The700Level

The700Level

Oh, you're running a 10-miler this weekend? That's sooooooooo interesting. Can't wait to see you bing-bonging down Broad Street with your rock-hard jawline, pressing the buttons on your digital watch: beep beep boop boop beep beep beep! Tell us again what kind of yogurt you eat. Tell us again how we’re all going to die from congestive heart failure. Oh holy runner who art thou, oh ye who wears lightweight Brooks™ running sneaks, please, please, please tell us more about your breathable mesh socks. Because it’s hard to hear you over the sound of all these Grandma Utzs crunching in my mouth.  

I’m not sure when it happened exactly, but runners have recently cemented their place as the fourth most nauseating people on the planet, right behind ISIS, The Money Team and any person who ever attended the University of Maryland. It wasn't always this way. Running used to be called “jogging," and jogging was just a thing that bozos did when they were training to fight Apollo Creed. But now, running is a #WAY #OF #LYFE. And is singlehandedly responsible for keeping Saucony sneaks in business. And Saucony sneaks suck shit. 

I recently went to the New Balance store on Walnut Street expecting to find some dope neon-colored sneaks that would make the ladies I work with swoooooooon. Instead, the store was filled with wall-to-wall running gear, like actual running gear, including shin sleeves. An employee tried to talk to me about arch support. I don’t care about arch support. I care about lunch. 

 

Everything about running is stupid. The running. The running part. The running! And then there’s the whole part with the running. I don’t even like having to do that slow fake jog when someone’s holding the door for me. Just let the door close! It’s not that nice of a gesture anyway. And marathons. Geez Louize, what is the point of that? To accomplish some sort of goal? Shut up. There’s way too much emphasis on goals these days. That’s the problem with humans. We have too much ambition. Just be happy that you have feet. 

There is literally nothing impressive about running a marathon. It's just running. There's no skill. You're not dribbling a ball. Or playing an oboe. You're just slamming your feet against the hard pavement for five straight hours. There’s a crazy guy who lives outside the 7-11 at 12th and Chestnut who slams his head against the pavement all day every day. You don’t see anyone giving him a medal. You know that dude who who runs marathons while juggling? I used to think that guy was an idiot, but now, I get it. Of course he juggles! Because running is boring. Remember folks, the whole marathon thing started because some Yes Man was forced to run 26.2 miles from Marathon to Athens to deliver a message. Probably a good time to remind you that the jerk, Prometheus, dropped dead the second he arrived. So yeah, maybe it is a good thing to have goals. Mine’s to not die like an asshole. 

I know, I know, running helps you stay fit. And live longer. And not have a double chin that you’re forced to cover up by growing a beard. But fast forward to 2053 when you’ll be forced to attend your grandson’s high school graduation. I’ll be dead. And that sounds way better than sitting through some lame-o valedictorian’s speech about “the journey.”   

Don't get it twisted, people. Runners will tell you they work out for physical wellness. But we all know it’s just to tighten up their bods so people will want to have sex with them. Sure, being in good shape makes sense, and it’s nice when people want to have sex with you, but there’s plenty of other ways to stay fit: like, play basketball, or play soccer, or, well, that’s pretty much it. There’s two ways. I guess Zumba seems pretty cool too. So three ways. But those are three much better ways! 

The worst part about runners is that they’re constantly reminding us that they’re runners. Ordering salad. Wearing fitbits. JOGGING IN PLACE at every red light. Ohhhhhhhhh, I can’t possibly stop my knees from bouncing up and down! They're so bouncy! How’s my heartrate?!? Beep beep boop boop beep beep beep! 

 

Some of my co-workers have spent the last few months getting ready for this Sunday’s Broad Street Run. They’ve trained together after work. They’ve raised money for charity (ugh). They’ve taken over our shared refrigerator with so much lite salad dressing. 

There’s literally only one lite dressing in there.

WHAT KIND OF WAY IS THAT TO LIVE?!

But runners be runnin’. And on Sunday, 40,000 weirdos will take over Broad Street with their ear-to-ear smiles and beaming zest for life. It’s disgusting. Not to mention the band-aids covering their nips. This weekend could be the greatest sports weekend ever -- the NFL Draft, NBA and NHL Playoffs, the Kentucky Derb, #MayPac! -- and yet 40,000 people have decided to run a race?!?! I'm 38 years old, have no children and no responsibilities, and I’m going to spend my entire weekend wallowing in my own filth. I plan on spending all day Sunday recovering from watching sports all day Saturday. Unless my wife is ovulating, then I might have to spend four (or five?) minutes trying to shoot a human life form inside of her. But other than that, I'm golden.

Look, the bottom line is, I don't care what you do in this world. Shave your pits. Have sex in a dungeon. Run ‘til your precious heart explodes. But do me a favor. Shut up about your stupid shin splints for once and for all.

Unless you got ‘em by having dungeon sex. 

Then I’d love to hear more about it. 

Thank you.