2012 Damon Runyon 5K

We know you've been so desperately wanting to see the Mickey Mantle exhibit, but you're not going get that for two weeks seeing as how next week, you're getting our trip to Nationals Ballpark. Instead you're going to read about two a-holes running the warning track at Yankees Stadium for cancer research today. Enjoy the sweat that seeped through our yoga pants and tank tops and then gathered in between our breasts. It sat there for the entire car ride home from the Bronx. If that's not that kind of shit men want to bring home to their mothers, we don't know what men want. In which case, that explains a lot. Before we get into how Olympic our athletic endeavors are, we have to discuss our poll results. Who enjoyed our awesome photos celebrating Tim Lincecum Appreciation Day? We're guessing not too many since only 8 f*cking people responded to our poll! What the hell?! These pictures were pretty much the definitition of epic. We asked you which of Timmy's activities were your favorite. 6 of you chose March Madness, which included Serena's birthday and St. Patrick's Day. No one chose the Giants Superbowl Parade. Why the hell not?! For starters, didn't Lisa and Timmy look like they made the cutest couple with him wearing that plaid shirt? Second of all, parades are fun! Third of all, 90% of you are SAN FRANCISCO Giants fans, so why wouldn't you also want to celebrate another team called the Giants? It's just senseless. Only 1 person chose the Casino Royale party, which is kind of sad since Timmy looked so dapper in his tux. Only 1 person chose the bachelorette party. What exactly is your problem? Not into cross-dressing? That's just disappointing.

Onto sweating through our clothing. The day before Lisa's birthday, we ran in the Runyon 5K at Yankees Stadium. It was Lisa's first run and Serena's second, yet neither of us were prepared for 4 billion stairs. We're getting ahead of ourselves. Allow us to back up to several months ago when registration first opened.
Serena: "We should do this. It's at Yankees Stadium and it's for cancer."
Lisa: "Then we can't get drunk on Saturday night."
Serena: "We'll get drunk on Friday."
Lisa: "Mehhh..."
Serena: "We get to run on the warning track!"
Lisa: "Oooh..."
Serena: "And we can get drunk after!"
Lisa: "Okay, that sounds better."

So we registered. And we "trained." Serena ran for a solid three weeks before her shins exploded into a bazillion lego pieces. Lisa went back to the gym. Took Zumba. We spent every Monday night at Croxley's eating wings and drinking beer and discussing how "THIS was the week" that we were going to get our acts together and start running. We never did.

Flash forward to two weeks prior to the event.
Lisa: "Yeah, so I haven't done any running."
Serena: "Yeah, I can't walk without a gimp because of these shin splints."
Lisa: "You realize that we're going to die, right? We're going to die the day before my birthday."
Serena: "There's so much I never did."
Lisa: "I never got my picture taken with TOWSNBN."
Serena: "I never got to punch John Mayer in the vagina."

One week prior to race time. Serena is now wearing a sling due to a sprained elbow sustained during a yoga class. Lisa has successfully run 4 times on a treadmill. Lisa also now has Bronchitis. Serena can now walk without a gimp, but still has shin splints. This race is sure to be legendary.

Race day. GPS takes us an ass backwards way to Yankees Stadium. Serena doesn't understand why she just didn't go the way we always go. She gives the GPS the middle finger.  Lisa has to pee. Depsite these issues, we do manage to arrive in time for our heat to line up.

Notice how lovely we look this early in the morning without coffee. Do you see this man in the moustache behind us? He's angry because we're so intimidating and awesome. Once the earlier heat departed for the course, we were escorted into the main hall. Bad ass.

