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Monday, March 20, 2006

HANDIN' OUT HATERADE AT THE L.A. MARATHON 

Every year, it comes. And every year, I forget:

Being confronted with bad scenes like this on a Sunday summon my inner sociopath and make me act all kinds of antisocial.

I never would have rented in this L.A. "Luxury Shoebox" 'hood had I known that the freaking L.A. Marathon comes right down my stupid street. Of all the ¬°Pizza Loca! flyer-strewn streets in this litterbug meth whore of a city, why does it have to be mine?! My street they block off, and run down, like it's so scenic. Because obviously they have nothing better to do. Dumbassed brain-dead fitness freaks.

So I cannot get to where I live, on the one day of the week I can run errands, and schlep laundry, or maybe get home to pee, or try to hand-feed my sickly cat, all because some shithead named Bluto in too-small shorts thinks he needs to wear a number and trot down my street while his fatassed friends sit on the sidelines and set up churro stands and play obnoxious music on their ghetto blasters and litter and yell "WOO!" Right. Outside. My. Goddamn. Window.

I wanted to make a giant poster that said "FUCK OFF" and "DON'T YOU PEOPLE HAVE HOMES?!" and "RUN DOWN YOUR OWN STUPID STREET!" or "GET A LIFE!" and "I HATE THE L.A. MARATHON!!!" and hang them outside my apartment, but runners are thugs and would probably break the window with a jar of their recycled pee they had been saving for a special occasion to drink because they worship their stringy-assed leathery-looking selves so much, they probably think their own urine tastes like pee-no noir. Ugh. Runners are gross. I think they taste their own earwax to see if they need to eat carbs or something, and they pee everywhere, including down their own legs (which probably explains the ball-flaunting short shorts), just to shave 30 seconds off their time. I don't want this kind of crap on my street.

They also run until the walls of their bladders rub together, causing blood in their urine, they have no shins, etc. ATTENTION, FREAKS: if you are peeing blood, you are working out too hard. Even I am not this stupid. Running is for suckers, unless you're being chased by the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. If I run, I am at least smart enough to go up into the hills to do it, where the ground is soft from all the horse poop. Not on a paved road, through the ugly middle of Hell-F--ing-A.

These people are endorphin-happy cardio-zombie morons, and not in a good way. Also they are extremely rude.

When I finally managed to park FOUR BLOCKS AWAY FROM MY APARTMENT, after being stuck behind a grocery truck that was detouring onto residential streets it was too wide for, because the marathon is SO FREAKING IMPORTANT that FOOD can't even get delivered, I finally said "f--- it" and marched my irate a** across the street, directly impeding several a-hole runners, one of whom sweatily barked, "MOOOOVE!" as I tried to schlep my 10 bags of assorted essentials TO GET TO WHERE I LIVE. "Thank you! Go and fuck yourself," I answered cheerfully. What a running blowhard. I hope I cost him his precious 2 seconds he needed to come in 47th and he is now lying on bathroom floor, repeatedly flagellating himself with a toilet brush while purging repeatedly for NOT BEING GOOD ENOUGH. I kind of hope he was one of the three people who collapsed/dropped dead, but probably no such luck. Like this stupid shit is really worth losing your life over. My sympathies to their families, but really the only good reason to run 26.2 miles is to get the FUCK out of L.A.

For Bluto, and the rest of those uppity inconsiderate fathletes, I give you THIS:

(My a** broke the camera, so I shall have to essplain):
A. Le Stink Eye
B. Ye Olde Finger of G_d (or possibly some sort of phallus)
C. My Powerful Hindquarters
D. RIPE, READY TO EAT sticker (self-explanatory).

Eat up, you happy assed tananorexic panting bastids. I'll show you the meaning of PAIN, since you can't seem to get enough of it.

Pass me the toilet brush, Bluto.

HANDIN' OUT HATERADE AT THE L.A. MARATHON
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