And verily I say unto thee ...

Fie! Place this in thine countenance, Pater. For nigh thine posterior hath become my canine most feminine.

And verily I say unto thee ...

Dearest Father

Readest thou mine pronoucement of account and grievest with thine tears most sorrowful.


_______
Hoto
(sent from my mobile phone)

Dearest Father

As fall is now most definitely upon us, with falling leaves and temperatures, and since that means another milestone is upon me, the answer to Life, The Universe, and Everything*, it's about time to reconsider my flabby and pasty midriff. Once again it bulges out over my pants as though a hundred rib eye steaks soaked in vodka martinis have risen up and sinuously coiled themselves around my hips. I seem to be hovering just over the 200lb mark and have become a bit disgusted with myself. Thankfully wifey has inspired me yet again. While I've been going for some good bike rides lately, and have been trying to up my cadence to the fat burning zone (puff), I finally broke down and went for a run today.

It was my first run in over a year. And as I wheezed back to my front steps after a feeble and wobbling 4.5k, I remembered why it was that I haven't run in over a year.

It's because running sucks.

It's just a horrible horrible thing with the sole pleasure being stopping. And never having to run again.

So, back to the bike it is.

And as I lay on the couch this evening nursing my rigid calves and whining hamstrings, I realized there's only one thing a man can do at a time like this: Go after my Dad.

That's right. You heard me ... Attack the one man in my tight knit circle of family and friends who I have a hope in hell of catching.

You see, hip surgery aside, he's still a force to be reckoned with in some areas ... Areas where I must exploit his vulnerabilities. Golf, I can't really catch him ... With almost thirty years on me, and a marshall job at his local course, I've got no chance. He's a better musician all round. He's got a science degree. Better read. Speaks a little French and some Russian. Etcetera etcetera.

Therefore I must chase him on the one plane, the one level field where every man can compete with another on even footing, where any man can live the dream of victory over his foe: The Couch!

Or rather, in front of it.

So, Dad, I love you and all, but...READ IT AND WEEP.




*42