Eventually, our heat was ready to line up at the starting line. The race started with two laps around the main level and then we veered off into the basement of Yankees Stadium, which was scary. But from the basement, we emerged into the blinding, hot sunlight and onto the glory that is the warning track. Here is Lisa running and trying not to die:

Here is Serena running. It's probably one of her best photos:

Here's what's AWESOME about running on the warning track: A) you're on the warning track of the field where awesome players walk, run, and play every day. B) You get to throw yourself against the outfield wall like Grandy. Bad ass. C) You can touch the scoreboard in the left field wall. D) When you have Bronchitis, you can hock a phlegm-wad onto the dirt near the Yankees dugout (Lisa did shout an apology for this act of blatant disrespect, but it honestly could not have been helped). Here's what's TERRIBLE about running on the warning track: A) Apparently, it's extremely hot on the field in direct sunlight. B) It's really hot in August. C) It was like 400 degrees outside. D) Did we mention the humidity? E) It's just really f*cking hot!!!! How do the players do it? Is this why they're paid so much?

After two laps around the field, Lisa gasped that Serena would have to leave her behind because she was going to die right there where Grandy plays. Serena lied and said the race was almost over (we had only just finished mile 1). Lisa instantly felt better and continued to run. We grabbed water from the water station and threw it on our faces like we'd seen marathon runners do on television because we thought it would be funny. All it did was get in our eyes and make us even more moist. Side note: when sweat and water mix and that mixture slides into your eyes, it burns. Now you're running blind through corridors and up a sh*t-ton of stairs.

Then came the stairs. Lots of stairs. It's like Yankees Stadium doesn't ever run out of f*cking stairs. Why does it have so many stairs?! America is lazy! We need elevators and escalators and automatic chairs. Or in our case, a gurney. On our descent of the ramps (why couldn't we run UP the ramps and DOWN the stairs? Anyone? No answers to that?), Serena lied again, only this time, it was an accident. She had seen a marker for the second mile and because she literally has no concept as to what a mile, yard, inch, milimeter looks or feels like, she legitimately thought we were on our second mile. So she told Lisa that all she had to do was get to the bottom of these ramps and then she'd be able to stop running. Unfortunately, we got to the bottom of the ramp and we found out that we had an entire mile to run. Oops. Lisa was very upset. She coughed up half of her lung and left it on a staircase. Serena's shins started to hurt. Our death was imminent.

On the 4,000th staircase, we started to see a blinding light. Lisa thought it was Jesus coming to take us home. It turned out that it was merely the light given off from the fiery depths of Hell and it was the Devil waiting to greet us. Turns out that the Devil is actually Alyssa Milano. It was a terrible sight. Serena screamed. Lisa threw a cup of water from the water station at  it.

We eventually did finish. Not prettily, but nevertheless, we still finished. We were greeted with medals and bananas. Like Olympic athletes are. We became obsessed with our medals. We wore them all day and muttered that walkers shouldn't receive anything because they didn't run. In fact, we're still wearing these medals as we blog.

We talked about wearing our medals to Croxley's, but we have the memory of goldfish and we forgot. So we wore them around our respective fitness centers. Didn't actually workout. Just strutted around wearing our medals.

We felt very accomplished. Despite looking like Swamp Things, we took a bunch of pictures of ourselves. Here's Lisa being very tough and Jean Claude Van Damme-like:

Here's Serena looking like a man. Like that should shock any of you:

You might be asking yourselves, "Gee, what's with those weird numbers that look like they're melting off of their arms?" We'll tell you...though admittedly, we probably should've covered this at the start of the blog. The numbers represent the years in which someone (or someones) received a cancer diagnosis. We also wore this on our backs (pay no attention to our asses):

Look at us in our sweaty glory:

The best part about this photo is the fact that Serena is randomly number 34 while Lisa is 2013. How do these numbers get assigned?

When we got home and started blogging, all we could talk about was eating. Keep in mind that following the race, we each ate 2 bananas, 2 bagels, cheese samples, and a protein bar.
Serena: "This is crazy. WHY are we still so goddamn hungry?!"
Lisa: "BECAUSE, Serena, we ran really far! What aren't you understanding about this? We're like Olympic athletes!"
Meanwhile, all we did was run 3.1 miles. There are people than run half-marathons, marathons, and triathalons. We did nothing. We ran their warmup. Yet here we were babbling like we were Michael Phelps or something. We ended up eating two Domino's pizzas and an order of cheesey bread. No wonder we didn't lose any weight from that race.

