Road running is too purposefully overloaded with cretins and freaks to even follow, much less treat as a sport

Latoya Snell's defiant and widely celebrated display of avarice, deceit, and pavement abuse at the New York City Marathon shows there's no limit to what Wokish vandals will demand—and what they'll get

On Sunday, a large parade was held in the largest city in the United States. Called the New York City Marathon, the event saw over 51,000 people complete the 42.195-kilometer (26-mile, 385-yard) route. 123 of these people—111 men and 12 women—did so at a pace of better than six minutes per mile, another way of expressing the fact that 0.24 percent of the field bettered a time of 2:37:19.

A post I made on Friday about the media’s defiant celebration of slothful dissemblers and people who deny the entirety of basic human biology mentioned that the New York Road Runners, the structurally solid but ethically bankrupt organization that stages the NYCM, had decided to allow some slow runners into the first of the six corrals in the event’s first of too many waves. Not just slow runners, in fact, but runners incapable of coming anywhere close to the 15-minute-per-mile pace required to count as an official completer of the parade or remain alive in The Long Walk.

There is obviously no defensible reason for putting a smattering of people who can barely move in the way of thousands of people moving anywhere from twice to three times as fast. A child could detect that this is a prescription for annoying the overwhelming majority of people who encounter these somewhat-moving obstacles for the sake of a small coterie of tittering gadabouts who don’t belong in the parade, period, let alone near the front of it.

But as both I and the perpetrators of this mayhem have repeatedly stressed, “disruption” is the main idea here, not a side effect of some “greater good” endeavor. Wokism on the ground is nothing more than people in the grip of some kind of personal ugliness who are intent on wrecking, out of sheer resentment, nice things others have built for reasonably noble purposes. The availability of Black Lives Matter-caliber grifting-cash has been a motivator for a small percentage of these precious bozos, but the rest just flail around on social media snickering at the damage being done to successful female athletes or, for that matter, to anyone with the nerve to persevere rather than sneer, think for themselves rather than accept pathological social precepts as “evolving science” (e.g., people can change sexes via merely wanting to or mutilating their bodies), and otherwise decline to moo dumbly along with the rest of the cud-chewing, stank-belching herd.

Latoya Snell did indeed wind up starting in the first corral. This went exactly as anyone familiar with this clown would have predicted.

Snell led off the morning by repeating her latest favorite lie—that she had already completed 27 marathons. She’s probably doing this specifically for me and my readers at this point; she doesn’t otherwise need to stress a falsehood the entire running industry and mainstream media are already eagerly amplifying because we live in brazenly beshitted, and increasingly pointless, times.

Five miles in, Latoya was loving being in the way of people running 8:00 to 9:00 pace. Right behind her at this stage was another member of the invasive first-corral species, Maria-Leena Kerr.

Snell was only getting the party started. If she ever complains again about being called fat, and she will, feel free to remind her she’s come out of the closet as being exactly that (and has a website called The Running Fat Chef).

This next one might have been for me, too, as I’ve repeatedly pointed out that Snell advertised herself as recovering alcoholic early in the ascendancy of her formal scamming, only to later regularly advertise herself infusing her gelatinous and strained carcass with ethanol.

The keggers of tequila may have given Snell the munchies.

In the end, despite these documented efforts to remain hydrated and fueled, Snell’s blazing first half of 4:14 cost her, as she had to settle for a 5:33 second half while still thundering home comfortably under the ten-hour barrier.

(Kerr, not letting her own emotions overwhelm her sense of proper pacing, wound up ripping by Snell just before 35K and finishing 19 minutes ahead of her.)

I regularly hear from people that I should just ignore the idiots being given flagrantly unearned (misdeserved?) handouts and lighting their own ponderous farts at the back of the pack and focus on the real runners. I hear this noticeably less often than when this nonsense started around three years ago, but it’s advice I still regularly receive.

The problem with that is that there is ultimately nowhere to hide from the drooling goons. As social arsonists and the petrified sane people working alongside them continue to either actively create this mayhem or cajole it along through high-visibility social-media support, the arsonists keep demanding more. And they keep getting it. And astute or merely cogent observers will note that this vandalism-arson-disruption keeps making its way closer and closer to the front of the recreational-runner pack.

Every time some standard had been lowered in recent years to accommodate demands borne of Wokish scamming fueled by throbbing psychopathologies, the Wokish have demanded—and continued to get—more and more indefensible gimmies. First it was letting non-qualifiers and known liar-cheaters like Snell into marathons like the Boston Marathon and the NYCM in the first place. Then it was creating "nonbinary" divisions to placate that shrill battalion of loons. Then it was adding money to those "nonbinary divisions" while insisting these divisions, with cash payouts, become universal.

This time, it's people intentionally being put in the way of faster runners. And Snell had the nerve—and it was coming all along, but still—to declare that her first-corral bib "needed," after drinking and eating and snorting her way through the grim and gray boroughs of New York.

In a few years, Snell will be riding an electric cart out of the first corral at every major marathon, one provided by her proud sponsor, Wal-Mart. And by then, Jack Daniels (the company, not the coach) will be sending her free cases of scotch.

