Flashcube

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise because for every asshole like me running along the river minding my own business dodging bikes and rollerbladers there’s at least 100 times more people also running. I hate them all.

Most people hate to run. You sweat a lot, you pant a lot, you’re a fucking mess that no one would want to be around. Personally, I run to hate. To put that in different words, running provides me with the peace of mind and clarity to focus on my surroundings which in the case of me are the following things:

Powermoms and Powerdads: Yes, I am glad that your fertile spunk was able to produce twins however your double-wide SUV stroller is taking up too much fucking space. Fuck off now.

Powerwalkers and Friends: There ain’t no half-stepping, motherfuckers. You either run or you don’t run. I’d rather see these fuckers try to run and fail than to run around the chatty power-walking, elbows-at-right-angle, glove-wearing fucks.

The Hare: Yes, I’m quite impressed that you can run faster than me. I try to keep pace with you for kicks but then say, “fuck it! I’m not racing for you, I’m racing for me, cockass!” I then pass your ass five minutes later as you’re throwing up over a bridge. Way to be, shithead!

The Running Room: These people I especially hate. In particular because it’s these rich fucks with too much money and spare time that one day decide they’re going to start running and go down to The Running Room and drop a fair chunk of change on Running Room ankle socks, Running Room Shorts, Running Room Shirt, Running Room stopwatch, and Running Room utility belt. I was surrounded by these people at my last 10Km. Drove me fucking nuts. God dammit!!

My running outfit consists of the following: the same stupid short shorts that I often fall asleep in, cheap-ass 100% cotton (polyester make your feet stink) ankle socks, T-shirt (the free one that they gave me at the last race I ran), boxer briefs (the leg band on regular briefs will rub your leg raw after 5Km). I do admit that it is worth it to drop some good cash on decent running shoes but everything else is fucking window dressing.

The one thing though that makes me want to beat my fist against the wall is The Running Room gang. About a dozen or two of these assholes get together and take up the whole fucking path. First of all I would never participate in this clinic because I don’t want some other person to dictate how slow or how fast I should go. That’s my decision because running is a solitary experience not some social get-together with a gaggle of ugly malcontents. Fuck them and the horse they rode in on.

Fuck, I hate milestone birthdays. Not only is it a difficult time for me to deal with but I have to contend with misplaced guilt and relatives reminding me how much more mature I am. Mature?! Did you see me on the floor rolling around Friday night screaming the words to Lionel Richie’s “Hello”. Did you also see me on Saturday night giving a friend career advice and to follow his dream and enter adult entertainment industry as an “Erotic Photographer”. The interesting thing is that I actually think I’m getting better and I suspect that the consensus amongst my friends is the same. I’ve seen my 20 as its’ evidence lies in the form of a photograph on the fridge of a good friend. It’s not a pretty sight; Super-Blondisma’d hair that I cut myself, untoned body with no ass, questionable fashion sense. Thank fuck that’s over and I’ve finally hit my stride. Speaking of stride, did I drunkenly just agree to do a half-marathon in November? Motherfucker!!! Welcome to your 30′s, cockass!

It takes a lot of work to make an ass look that fine. There’s the countless hours of training to tome, sculpt , and build it. But at the end of the day if that ass don’t b-b-b-b-bounce then there’s PhotoShop to the rescue. Here’s an interesting portfolio of a photo retouch artist.