An Open Letter To Awful Chief From The Boston Marathon

Dear Awful Chief,
I have stood by idly as you have written boring rambling post after boring rambling post about why running races sucks and why I especially suck and blah blah blah. Well, pal, I know your sorry ass and if you're finally done bitching about what I did to you, you're probably thinking about how you can't wait to sign up for me next year, you hopeless addict.

I've been watching you the last couple days. You can't stop talking about me! It's clear that you feel more proud about running my race than just about anything you've accomplished in your pathetic little life. You crave the praise that your friends, family members, and coworkers are showering you with. You can't stop looking in the mirror at yourself can you, you narcissistic bastard? Who brought your percent body fat down to single digits? Me, that's who. Don't fucking forget it, either.

Wait, are you on marathonfoto.com AGAIN looking at pictures of yourself? Good lord, you are embarrassing. Someone should have tripped you on your way to my finish line...I mean, just look at how retarded you look in those pictures with your mouth open like that and your legs looking like you're walking in fucking place! All you did was make me look bad on my big day.

Granted, there are a lot of stupid marathons out there and I don't give a shit if you cut down on your racing habit. You have enough stupid tee shirts with a flaccid design on the front and a big clusterfuck of sponsor names on the back. I mean seriously, are you people runners or fucking NASCAR drivers? But how dare you lump ME with all of those other races? I am what all of those other losers want to be but know they will never come close. I am the alpha and omega of competitive running. Go ahead, count up the number of sponsor names on my race tee-shirt, I'll give you a minute...you done? That's right, it's fucking zero. I am like the Masters. I don't bow to sponsors. Why? Because I know that you people will suck the dicks of five thousand eighty year-old men to come back to me next year.

Oh and dude, I saw you in my expo on Sunday. You couldn't get enough! I have you on video buying an $80 track suit jacket bearing my name, for god sakes.

And you can shut the fuck up about hating the actual race, you hypocrite. I saw you with your stupid smile high-fiving my spectators. If you hated me so much, why didn't you just stop? You just kept on going. Even at Wellesley College, with hundreds of screaming girls that were still minors but legal jumping up and down with 'kiss me!' signs, did you stop? Did you stop and kiss the girls? No, you pathetic addict, you couldn't stop. You couldn't cheat on me, could you junkie?

Let's be honest here. I don't even think you'll give up Baltimore, a lowly peon to me, existing only as a qualifier and tune-up for me. Why? You like their shirts! Dude, I don't care how much Under Armour you wear, you're not going to protect anyone's fucking house.

You'll be back. You'll probably pay even more than $500 next year to give me the pleasure of humiliating you in front of thousands of onlookers. You'll be lining up at an ungodly hour to get on my buses to my start line along with all the other masochistic narcissists. You think you'll get revenge on me, but I always fucking win. Even if you complete my course in under three hours, you're still nothing but a big fat loser. A big fat loser who can't get enough of me.

Sincerely,
The Boston Marathon