Run like the wind all ye, er... running people!

The past couple of weeks have been a test of will and determination and endurance and inner fortitude, not unlike the Boston Marathon, which will soon darken our doorsteps this coming Monday with its throngs of sun-happy, healthy-living, Eddie Bauer-wearing, Spring worshipping motherfuckers. My ruminations on Marathon Monday inevitably return to that one unfortunate day I worked in Kenmore Square when it so happened that the Red Sox were playing the Yanks while the Marathon runners were still coarsing by, causing a commotion the likes of which I have never seen, but would hasten to guess closely resembled the pandemonium of a natural disaster or perhaps even a small alien invasion. I have terrifying memories of being trapped in my store with a frantic co-worker, desperately trying to stop the rising tide of irate Red Sox fans and bewildered tourists from breaching our barricade and tearing our poor little store to shreds like a horde of starving zombies in search of fresh brains.
That is how Marathon Monday gave me PTSD.
And why am I forced to endure this annual chaos? Because some jackass two and a half thousand years ago had to run 26 miles to Athens so he could proclaim the victory of the Greeks over the Persians and then promptly fall over an die.

I tell you, it never ceases to amaze me how much the Ancient Greeks continue to torment my life. A mighty civilization, indeed.

This year, however, will be different. This year, I will not let the Ancient Greeks get me down and I will not have to brave the war zone that is the MBTA. With all probability I will have the day off, get to lay about in my pajamas and have a marathon of my own, most likely involving chocolate chip cookie dough and Law & Order, and I have those running jackasses to thank. Here's to you, running jackasses. May you run all day long, and may you not shit your pants or menstruate down your legs at the finish line as some have in Marathons past.
Suckers.