I Hate Your Cry For Attention
I understand why people jog. I get the ideology behind jogging. But do I like to jog? No. Not one bit. I would rather eat a bowl of broken glass sprinkled with someone's dandruff than run a mile. My spine sucks, my sciatica sucks, and my knees are shot from balancing my cylindrical frame on knock-knees for the past three decades, so running for an extended period time is less fun than splashing my eyeballs with a mixture of Frank's Red Hot and RAID. Not fun. Not fun at all.
But I don't hate jogging because of the logic. Like I said, I get that people jog to stay in shape. No, I hate it for the oddities among the masses. The people who must make things difficult, who must find ways to make jogging interfere with my daily life and the sanctity of my mental state. The way I see it, jogging is a form of exercise, and should be done in an area appropriate for exercising. The park, a track, a footpath...you know, wherever one can go and get in a nice run before sitting down to polish off five pints of Stella and a New York Strip, medium rare.
But in Manhattan, this logic goes out the window. Some people insist on jogging anywhere and everywhere, because most likely said people are full of shit and deep-down believe that the general public are satellites, and they are the planet, and thus everything revolves around them accordingly. And seeing that this after all is the motherfucking U.S.A., home of F-150's and Bud Lite Lime and Botox - these people think have the right to do whatever they want, whenever they want, wherever the fuck they want.
So maybe we should all practice this mentality then. Maybe we should all do what we want, when we want, where we want. Need to take a piss? Piss on that building's wall while walking to lunch with a client. Feel the need to make a personal phone call? Do it during a meeting. Tired? Why not shatter the huge window, break into that beautiful brownstone and take a quick nap? Oh wait, these actions are not appropriate? Well then explain to me why that rubbery old man is running down 5th Ave. shirtless, his old-man-boobs bouncing up and down, huffing and puffing with aggravation at every person who gets in the way of his two-mile-per-hour pace. Explain to me why this disgustingly sweaty douchebag wearing Under Armour designed to highlight his erect nipples just elbowed me at a cross walk. Explain all of this to me, because I don't fucking get it.
I will never understand why people insist on running along busy sidewalks during peak hours of the day. In Manhattan, specifically. You can literally see the tree-tops of Central Park thirty feet away and there will be some asshole jogging down the sidewalk spraying disgusting sweat everywhere, weaving in and out of throngs of fat tourists and solicitors with sandwich-boards guaranteeing $10 haircuts given by failed barbers. It's insane. And I know he/she is only jogging there so he/she can be noticed. Whether it's by their stupid boss going to eat a $60 steak for lunch and pinch the waitresses ass, or their stupid ex who's on her way to return a piece of jewelry he bought for her, or their stupid friend who they are secretly competitive with because friend once called them a "flake," whatever the circumstance, they are doing it for attention.
In his/her head, their boss is saying:
Oh look there's Jim, well Jim sure does have the heart of a lion seeing that he's baring this sort of crowd and heat to make sure he stays healthy. Let's make him the VP of the company and buy him a Aston Martin.
But this never happens. In fact, if the boss has any sense, he will say:
What the fuck is Jim doing? He's fucking jogging, right here, on Madison Avenue? There's a huge park two blocks away. Look, he just bumped into that old lady. What a fucking asshole. You know what? Fuck him. When cuts come up, he's first to go. And now I'm forced to entertain the thought of banging his wife. What an douchebag.
This is the way it should go. But for whatever reason, Karma does not think the same way as me. No, instead Karma presents these dicks with a new Rolex while I get a stomach bug from Chipotle and spend the entire night wishing that, when I bring the trash outside later, a murderer will jump out of the shadows and chop off my head, ending my misery. So you know what? Fuck Karma. Karma is a bitch. A big bitch with a bad attitude and crooked front teeth that look all weird when she talks real fast making me lose focus on everything she's saying in order to concentrate on the creepiness of her teeth. DAMN YOU, KARMA!
/struck by lightning
And what about you people who run in place, knees to your chest, arms pumping away? Do you really need to do this at every crosswalk? Do you really need to exhale like a fucking horse with asthma and make a big deal about how much energy you're exerting? Ohhhh, you're so in-shape! Where am I going? I'm going to the bar, to be fat, and to eat bad food and be fucking awesome. Have fun with your spandex and heart-rate monitor, nerd alert.
Anyone who feels the need to draw attention to themselves or blatantly disregard common courtesy should be mauled by a rabid Irish Wolfhound in an abandoned junkyard. They are complete scum. No one wants to see your flabby arms rippling like disturbed lake water. No one wants to overhear your Cyndi Lauper/Michael Jackson mash-up coming from your iPod. No one wants to move out of your way because you are an asshole. So stop being one, and get the fuck off the street.