From: andrewc@spider.co.uk (Andrew Cannon)
Newsgroups: rec.humor,talk.bizarre,eunet.jokes
Subject: Re: And Still the Moon
Date: 6 Nov 92 13:49:04 GMT
Organization: Spider Systems Limited, Edinburgh, UK.

Part 12.

                            Jogging
                            -------

Sometimes I get this strange urge to do something physical.

Mostly I get drunk and pretend the urge was a dream, occasionally I do
something about it (usually when I'm already drunk....Its amazing what
a high state of inebriation can do for your athletic prestige)

Today is one of those days.  The strange little voice in my head (the
one that's convinced it knows what's best) has insisted that I go
jogging.

Normally I think jogging is a symbol of 20th century man's inabilty to
accept himself for what he is (an under-exercised slob) and attempt to
reach a higher plane of existence through physical exhaustion.

But today I'm drunk, so I pretend to be a middle class man with 2.3
children and a mortgage.  (Probably the worst nightmare I've ever had)

I'm dressed in my latest trendy, imitation, jogging gear (white boxer
shorts, string vest and worn out plimsolls) I take a last swig from
the almost empty (how come bottles of drink are always half empty, not
half full ?) bottle of Vietnamese vodka and jog off down the street.

I get to the bottom of the street and head for the 'Joggers Paradise'
artificial forest.  (It used to be called a green belt, but someone
dug it up by mistake.  Now there's more wood in the picnic tables than
the tree's.)

A nun passes me on her rowing machine.  She gives me a friendly wave
but I pretend I did'nt see her.  (Nuns bring me out in spots,
something to do with purity and virtue I think )

I'm feeling good now, into my stride and feeling no pain.  I jog along
side a family of gerbils out on their exercise wheels.  We have a
brief conversation but I jog on as soon as possible.  Gerbils are only
interested in talking about sesame seeds and the virtues of burrowing.

Deeper in to the woods now and I begin to get a little uneasy.  The
trees begin to take on human features.  There's one that looks like my
analyst.  I control the urge to lay in front of the tree and start
talking about my childhood.

The uneasy feeling is broken by a flasher leaping in front of me.

"What do you think of this then ?" he shouts, wiggling his dangly bits at me.

I pull out my gun and shoot him. That'll teach him to be strange.

I finally exit the woods and my unease vanishes as the golden rays of
the sun wash over me in a catalyst of warmth and colour (I should be
in advertising, that last bit would sound great if you used it to
describe a breakfast cereal, its a shame I'm clinically insane)

Time for a rest I think.  I drop onto the grass and catch my breath.
A large swig of Vodka also helps clear the red dots from in front of
my eyes.

A squad of US Marines jogs past, their legs and arms moving in perfect
synchronisation as the sunlight glints from their lobotomy scars.  I
briefly wonder why they're wearing matching pink mini skirts and
orange lycra tights with their army issue boots but decide that
they're probably practising camouflage techniques.  (You have to
admire them though.  Who would suspect that underneath that effeminate
gear hides a psychotic killing machine with the intelligence of a
household vacuum cleaner)

Once the vodka's finished I head for home, a large group of kids
follows me through the last couple of streets.  I feel like Rocky must
have done in the film.  I turn on the spot with my arms held high
above my head, bathing in the kids hero worship and shouts of
admiration.

"Loony Loony. Look at the psycho, he's wearing a string vest !!!"

"Where you bin' loony ? When did they let you out ?"

I suddenly recognise the taunts for what they are.  I slowly collapse
into a crouch, feigning angst and confusion.  Then I reach for the
gun.....

Later.

I'm OK now.  The kids were sorry, they were only teasing.  They all
said how much they liked my jogging gear and that they all thought
Rocky was a wimp compared to me.  I only had to shoot one or two of
them this time, so their respect must be growing for me (It took
nearly fifty bullets the first time, but I was'nt as self-confident
then)

Maybe I should think about settling down and raising a family.  I
think I'm good with kids.

They always respect me.

Eventually.
-- 
And Still the Moon is Copyright (C) Andy Cannon 1992 but that probably 
won't bother anyone.