I interrupt my loathing of our petulant, inarticulate man-boy president -- actually, it seems at this point that nothing could interrupt my loathing of our petulant, inarticulate man-boy president, but this picture of my armpit might at least mitigate the horror for a few sentences -- with this picture of my armpit:
I've rewarded myself with a tattoo for every marathon I've run. But I've also tucked a compendium tattoo under my armpit -- which, come to think about it, is neither petulant nor inarticulate and therefore is more qualified to be president than man-boy -- that features 26.2 rendered to the best of my creativity in Roman numerals with a dot underneath for every marathon I've run.
I'd run six marathons by the time this was taken, but after losing the New York Marathon lottery three times I'd finally gotten in. The race was in November and I was about to embark on my seventh summer of training so I could run my seventh marathon and proudly tuck my seventh dot under my armpit, which was already more accomplished and qualified to be our 45th president.
I now return to my self-righteous indignation and withering tweets.