A giant penis stalked me at the marathon.
Yes, the giant boner that I went out with, stalked me at the marathon. I was crossing the Broadway Bridge at Mile 25 (1.2 miles left—if you haven’t run a marathon, this seems like it would be the easiest part, but it is HELL) when I saw a young man running the opposite direction, sans bib or real running clothes (he was wearing some poser, Nike shit with Univ. of Oregon logos all over it) and was scouring the runners.
I tried my best to look inconspicuous, even though I was wearing a bright shirt and my bib had my name printed in BOLD letters above my race number, so I turned my head toward my mother who was slouching and tried to hide my body from him, behind her petite frame. This complete douche was darting in and out of the runners, looking annoyed, and almost slamming into them. People scoffed and made grunting noises (and can anyone blame them? We have just run TWENTY FIVE EFFING MILES only to “be in the way” of some complete chode, who is showing off the “spring” in his step after only going three blocks. What a pu$$y.)
Oh God. That’s him. No way. There is no fucking way this is happening right now. I thought. Oh yes it is, little chicken. I answered. You knew he would try and upstage you and show up here, and here he is.
I’m not sure he saw me, or maybe he did but then saw me trying to avoid him, and he trotted on. Last weekend he told me he would try and run me in the last few miles, although I don’t remember inviting him to come…apparently I am not clear enough with giant Penises when they get all up in my business. Maybe I shouldn’t make out with them anymore. *sigh* There goes my social life.
