4 hard-chargers got up in the morning from the alarm clock’s warning, and took the 5:15 into the city to take care of business. Blackbeard fooled us all by parking somewhere he never parks. We don’t know why he did this. In any event, we launched right on time, only to see a silhouette scampering in our direction as we began our journey.
It was Outlaw, come to lend his gravitas to this great morning.
And can we safely describe ANYTHING about Outlaw as “scampering”?
No. We cannot. An Outlaw does not “scamper” under any circumstances.
An Outlaw saunters.
Or maybe an Outlaw “chugs”.
So Outlaw chugged up with a full head of steam, and plenty of mumble chatter tee’d up.
”Chugging” rhymes with Thugging, and Thug was also there. Thugging.
Thus assembled, the throng set about the task of properly celebrating Goat and Thug’s 13 year ascension to F3 teenagerdom.
It was a traditional Goat offering with a few ‘Mericans, a few miles, a little core and a little mobility. We threw in some cemetery squats for MawMaw’s birthday, and even hoisted some rocks because why not. We decided we were taking care of business.
The real magic happened (as it is wont to do) at coffeeteria.
There we told tales of yore about MATH, OATH and other ancient myths.
We marveled at how the streetlights make it look likes it is really pouring even when it’s not too bad. We opined that most often the weather surprises us in a positive way in the gloom, although we also recollected times over these 13 years when it broke bad and tried to kill us.
The swimmers arrived and the conversation to Iron Maiden, opera, and cartoons.
We talked about the best setting for college football, and the places on our gameday bucket lists.
I finished up the beatdown this morning with a prayer of gratitude about F3 and all the pax… and I meant what I said. Grateful for you filthy animals. I will try not to be a petulant brat in my F3 teen years.
Goat sends.