No. Just no no no no no. And furthermore, no.
Pickles and ice cream? No. Bean burritos and first dates? No. Intricate plot twists and the movies of Adam Sandler? No.
Some things are simply not meant to go together. Yeah, I know, we live in an age of constant flux, a time when social mores change oftener than a ninth-grader’s socks (which is to say, once every couple weeks).
But we must have SOME standards, man, some few constants upon which we can rely!
I rarely find my BVD’s in a twist over the actions of others, mostly because I don’t care what other people do so long as they keep it out of my yard and show me the same consideration. I don’t like being the boss of anyone and I don’t like anyone being the boss of me. This, in part, explains my marital and employment history.
Sometimes, though, like now, some chowder-head will come up with an idea so heinous, so reprehensible, so flat-out against human nature that I feel I must speak up. I suppose you’ve already guessed what I’m talking about.
The FloTrack Beer Mile.
For those readers who don’t follow beer news as carefully as I do, the FloTrack Beer Mile is a foot race held in Austin, Texas. It works like this: each contestant drinks a beer. So far, so good! Finally, a sport at which I might excel.
Then things turn ugly.
After that first beer, the contestant must RUN one-quarter mile. Then drink another beer. Were that the end of it, I might still say, “Well, that’s weird, but OK.”
Sadly, that is not the end of it. Each contestant must then run another quarter-mile, drink another beer, and then run yet ANOTHER quarter-mile and drink yet ANOTHER beer! And then — get this — he or she must run a FINAL quarter mile.
Let’s see, is that a mile yet? Yes, it is. Mr. Paepke was right; fractions are important.
Now, anyone who reads this column regularly already knows I’m fond of beer. I like my beer the way I like my women: cheap and domestic. (Kidding, sweetie, kidding! Put down the knife and let me get you some chocolate!) But seriously, I do kind of like beer.
I don’t drink a lot, despite frequent claims to the contrary, but when I crave a beer with a burger, nothing else really cuts it.
Also, there was a time — though you’d never know it to look at me now — when I enjoyed running. It’s true! I was cross country in high school and even did a couple marathons as an adult.
So I like beer and running.
But not together. Like pickles and ice cream, these two activities were never meant to dance a pas de deux. It’s unnatural and it’s got to be hard on the digestive system. Frankly, if I’m in the mood to attend midnight services at the porcelain altar, I can think of far easier ways to gain admittance.
People are crazy, though. There’s at least a chance this thing could catch on and even … expand. How long before we see Tour de France cyclists stopping every mile to suck back a pack of Camel unfiltered’s? Will rappers be forced to perform the first 30 minutes of every concert without once referencing cops and/or booty? Will we someday witness a cosmetics-free Miss America pageant?
Pickles and ice cream, brothers and sisters. Pickles and ice cream.
Get more of Mike Taylor’s Reality Check online at mtrealitycheck.blogger.com.
mtaylor@staffordgroup.com
(616) 548-8273
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