Everything is postponed for day – including your awesome answers to yesterday’s post (keep ‘em coming!).
Tonight, Mr The Rake took over…
Why You Will Die Alone
By Mr The Rake
Sometimes in life we encounter uncomfortable truths. Nobody likes to hear these, but sometimes they’re just what we need in order to change for the better. The process isn’t pleasant. No alcoholic likes hearing that a diet of Scotch and more Scotch is turning his liver into a prune, but he needs to know that if he is to avoid cirrhosis. No smoker likes to hear that they’re sucking down aerosolised cancer, but they must know that if they’re ever going to muster the motivation to quit, or alternately, to switch to smoking something that will at least get them high. These are obvious targets though. I’m going to provide a community service here and tell you what a supportive online community of fellow runners won’t: if you keep running long distances, you will die alone, smothered under the weight of your 17 cats.
That probably sounds ridiculous, because running is healthy. Right? Wrong. Running will ruin you. Everyone I know who runs hurts themselves constantly. Shin splints, seized up hip flexors, bad knees, sprained ankles, major tissue damage, the works. As a doctor*, I 100% guarantee that if you keep this lunacy up you’re going to look like a desiccated shell of a human being. You will end up as a walking corpse, and not the good kind that takes lots of drugs and plays lead guitar for the Rolling Stones.
That, at least, should explain how you’re going to end up lying flat on your back, unable to move, fighting for breath against the gentle press of Mr Fluffy’s paws on your chest, choking the life out of you even as he tears strips off your nose. However that’s getting ahead of ourselves, because you can’t spell “die alone” without “alone”. How will you end up alone? I’m glad you asked.
You will end up alone because running makes you insufferable. That’s not a judgment on any individual; it’s just a fact. Like PCP, running turns reasonable people into lunatics who will eat your face if you give them half a chance. I love Kate, but a 25 km run turns her into a mean drunk who will murder twenty people with a fork if there’s a can of Diet Coke to be scavenged from their tattered remains.
I’ve heard running called a sport, but that doesn’t sit well with me. To me, a sport is something like football, where you kick a ball to your mates, shout a lot, get knocked around a bit, and end up getting drunk at the pub afterwards because it’s all just a bit of fun. Running strikes me more as something that you feel compelled to do because in a past life you were Hitler. If a dog runs up and starts playing with some guys who are kicking a ball around in a park, nine times out of ten they will laugh and pat it. If a dog gets in Kate’s way around Iron Cove, she will shout at it until its skin falls off. To put it mildly, distance running is not always conducive to human interaction.
Look, I won’t deny that long distance running has its benefits. Most runners look a lot better than me, and the fitness will probably get them a lot further than a diet of beer and chicken burgers will get me when the Great Bear Plague strikes in 2024. That said, while I’m in hell, being scourged by Richard Nixon and listening to a flock of Kardashians sing We Built This City for all of eternity, you’re well on your way to joining me. You just need to spill the cat food on yourself first.
* Not a medical doctor. Not the other kind either.
Thanks dude. Looks like I’m about to be gifted 17 cats as a parting gift.
Tell him he’s wrong – or right!