Monday, November 13, 2006

It's a corpse on the course, of course

The very fact that I haven't been able to train for Sunday's marathon in Philadelphia has built itself in my head as a somewhat comical truth which has gone on to become a more successful and grand joke, a joke that has no doubt bought a house in the Hamptons and brand new Porsche with which to torment me (its license plate would read: "ULLNVRFNSH"). To be sure, it has gone beyond the sobering reality of "running a marathon" and has achieved the loftier ponderousness of "wrestling a pack of wolves" or "fellating a demi-god." Still, the sheer lunacy of participating in a marathon (I am loathe to use the word "competing" as I'm concerned that such a lie would make even liars blush) with very little training does have a certain charming appeal. Kind of like watching a fat man ascend stairs. You're pulling for him, but you know that he'll be ducking into the fifteenth floor elevator as soon as he becomes disgusted with his own chunky heaving.

This time around, however, I am orchestrating a bigger support team, lead by my family who will be holding signs reading "Don't Die" and "You can do it, Grabe!" and maybe even "I'm glad it's not just cancer that runs in our family." Ho Ho Ho. I hope to equip them with various elixirs, tonics, and spells to sustain me at key elements of the race, like, you know, the whole thing. I also hope that I can keep from sharting out bloody stool and vomit (that's right, ass vomit) like some hairy, red-cheeked version of Uta Pippig.

As race day approaches, I find myself torn between nervousness and almost irrational hysteria. But, I know that, on the day, I will try to have fun. As I bleed. From my eyes and skin.


Kristy said...

Don't worry. I'll make sure your bleeding corpse gets back to my apartment safely so we can prepare you for internment, or lying in state. Whatever you prefer. Just make sure you leave a note with your wishes before you leave in the morning, k?

(When are you arriving, by the way?)

DaveyJones said...

Fifteenth floor?!! This fat guy's heart would explode around floor 4.

Hackett said...

I suggest Tincture of Wren's Testes to prevent ankle fall-apart.

Gabe said...

There really isn't anything funnier than an exploding heart. Especially when it's triggered by one's own hubris.

DaveyJones said...

And since I keep my heart in a jar around my neck, the schrapnel may take out a few bystanders as well. That'll teach 'em not to install escalators.