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Mathew Inman is a cartoonist (and runner) who draws and writes about something he calls the Blerch. It seems the Blerch is his word for the demon that wants us to be lazy, fat and well… fat and lazy. It wants us to indulge our dietary weaknesses and it wants us to ignore any inner voices that urge us to exercise by lying on the couch until that inner voice goes away. The man in our story today is definitely suffering from the Blerch.
That being said I’m pretty sure you can pick up a bike, shoes and a European tourist’s swimsuit at your local pharmacy. The good news is that they come in pill form and they really work. Really!
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And remember just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.
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If you’ve ever been injured for a long period of time you’ve probably felt like the actors in today’s little drama. Of course the injury example could be extended to “getting old” in that the process of aging gradually erodes the amount of mileage one can heap upon a battle-scarred rusting hulk of a frame. Nobody said it would be pretty.
Every once in a while I venture “off the island” and usually find that there be sharks in those waters. Once in a great while I’ll get away with a longish run (for me that’s anything over an hour and a half these days) and having survived without incident will have a puffed-up-smug day or two until I try something equally idiotic like speed work and am quickly put back in my place — welcome to Hobbleville.
From Bang to Whimper [snap] just like that.
You’d think I’d learn but sometimes it’s just too much fun and foolishness to do something stupid so I’ll rinse and repeat a cycle that’s gone on for decades now. I figure all we really have to do is live long enough for medical science to get to the point where they can download our consciousnesses into awaiting avatars and it’s off to the races again — so we can repeat the extravagances and mistakes of our youths. Is that too much to ask?
As far as I can see the only other alternative is to (gasp) know our limitations and behave accordingly. In other words act like mature adults.
Maybe next lifetime.
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I know what you’re thinking… You’re thinking, “Gee, if I had a dollar for every time I was attacked by a giant zombie chicken I could retire.” Am I right? You bet I am.
As I write this Halloween looms large on the on-rushing horizon so all I’m really doing is adding to the already burgeoning plethora of garish images that are flooding your media-barraged brains. So… you’re welcome.
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These days everyone is looking for their cut — a little piece of the action. If our frightened runners make it past the shakedown from this dude there’s probably a bottle thief further up the trail. Who do these guys think they are… government?
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BTW: If you want to know what the text on the sign is referring to just google: All your base are belong to us
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