In one tweet, Ellie Pell demonstrates why the Roche-Rom-Levitt axis of white-dimwit privilege makes trail running appear more radioactive than it is
Happily, I've been assured that this demographic isn't as prevalent on the ground as its hijacking of online media suggests
Ellie Pell is a frequently injured distance runner and a shallow thinker of privilege whose deep and throbbing insecurities manifest, at present, in a Twitter X feed that alternates between condescending, targeted insults and wildly unsupported braggadocio. This combination alone makes her a virtual pinata, one at which I’ve already taken a few swings.
When she’s healthy, Pell isn’t a bad marathoner, having run 2:41:42 four years ago. But now that qualifying for the U.S. Olympic Marathon Trials requires something resembling an elite time (2:37:00 or faster), Pell has gone from borderline irrelevant to entirely irrelevant in that discipline. So now she’s all about mountains, ultras, and trails, meaning that she’s enjoying the company of, and sucking up to, other brain-dead trust-funders, sham environmentalists, and “we love science” types who insist—with all of them consciously lying in the process—that people not satisfied with their genitals can simply trigger a phallovaginal form of transubstantiation by “identifying as trans.” How this is distinguishable from a sorcerer’s spell remains unspecified.1
Here’s Pell recently being very much her authentic self on Twitter X:
In case the text isn’t clear, Pell wrote, “Gramps the athletes need to be paid enough to train enough to be there for you to watch.”
That Pell has no understanding of the sport’s financial structure is both a given and, for now, irrelevant. The impressive aspect is that in a single quote-tweet of a member of the Old Boys’ Club—and you’ll see why this is relevant soon—Pell manages to display the apotheosis of white privilege she often rails against; dump on a (very) longtime fan of the sport; and mix in an “ageist” insult. I don’t care about political correctness, but Pell certainly does, at least when it suits whatever she’s e-queefing about. And since Pell is 31 going on 45 in what I’ve seen of her photos—many of which in turn depict a genderfluid, Adderall-snorting version of Olive Oyl—she's the last swatch of skankflesh that should be assigning demerits to growing long in the scrotum.
And although Pell represents a special case of combining ignorance, confidence, and incompetence into one rancid package, she also perfectly exemplifies the oblivious self-interest of the David Roche-Zoe Rom-Jonathan Levitt axis of quasi-autistic putridity, hypocrisy, and functional illiteracy arising specifically in well-off people who have no idea how dumb they actually are because they’ve been surrounded all of their lives by other liars and fools and been processed through institutions their brains alone never would have gotten them into.
Pell—who maintains a blog that could use not so much a dash of editorial sprucing-up as the digital equivalent of a brick of C-4 and a clean-up crew in biohazard suits2—got on my radar in the summer of 2020. That’s when she identified me as a member of the Old Boys’ Club (see above) after I criticized Chris Chavez of Citius Mag for stirring up shit over absolutely nothing and suggested that this was exactly the kind of imbecilic shuck-and-jive that characterizes Chavez’ entire approach to attracting fans.
I had never heard of Pell or Levitt (or the bloodwork scam Levitt shills for, Inside Tracker), but as you can see, one of them (who can’t read well) basically said "Piss on him, he’s old and male” while the other basically said “Maybe, but tone matters!” Okay, so a couple of half-witted crybabies were unwilling to engage with the substance of my post. No big deal; people breed shitty, dumb kids all the time, and most of ‘em make it to thirty and insert themselves into discussions somewhere and go DERP-DERP-DERP-DERP-DERP! for years on end.3
And I’ll hand one thing to Pell; she has at least shown the stones to reply indirectly to my badgering rather than immediately reach for the block button or mute button, like the bozos I named above whose “work” she adores. And she’s a big fan of Chavez and his Hemingway-esque dispatches as well as of the work of the standard slate of misogynistic “feminists” of running punditry, such as Lindsay Crouse and Alison Wade.
Pell hasn’t seemed to figure out that being the holder of fifth-degree bimbo-belt and a harsh critic at the same time—which I guess puts her in the “harridan” class, especially given her ethnicity and appearance—invites extreme derision. Or perhaps she has, and relies on her own willingness to fling lightning bolts at even mild critics on Twitter X to assure them she’s the one and only Ellie Gazzellie, and that’s that, bitches.
You’ll recall that the absence of racing during “the pandemic” in 2020 meant that Chavez and other characters who make their living from yammering about the antics of the dope-sploded sad-sacks populating this misbegotten implementation of roving cardio had to find ways to remain relevant by yammering about other things. Since the summer of 2020 signaled the onset of fake social-justice campaigns across multiple realms, that’s what Chavez and others did.
It was all fucking disgusting. Chavez’ shit-tweet represented one of the most transparently false and baseless displays of virtue-signaling I had yet seen by a running pundit, even if it has fallen out of the all-time top twenty in the nearly three years since. But it got a great deal of amplification, including by people I had previously and erroneously suspected of at least not being dolts, such as Kara Goucher and Mary Cain.
This was my first sign that running, for my purposes, had unmistakably gone Full Dumbass, and that liars, slobs, and whiners who would have been laughed to the sidelines in the previous, more-or-less sane roll-out of this sportlike enterprise for the titless and the sticklike had sprouted websites and crapcasts in startling amounts and were controlling more of the conversation, and the sport itself, than any observer with taste and a smidgen of willingness to say, “Uh, guys? That’s actually bullshit” could tolerate.
People who do ultras assure me that they see comparatively few people emanating Roche-Rom-Levitt-style vibes at the events they do. That’s reassuring, but it’s not enough. I give you all two weeks to clamp down and stop the spread. At least to Boulder, an already Wokeblown agglomeration of complacent Lands End libtard-runners and the brightest “BLACK SCIENCE IS REAL AND MATTERS” lawn-sign boasters in all of America.
It makes sense that almost every one of these people is a blocking-and-dodging coward of the first magnitude who knows nothing about the sport’s history or even its present and simply does not care about facts. They all understand deep down that they’re pathetic—bad writers, kiss-asses, Fauci-fans, and highly vocal supporters of causes they not only don’t support but actively antagonize.
And you thought the “water into wine” thing was a crock of shit. At least children get crackers and sometimes real wine with that ritual, although most altar boys in the United States started carrying tasers in roughly 1997.
This site has itself shown its ass lately in creative ways, including an extra “should” in a post title, a “don’t” where a “doesn’t” was the designated safe word, and much, much more! And as a related footnote, this is your periodic reminder that if you click on the Web version of a new post at least four hours after its time-stamp, most of the typos and other errata in the e-mailed version will have been corrected.
The fact that neither clown lived in Boulder at the time while both do now is further proof of the existence of God, since the deity of my understanding likes to periodically jam a thumb up my ass without warning (the only way; otherwise, the trick is too diluted to be effective), let fly with a hollow and booming “HAHAHAHA!” from an adjacent dimension, and return to his drunken, negligent slumber for a few more months. That’s literally how God works in my life. He would do more, but this would require a monthly subscription and the surrendering of a lot of private data. This place is essentially nothing more than a diabolical magnet for people with the right combination of unearned or scam-gathered financial resources, low IQ, and a neurotic outdoor shuffling habit.