Obviously, we're going to be the TBB Super Heroes of the Week because we're awesome. If you don't like it, you can go run your own 5K and boast about it.

Go on. Be jealous.The End.

The irony of us being Super Heroes of the Week is the fact that we're also the A-holes of the Week. Ask us why. Go ahead. Ask. Okay, we'll tell you. Arrogant from our recent accomplishment at Yankees Stadium, we decided to register for this 4-mile run in Central Park. Seriously, all we needed to hear was "NFL" and we got excited. So pathetic. It should be noted that once again, we've done zero training for this and Serena still has shin splints. The good news is that Lisa is no longer coughing up organs and Serena is no longer wearing a sling. Auntiedukes and Small Fry will be joining us for this run. Small Fry is a legit runner, so she may have to carry us on her back across the finish line. The day following the race, we're driving to DC for our visit to Nationals Ballpark. Awesome.

Italian Sausage

Last week, Serena was solo (hence, the word “vagina” being used twice without any sort of quality control). MLB had begun its campaign for the All Star Game already, so Serena asked how you guys voted. 5 people said that they sit with the ballot and carefully think about each option before selecting the player they deem most appropriate. 2 individuals said that the use The Force. No one said that they pick the most popular players (in fact, they don’t know why that they’re not allowed to still vote for Ken Griffrey Jr.) and no one didn’t understand question and wouldn’t respond.
  

You might be wondering about what today’s blog theme is about. Italian sausage? Really? Are they talking about food AGAIN. Well…sort of. While watching last night’s Yankees game against the Royals, Alex Rodriguez stepped up to the plate. Here’s how our conversation went:

Lisa: Wow, he’s got some big thighs.

Serena (smacking her own chunk-tastic thighs): The curse of third base.

(Rodriguez adjusts his man-junk area)
Lisa: And apparently so is his junk.
Serena: Ya know, he looks like he’s huge.
Lisa: Yeah. He looks like he’s hung.

This got us thinking…who ELSE looks like he’s packing heat? In defense of this topic, they do have lists of baseball’shottest girlfriends/wives. Why can we cover…sausages? Disclaimer: we should note that we’ve never seen ANY of these private male parts that we’re discussing. This is strictly opinion.

For example, we’re pretty sure that Albert Pujols has a baby’s arm in his pants. In fact, to quote Lisa, “he probably has to roll it up in order to tuck it into his cup.” Wish we took video of this demonstration. At one point, she flung “it” over her shoulder and wrapped it around her leg. We’d go so far as to assume that Pujols is the biggest in the league. Hall of Fame worthy. We’re also confident that Brian Wilson is hung, BUT he has his beard in his pants, which is a serious problem. It’s like a thick, wooded area without civilization that will take you at least 45 minutes to find your way out of. Truly terrifying. The only way it could get scarier is if it was red. Other men that we’ve decided are well-endowed are Joe Mauer, Ryan Howard, CC Sabathia (he looks like a f*cking grizzly bear), Mike Jacobs (even though he’s no longer playing), Brian McCann, Tim Hudson, Matt Holliday, and unfortunately, Carlos Beltran. This might be the only thing that Beltran has going for him because his personality sucks and so does mole. Oh, yes, AND his taste in music.

We briefly discussed one of New York’s Golden Boys (TOWSNBN).
Lisa: I don’t think he’s long, but…
Serena: I think he’s stocky…
Lisa: YES!
Serena: Like his body…
Lisa: EXACTLY!
To clarify, stocky=girthy.

