Hey, marathon runners! Yeah you marathon runners! Listen up! Put away the Powerbar for a quick second and listen! Listen now, goddamn you marathon runners!
You’re flirting with disaster. Not the kind of disaster that clings between your ass cheeks 20,000 miles into the race. The kind of disaster you’re flirting with is the species-extinction variety.
Protestant angst will be all our undoing. That Sisyphean ball of guilt, post-it notes and toned quadricep imaginings that you plan to push through the course of the Boston marathon will roll over and crush our society.
Who me? But. I’m fit. I do it because it makes me feel good. I can perfect something. I can perfect me: my flesh the cherry-red epoxy on a brand-new Lambourghini. I do it because I feel like I need to. I…just do it.
Jesus was crucified and died for our sins, and thereby redeemed us all. Nike hammered herself to the cross and died with chafed nipples from running too much, and thereby doomed all mankind to aimless, spastic self-destruction.
For those running idiots who believe the path of natural selection and evolution are contained within one life-span, think again. Look carefully in the mirror. Those stress fractures starting at your heels and webbing up your entire skeletal system do not suggest your survival.
Persistence is a virtue of dogs. That taste of blood in your mouth, runner, that sourness clinging to your gums, you jogging bastard, is known by one other creature in creation. The fly that buzzes around the lightbulb until it fizzles dead and falls empty to the ground, it empathizes with you.
But. If I run, and if it is so bad, it is only me that suffers. I recognize the masochism. Yeah, I get it. But it’s my own thing. Like my collection of dryer lint. It’s only my own soul that suffers for it.
Wrong, long-distance bozo. You must have noticed on your way to the bathroom scales the leaning of our culture. Did you not see that the peripatetic, the sleek, the chaste, the increasingly light, the glazed and cheery empty, are our new ideals? Understand that cultures, Hittites, Bourbons, romantics and the Weimar Republic rose and died on the mindless foam of a Nike Air.
As you grease your testicles, as you spend a day’s paycheck on sole analysis, as you carry on another jogger-chat devoid of content, free of meat, of fat and of calories, consider the destruction you wreak on our spiritual life. A superman decapitated, soulless and prone, but swift and hermetic, becomes our society.
But. I’m upset now. I don’t feel good. I need to go jog.
You fucking jogger. You self-righteous ambulator. You battery.
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