The City of the Brotherly Boxing Glove

I'm running the Philamaniac Marathon this weekend. I'm out of shape; I'm recovering from a sinus infection and have no expectations for anything other than a mediocre finishing time. The elite coordinator is nothing shy of an incompetent boob. He let me in with a comp'ed entry but it took: 1. An official application submitted on time. I met the standards for a free entry by three minutes. 2. 10 emails to various people running the marathon asking them for a status--all unanswered except one. 3. A call to the marathon office: the voicemail was full (shocker!). 4. An email from a local USATF official on my behalf. 5. A letsrun thread. He made it seem like he was doing me a favor after all I put him through. We always seem like we are inconveniencing these people, us, the pathetic genetic apes who run a million miles in the day and night just to make the entry standard, this is what we get for our year-long efforts--a fucking clown with a smeared frown, giving us the mother of all guilt trips: lovely. The marathon committee has decided to try out a last-minute half marathon to boot (more$ x lotsacattle = $$$$$). The route was just decided upon and it sounds like a royal clusterfuck of Cyclopean proportions. I hear you have to double back 100 feet at the end of it; I hear the fast marathoners are going to get caught up with the half-marathon cattle, swishing away in a 'yay-me!' pose to the Lion King soundtrack; I hear that finishes themselves are all mixed up too. People are going to all over the fucking place. Gu will mix with Jellybeanxballz; underarmour pantaloons will collide with Adidas Adistarclimacool short shorts; earbuds will wrap around six-shooter fluid holsters. Skinny people's ribs will bounce off fat people's jellyrolls, throwing the 2:15 marathoners out of balance, off to the side of the road, into the woods where the broken crack vials and singed pieces of tin foil have collected over the years, where a hundred years of inebriated urination have painted the surrounding vegetation a Nigerian, yellow-cake-like hue. The whole circus will come to a momentary halt as everyone sticks together all clingey-like; it will be like the Schuylkill Expressway during rush hour; elbows will fly; f-bombs will detonate. The fattypuffs will flip off the thinifers. The Civil War that we have all been waiting for will finally start. It's all going to go down this weekend--mark my words. Keep yer powder dry and listen for the call of the thinifer minuteman! ------------------------- To add to this surrealistic insanity, I am going to be getting a ride with a guy who is giving this guy a badly needed ride, down to probably win the 8K. He needed a ride down there? WTF? Don't worry, I'll let him know about it all.