Now for the boys we think have more of a string bean in their pants than a sausage. We’re thinking that New York’s OTHER Golden Boy, Derek Jeter, has a long, but thin noodle…just based on his body. A long, lean noodle. Unfortunately, we think that our honorary TBB, Tim Lincecum, might be small as well. He just looks like he physically couldn’t handle carrying around a Louisville Slugger in his pants. He’d topple over and royally f*ck up his delivery to the plate. Other players that we think are small are Matt Cain, Cole Hamels (and this truly does pain Lisa to think this), Josh Beckett, Dustin Pedroia, Ichiro Suzuki (he’s probably built like Mr. Chow), Jeff Franceour (we’re sad to admit this), and Jose Reyes. Lisa would like to issue a challenge to Hamels to prove to her that he doesn’t have a small Twinkie.

There were a few that we couldn’t decide on. Jayson Werth, for one. He could easily go either way, but he may smell…down there. Like a men’s lockerroom. Justin Verlander is hard to tell also, but we think he probably smells nicer…down there. NOT like a men’s lockeroom. David Ortiz seems like he’s either enormous or really small. Other unknowns: Joey Votto, Josh Hamilton, and Barry Zito. Barry Zito’s a big boy, but he’s rocked a comb-over. A comb-over may indicate a small taquito. That’s just two girls’ opinions.

Huston Street belongs in the average sausage category, but he knows how to work it. We once sat in the left field bleachers at the old Yankees Stadium and watched his warm up. Trust us when we say that “the hips do not lie.” That man can do things with his body that no man can do. There are women (us included—and Serena practices yoga) who cannot do what Huston Street can do.

In non-sausage related news, the TBB have decided to run in the Runyon 5K at Yankees Stadium in August. We get to run the warning track. How bad a$$ is that? We probably would’ve done ANY 5K being held at a baseball stadium within driving distance, but it’s a bonus that it’s taking place at one of the New York stadiums. Here’s a brief background on our running capabilities: Serena ran her first 5K last week at the Bronx Zoo. While running 3.1 miles isn’t something that Serena isn’t physically capable of completing relatively easily, she has the attention span of a toddler. In fact, at the Bronx Zoo, the only reason why Serena finished without running off to look at the monkeys is that she ran the entire thing with her cousin, Sara, a cross-country runner. Now we’re going to be running through a stadium, a course that includes being on the field. We’re probably going to lose Serena to the Yankees dugout or bullpen…or closest hot dog stand. Lisa has never run in any sort of race whatsoever. She HAS chased after the ice cream truck and from a creepy dog walker at Shea Stadium though. Once in awhile she runs on the treadmill at the gym, but she certainly can’t claim to enjoy it. It’s a long, tedious mile. What is exciting for Lisa is the prospect that there may be a lot of fit guidos present at this event (seeing as how most guidos in New York are Yankees fans). Perhaps these guidos can run in front of us and Lisa can run after them. One of them can carry a hot dog and a beer and that will be motivation for Serena. Stay tuned for the blog post following that event.

The big baseball note effecting New York this week is the crap with Mariano Rivera. While shagging balls in the outfield during batting practice (not even an actual game), Rivera twisted his knee. Ouch. An injury like that to a player as old as Rivera immediately makes people think that this is it. He’s not coming back. His career is over on a bull sh*t injury. Not so fast. Rivera insists that he’s coming back for 2013, “not going out like this.”

Jered Weaver, another f*ck a$$ who spells his name wrong (and this is more offensive than Andruw since Brother’s name is JARED), pitched himself a no-hitter against the offensively ineffectual Twins this week. While it’s nice to have a no hitter under your belt, what’s it like to accomplish something like this against a team with the major league-worst record (7-18)? We actually had to double-take that statistic there. 7-18??? SEVEN? They’ve only won seven stupid games??? That’s friggin’ AWFUL. Their terrible record actually outshines Weaver’s accomplishment. His no hitter is a backhanded compliment. We’re not even sure it should count. That’s like pitching no-hit ball to the Bad News Bears.

Closing things out with Adele today: “Oh, rumor has it. Oh, rumor has it. The rumor has it that Pujols is rolling up his sausage from the floor.”