These moves represent a push toward general social progress and equality of opportunity....how, exactly?

It doesn’t. Everyone can see it now, and everyone knows it. But because it’s happening everywhere, the few people like me determined to seek solid answers to reasonable questions can be safely ignored. But there are real humans, humans like me, in the NYRR and the BAA making these backward decisions—probably eggplant-shaped, cabbage-brained, pink-haired people recently processed though liberal arts universities and now on a mission to make the rest of humanity look and feel as degraded and miserable as they do. But even if they were supermodels and card-carrying MENSA members, they’d still be sniveling, hellbent assholes. This trash is not acceptable.

I’ve written in recent years to the NYRR about Snell, and to at least one major newspaper about other lies, and to representatives of running companies about the degradations they champion, and to the various pisspot editors at Runner’s World responsible for deleting my articles from the Web without notice or explanation. The universal result has been cowardice—blocking, dodging, silence. People are simply a great deal more frankly hapless and idiotic as a rule than I thought.

But as unflattering a light in which this portrays all involved, how could it be any other way? No one in the running industry invented or desired any of this; upstream, it’s ubercunts like BlackRock CEO Larry Fink who are dumping these obscenities onto everyone’s heads and telling us to like it. Yet regardless of its pathogenesis, look at what these people are all supporting, be it tacitly or using 1.21-gigatard lightning-strikes of cancellation. In a one-on-one, properly moderated debate, not one of them could defend any of the precepts of Wokism they in some way defend from the safety of social-media accounts. Not if they are afraid to even reply to e-mails.

(Where the hell did all these simps and gimps even come from, anyway? And why did such a high percentage of these flaccid organisms demonstrate a tropism for almost-running?)

I suppose one could accuse Snell and her fans of winning, because no matter how much noise some old white cishet malcontent in Colorado and a few others with three-digit IQs make, Snell keeps getting more adulation and promotion.

Well, here's the deal, and I don’t feel great about it. I can actually run. I can take a dump, wipe my ass to a near-immaculate state no matter the damage within 30 seconds, and be done with it. Snell doesn't have an anus per se; she has an anal cavern that probably excretes faeces into the exterior world that was technically external to the anal lips an average of three days earlier and had to work its way between the chasm between those enormous pimply ass cheeks. Like an automatic extra foot of GI tract, and in the worst possible spot, hygiene-wise. (Anyone who wants to accuse me of going too far here can refer to Snell’s Instagram account and the array of photos there Snell has taken of herself defecating, often with florid captions.)

Furthermore, the notion of any woman Snell’s size enjoying any kind of meaningful sex life is out the window. Even if you could find a willing chubby-chaser eager for this morbid task, misguided phallus at the rock-hard ready, not even a John Holmes-caliber tool could find its way through that much vulvar-flab even to the clitoris, let alone into the vaginal canal itself. I guess she could sort of diddle herself with something like a toilet-plunger through the folds of her pseudo-twat, but that's one more idea that makes Christ regret being held responsible in any way for fixing this mess.

I believe that these are serious considerations and the public should be more aware of them.

Which bring me to the dark hilarity of it all. I'll sit here routinely talking about wanting to blow my head off because of the universal lowering of ethical-moral standards and the dropping of the authoritarian boom everywhere—censorship, wars, crippling inflation, worthless schools, corrupt local health agencies, needless discord, and the general futility of a species as hapless as this even squirting out any more mini-monkeys into the relentlessly disempowering machine. But after another 15 years—during which time a legion of over-mRNA-jabbed science fanatics, a host of Ozempic poisoning victims, and millions of catastrophically obese, over-sweetened, and over-liquored Americans will drop dead from malignancies, strokes, and diabetic complications at rates so high their toxic, pitiable bodies will be piling up three high in the street—I will still be here, yelling "Should we even bother anymore? And should I ran a race even though I suck?" at about half of the remaining 2,000 people still alive worldwide and tied to the Internet. (Substack will never sell out to the censors. Its CEO will instead “commit suicide” erelong.)

I never would have believed that the entire running industry would be in the grip of slobs and pussies, but this is undeniably the case. All of it is especially revolting against the backdrop of mass slaughter being gaily perpetrated in Gaza while American Jews at Ivy League universities have the heretofore unseen gall to complain about feeling unsafe right here in the good old Zionism-propelled U.S.A. because some people have the nerve to exercise their rights and protest the slaughter. No one’s getting in trouble for cheering it on.

The best place for me to turn for solace or amusement lately when not running, brushing my dog, playing my keyboard, or engaging in rent-paying activities is an ambience of persistent detachment from earthly affairs. I have lost much of my interest in following news-critics like Jimmy Dore who manage to make the decay entertaining and instead have been settling for about half what Glenn Greenwald has been producing for his nightly episodes of System Update, usually stopping the videos in various forms of resignation and dismay.

Luckily, I gave up hope as a personal guiding principle a long time ago, so for me there are no more rude transitions. I think. It’s just waiting for the next round of gibbering and evidence of raucous civilizational involution and wondering why I bother using phones or computers. They tell me nothing I need to know anymore.