New York City Marathon...sigh, again

Run, Forrest, run!

Every year, a typically quiet Sunday in my neighborhood gets ruined, thanks to the New York City marathon. I pity the fool who's trying to sleep off a hangover right now, because ain't nobody sleeping through the noise of music and cheering that has taken over the neighborhood.

The crowd is whipped into a frenzy as a certain one-balled Texan without his bicycle jogs on by.

As I look out my window and stare at these people cheering the runners on, I have to wonder: Aren't they bored? They're standing around in the cold, praying their mom/brother/friend who's running is not a Turtle, but a Hare in this race, so they can get out of Dodge as fast as they can.

It's every runner's worst nightmare: A giant Poland Spring bottle, without any water in it

Since I live on mile 17 of the marathon, I'll let all you supportive marathon watchers in on a secret: at this point in the race, the runners don't give a shit whether you're cheering them on. All they want for you is to put them and their burning lungs out of their misery.

Listen Friend of Bridget, unless you're running alongside of her screaming the words, she's not feeling the love right now.

And then they're gone. Poof, that's it. All done in ten seconds. You came, you waited, you saw, and now it's time to go home.

I'm sorry, but what's the fun in that?