Everybody give it up for the great and talented Mr. Moose.  He was just hired for his dream job!!!!!

(Ahem)  I SAID, Everybody give it up for the great and talented Mr. Moose, already. 

You damned interwebs friends.  It’s just so unsatisfying to not hear you when you applaud wildly. (You ARE  applauding wildly, yes? And stomping the floor?  And going, “Woo!  Woo!  Woo!”  in the manner of a  mentally challenged Marine?  Well, keep it up, people, because Mr. Moose definitely deserves these accolades.)  

Back to the Mister.  For five long years he’s been working towards this day.  Like me (Fuckin’ copy cat),  he’s chosen the profession of Not-A-Botanist.  But the not-a-botanist field has been experiencing massive layoffs as of late.  Our local not-a-greenhouse, in fact,  just eliminated countless positions.  We were not optimistic that he’d find anything this year, thinking that he’d need to continue interning and accepting temporary positions.  But alas, his magnificence has been recognized and he’s procured his dream position. (By which I do NOT mean anal, Glaven.  ‘Cause that’s more an orifice  than an actual position.)

This dream job is good for many reasons.

  1. Not-a-botanists perform a very important job.  It is both crucial and socially significant, and Mr. Moose is into all that nonsense.  (I just wanna pollute shit and exploit the down trodden, but not that guy.  He’s like some kinda crusader for good.)
  2. Our income just increased a fair amount.  In fact, I can probably afford a new running bra now, instead of just layering on three fagged out bras which make elastic crunchy noises if I do so much as exhale.
  3. Not-a-botanists need a LOT of energy to effectively perform their jobs. In anticipation of this fact, Mr. Moose said to me, “Loose Moose,  I guess I better start running.” 

So there you have it, people.  Mr. Moose gets to save the world, while I get to accumulate wealth, ruin his knees, and be protected from dogs.  Win-win, yes? 

We went out today for our first run.  It was AWESOME.  We generally walk about a mile and a third several times a week. This time we did our same route, only we added short bursts of running into the mix.  We’d run to the next corner or mailbox or rusted, dilapidated trailer home.  Mr. Moose performed admirably, especially given the fact that he wasn’t exactly dressed for it.  (Elite runners eschew blue jeans and flannel shirts for a reason, I’m guessing.)

My plan (Don’t tell the Mister) is to gradually increase our distance ’til I’ve turned that moose into a real runner.  But not so much of a real runner that he becomes all skinny and shit, ’cause then his penis will get huge and make me wince. 

Yearly Mileage: 646