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This page last updated: Saturday 20 March 2010
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Dead Runners' Song


Many of the dead runners have "special" talents. I thought it best to illustrate this by means of quoting one of the emails from Mary Z. Fuka, in which she describes the Dead Runners Society. You should start by humming the tune to "Hotel California" by the Eagles. The rest should then make sense :

LISTSERV FOR DEAD RUNNERS

On a dark desert trailway, cool wind in my hair
Warm feel of Adidas, a blister's forming down there.
Back home in my study, I see a shimmering screen;
My fingertips itch, I need some advice,
I gotta login, vent my spleen.

There's her note in my mailbox,
I heard the little beep
And I was thinking to myself
I could go on or just hit delete.
Then she wrote "Try some Spenco", it made my foot's day,
There are more posts in the mail queue, I think I hear them say...

Welcome to the Listserv for Dead Runners,
It's an e-mail place, such a flame-free space.
Plenty of posts on the Listserv for Dead Runners
Any time of year, there'll be e-mail here.

Her mind is Olympics-twisted, she logs all her mileage trends;
She's got a lot of skinny runner boys that she calls friends.
Hillwork on the roadways, sweet summer sweat,
Some run to remember--some run to forget.
So I asked the team captain "Please record my splits"
He said "We've not entered that event since 1966."
And still those messages are calling from far away,
The Ancyent's typing in the middle of the night,
I thought I saw him say....

Welcome to the Listserv for Dead Runners,
Such a lovely place, an e-running space.
It's sweetness and light on the Listserv for Dead Runners
We'll apologize for any rude surprise.

Men in tights revealing, penises on ice,
Linda sez "We're just list-members here, of our own device."
On The Master's indoor track, they gathered for the race,
They stabbed it with their steely spikes but they still can't keep the pace.
Last thing I remember, I was in the outside lane,
I had to get out of the pack or I thought I'd go insane.
"Relax," said the ListGuy, "We are programmed to receive.
You can unsub any time you want, but you can never leave."

(One more round through whichever chorus if you're so inclined)
Of course there's always some damn fool who can't leave a good idea alone. In this instance Chris Howard waded in with :

"I'm not usually one who tries to improve on perfection, but you left out the best part... the big guitar solo at the end. [To appreciate this, you must lean back in your office chair and vigorously crank your air guitar]."

"Relax," said the ListGuy, "We are programmed to receive.
You can unsub any time you want, but you can never leave."

Do Do Do Do Dooooooooo
Do Do Do Do Dooooooooo
Do Do Da  Do Dodado
Do Do Da  Do Dodado
Do da Doda doo dooooo
( )  da da dada dodadi doo dooo
dodadoda dodidido
Da daaaa daaa daaa daaaa do do
dodidee dodidee dodidee dodidee dodidee
dodidee dodidee dodi do         whaaayk
dodidee dodidee dodidee dodidee dodidee
dodidee dodidee dodi do         whaaayk
dodidee dodidee dodidee dodidee dodidee
dodidee dodidee  () ()

(repeat endlessly and fade out)



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