees out, I was tempted to bag yet another run. But then I thought to myself, "You know, it's a slippery slope once you accept temperature alone as a valid reason not to run. I mean, what's next? Omens? 'I saw a black cat!' Oooooo! Better not run! When it gets to that point, are you really a man anymore? You might as well hang up you n*ts@ck!"
Like all good If-we allow-this-what-would-be-next? arguments — e.g., "If we let dudes marry dudes, what's next? Allowing dudes to marry chickens?" (I don't know about you, but I don't want dudes marrying chickens in my state1! Therefore, NO GAY MARRIAGE, you proto-chicken-fuckers!1!) — this argument swayed me. It was entirely convincing in its irrelevance, so I dutifully mapped out a 6.32-mile run and I was out the door.
But here's the thing: Running in 7-degree weather sucks hairy goat balls, as mentioned above, but I reiterate this fact here because, above, I forget to mention that sucking hairy goat balls is also legal in the Carolinas, and not just for other goats, if you get my drift2. Because it was so cold out, it took like twice as long for me to be able to feel my fingers despite my time-tested warm-up technique of frenetically-paced and repeated clenching-and-unclenching-of-my-fists. (I was wearing gloves, of course, but in this weather? Pffftt! Might just as well not be.) I was sure I was gonna lose a pinky or two. (I have three.)
But warm up they did, at around the 3-mile mark, so there went that excuse for aborting the run early.
Then I started in with the negotiations: Look, if I stop the run after 4 miles, I swear, when I get home, I'll ride Morrissey for FIVE MORE miles! That's gotta be worth 2.32 running miles!
But you know what? That's just the terrorist in me talking and I don't negotiate with terrorists. "Let me return home now and I promise not to let your pinkies get frostbite and fall off!" "NO DEAL!" "Okay, how about your dick?" "Okay. Home it is, then."
Hahahahahaha!1! Just kidding! My penis was never in any actual danger, Ladies, because for Xmas I got these boxer briefs that are really great at keeping the ol' junk up close to my core where it — the junk — stays relatively warm. Plus? The codpiece really shows off my junk to nice effect. I mean, I never really needed any help in that area? But these boxer briefs really give you an idea of what you'd be dealing with. And Ladies? I don't blame you for being a little bit frightened.
Junk-flattering boxer-briefs (full disclosure: mine's bigger)
Anyroad ($ir Paul just got a royalty cheque for 5 pounds!), I finished my run and survived.
6.32 miles in 59:18 for a 9:24 pace and 6.4 mph. In cold, icy conditions? I'll take that.
1 Don't worry, Cletus. I don't care if you Carolinians continue to marry your chickens. You fought and lost the Wah of Nawthun Aggresshun for that right, so go to it1a!
1a See? I told you, Sarah (D-MI), that your request that I stop taunting Cletus was denied! I hope that is now clear to you.
2 In fact? It is illegal for a dude-goat to suck another dude-goat's hairy balls because THAT WOULD BE TOTALLY GAY!1!