Thursday, April 01, 2010

Bikes For The Broken

It's time for me to give.  I'm a selfish taker.  I take, take, take.  I care about no one but myself.  Most who know me will nod their heads in agreement. When it comes to money, I keep it all to myself.  And I don't share anything.  Not food, not clothing, not furniture (the furniture part is mostly because we're hard on our furniture and no one wants our furniture after we've had it more than a week.  So maybe that doesn't count.)   

As of late, however, I've had an extreme change of heart.  There's a burning in my bosom and a softening in my heart -- a softening similar to room temperature butter when the room temperature is 90.   You know that softening, right?  It's where the butter is just on the cusp of dropping over that "I'm melting!" edge.  Next time you see that half-melted-room-temperature-butter-softening, put your ear up to it.  You'll prolly hear the wicked witch of the west scream, "I'm melting!"  Either that, or you'll hear the ocean.  It's true!  Try it.

Anyway.  My heart is soft.  And I've used all this softness to start my own charity.  One in which I vow that almost 10% of the proceeds will make it to those needing the charity. 

The inspiration of this charity came from my beloved spouse.  He is so wonderful.  And handsome.  And kind.  And fatherly. Oh heavenly days, he's so very fatherly.  And he takes good care of us so much and so good.  And he's great in the sack--but only when accompanied with my food of choice.  And he's always cleaning the house and taking out the garbage and doing laundry and cooking dinner.  He's so wonderful.  Just wonderful!

Enough of the gushery!  For it's causing a blushery! I'll get on with the charity now.

Spouse was a world-renowned collegiate athlete.  He ran across the country.  Like Forest Gump.  He was very fast and the whole world knew about him.  One day, 20 years after his athletic across-the-country career was finished, all of his dreams came crashing and skidded to a halt when Spouse broke his feet.  It was a loud crash.  Like a grand piano in a dark and shady alley or the catapulting of a cow.  Or perhaps like unto a skier who dropped 25 feet and landed flat.

Spouse's doc said, "No more running for you mister."   And Spouse was crushed.

After six months in the chair and many more months of therapy, Spouse began to ride his bike like a banshee.  When weather permits, he rides his bicycle several times a week during his lunch hours.  This bike riding stuff makes him very happy.

We have a problem, however, because the Spouse needs a new bike.  Badly.  I've ear-marked some cash (that I've yet to earn) for a new bicycle.  But for some reason, it appears that I lack the political clout necessary for ear-marking.

Spouse wants this bike:

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Or this bike:

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Last night, I had a light bulb moment over this bicycle business.  I'll bet there are many... hundreds... even thousands of other washed up athletes just like Spouse!  Athletes that have gotten old and have developed brittle bones and tendons and whatnot.  These broken, washed-up athletes need new bikes!  They just do.  I will use the rabidrunner blog to raise funds for those old 'n broken athletes.

I call my charity Bikes For The Broken.  And you can help.

Just send your cash to my paypal account:  bikesforthebroken[at]gmail.com

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8 comments:

Winder said...

What about washed up athletes who have broken Uterus'? Anything for them?

rabidrunner said...

I'll raise money for a prosthetic uterus -- one with all the latest bells and whistles. Unless of course you have a hobby that compensates for your broken uterus. In that case I'll raise money for that hobby.

What type of hobby will compensate for broken uteruses?

rabidrunner said...

Or maybe we should just go down to Jamaica and kidnap Usain Bolt. We can give him the date rape drug and capture some of his off-spray.

Of course, we still need a uterus...

Winder said...

Well, couldn't we just use your uterus for his off-spray. I know how much you love being pregnant. Who cares about your dreams and desires of being a great marathoner.

Ski Bike Junkie said...

Your husband has expensive taste.

rabidrunner said...

Winder, I can be a great marathoner pregnant. Think how fast I'll be carrying a Bolt child.

Junkie, you have no idea! He's the reason I have to work three jobs and drive the local school bus (kidding.)

Jessica said...

Off-spray? Genius.

Aubrey said...

*giggle*