Beloved liar, cheater, coward, and quitter Latoya Snell BAILS from ANOTHER race, collects ANOTHER sham medal, and belches out MORE nonsense from Scamtown

Thoughts of the day: Anyone who forks over money to a ":name" marathon these days is an absolute fool, and anyone with a paid Strava membership is fueling the problem

Latoya Shauntay Snell is a morbidly obese Brooklyn-based liar and Afro-grifter in her late thirties who has been receiving unjustified handouts from running companies and road-race organizers for around five years. Snell was once capable of completing marathons at something resembling a waddling-jogging pace, but the proprietor of a website called The Running Fat Chef is now so proudly and galactically bloated that she can’t even walk at a speed faster than 3 miles per hour for long.

Last year, according to her Strava account, this woman—a “verified athlete,” according to the undisguised frauds who run Strava itself—averaged less than one mile a day of walking and what passed for jogging for a 63-inch-tall, shart-slimed oblate spheroid with four vestigial nublike limbs projecting in random directions from the tequila-and-chicken-sandwich-laden mess in the middle, with these nubs each boasting up to five neatly webbed mini-digits.

Yesterday, Snell pretended to attempt to complete the Miami Half-Marathon, yet another event operated by cackling, floor-humping sickos who gave Snell a free entry and presumably travel and lodging as well. Despite Snell’s heroic daily 2023 average on foot of a little over 5 percent of the 13.1-mile half-marathon distance, Snell couldn’t keep walking much past the halfway point and quit, blaming the heat and other externalities.

Here’s how this animated dungheap spun her humiliating, ugly, and hilarious-to-behold failure on Strava and Instagram.

Snell is a sick joke, a mascot, a goon, and (worst of all, really) the avatar of how affluent white people imagine the average black person behaving. Shitlibs are not in any way “anti-racist.” On the contrary, they’re incredibly patronizing, and they set or accept ethical standards for nonwhites that they would never apply to white suburbanites.

But this many years into her scam, Snell’s most overriding trait is that she, despite having the heft of the entire smoldering wreck of a running industry behind her, is a flat-out coward. This is evident in her responding angrily to my exposures of her grifting without linking to the material or even naming the author, an act akin to screaming “YES, I’M A FRAUD, BUT I’M TOO TRIGGERED TO KEEP MY FAT MOUTH SHUT!”

If my criticism of Snell were unjustified, she would simply link to my site, point out the errors, and compel her followers to attack me. She’s done this to the few people in recent years with the nerve to call a cheater a cheater, and that this barking cunt, along with the rest of the Wokish actors who have ruined citizen-level road running, cannot solve the Beck of the Pack problem with intimidation or shitbird-static admittedly gives me enormous satisfaction. Not because it means I “win,” but because Snell behaving this way is a frank admission of her own illegitimacy.

And not only is Snell a turd, but anyone who funds or praises her is waving a pudgy hand with well-gnawed nails in the air and screeching, “Proud moral degenerate here!” Because distance-running-centric publications, websites, and companies have falle under the control of shitlibs in the past five-plus years—and this includes the Letsrun “message” board—almost no one is willing to publicly call out this yack-happy slopstress’s obvious and undeniable lies.

No one, it seems, wants to be marauded by Snell’s main defenders—i.e., a widely dispersed Wokish militia army of wide-assed, blue-haired white harridans and other low-mate-value women, anonymous Instagrammers who write at a fifth-grade level, and anyone caught up in the kind of madness that can compel a naked post-pubertal male to stand naked before a mirror and declare, “I LOVE MY DEEP, WET PUSSY!”

That is, Snell is a coward because she’s allowed to be. Running is almost entirely the bailiwick of morons, slobs, scammers, eggplant-shaped shut-ins, and enablers—that is, other cowards. Robert and Weldon Johnson are cowards for deleting a link on the Letsrun board to a post I wrote about Snell years ago, something I only learned about much later. They’re also cowards, or maybe just assholes, for deleting a more recent post I wrote about Camille Herron’s irritating and longstanding pattern of spouting half-witted insincerities, another item shared without my knowledge or input and whose disappearance I thus didn’t learn of until later.

As I’ve mentioned, it would be one thing if I hadn’t gotten tone-policing messages from these clowns as all of this was happening. But hypocrisy is the order of the day for anyone misguided enough to have committed to covering, for a living, what’s become a worthless excuse for a sport with toxic, pro-cheating “fans.” It’s not the elite athletes I despise (although some of them are insufferable), it’s the trash-lovers who cheer or in any way enable the march of the Wokish slobs, chicks with dicks, or people upset that no one is making them a bespoke $249.99 singlet for staggering though 3:45 marathons as able-bodied 28-year-olds.

People may call into question how I react to this carnival of lameness, but anyone who pretends that it’s anything else, even to protect a “job,” is lying. Road races are gone, replaced by “events” structured around protecting egos instead of settling athletic contests. There is nothing to endorse here except from the standpoint of cringe comedy, an ethos it’s become wise to extend to practically everything anyone observes.

In all seriousness, I’m glad I had my years in this sport—as both an “athlete” and a paid observer—before it became a septic and irredeemable joke. And I’m not the one who made it that way, anyone again preparing defensive or adversarial e-mails can hang these missives up somewhere up their own stinking asses instead. I respect about one in fifty people alive, so if you wound up here at random, you probably aren’t among these lucky souls. I am not the basic problem, to the extent the degradation of citizen-level jogging or even professional hyperjogging is a cultural crisis anyway, even if I’m a problem for some people who get paid to publicize an activity that has evolved. or devolved, into garbage-sport for insecure, unhappy narcissists of privilege.