Runner's World has now deleted my author page, but the cowards responsible still aren't responding to my questions

The joke's on me for not heeding the pickup-driving rednecks who issued warnings back in the day that jogging would eventually be captured by not just the goofy but by the dumb, the ugly, and the weak

For those interested in the saga of my trying to pry an answer from Runner’s World about why it quietly removed one of my articles and replaced it with counterfactual garbage written by one of its own editors:

I’m no closer than before to getting an answer, but sometime in the past couple of weeks, Runner’s World decided to remove the author-index page containing close to forty of the articles I wrote for a publication called Running Times that Runner’s World purchased over fifteen years ago before discontinuing it in around 2013. That page and the articles it links to is archived on the Wayback Machine, but this is what visitors see now when surfing to the relevant URL:

As it happens, I explicitly invited representatives of Runner’s World to take this step. In a post on June 24, I wrote:

Below is an image of part of the RW page for Jennifer Acker, the creator of “Why You Might Want to Consider Breathing Only Through Your Nose on the Run,” published on May 29, 2022 to replace “Can Nasal Breathing Improve Your Running Performance?” (There’s also a Runner’s World page for Kevin Beck. What the fuck are they even waiting for?)

And, having not gotten any answers in the next couple of weeks, on July 12, I wrote a post that a included this snippet:

Runner’s World considers me a colleague. It must, because its website has a page dedicated to me with thirty-nine articles with my byline on them, all written for Running Times, which was purchased around fifteen years ago by Rodale, Inc. from the CEO of Cruella de Vil Industries.

This situation mirrors Jonathan Beverly, or a similarly spine-dead, brainless character at Podium Runner, deleting ten articles I’d written for that now-dead publication in the spring of 2021.

So, some of the few representatives of Runner’s World who can read at a fifth-grade level or above are clearly poring over my posts, and they have taken me up on my indirect suggestion to nix my work from its website and divorce it from any association with functionally illiterate editors, whimpering pussies, covid-misinformation spreaders, promoters of lie-barking influencers so fat they can barely move, and surly, sneering racists. I was already paid for all of those articles, which I can now present as fresh new material if I like. They’re all so old that no one was finding them unless specifically looking. The terms of this separation are quite amenable to me.

But I do find it striking that whoever did this managed to follow through on my “delete author index page” quasi-suggestion without managing to also respond to my question about why Jennifer Acker’s article now sits where one by me once did. Guess which of these is typical of a gutless pissweasel and which requires uncomfortable engagement with another person?

I learned of the deletion today while referring back to this 1999 article for a post I started writing about training for marathons in the summer heat. (Note that Runner’s World lied about the publication date. By May 14, 2016, humans who weren’t even born when the original was published were legally driving cars.)

I would have been surprised had this gone any differently. I’m sure whoever at Runner’s World is responsible would point to all of the vicious criticism I’ve leveled at the publication for its galactic incompetence in almost all areas in recent years, and the fact that I freely call faggots like Jeff Dengate faggots when I them. But the real problem isn’t the static itself but its accuracy. What I write surely makes a lot of already neurotic, incompetent, sickly-looking people even more agitated and feel even dumber and uglier; it should, as this is its intent.

If these roving piles of shit, monkeys feeble of mind and devoid of courage, are going to keep drawing paychecks while conducting themselves like retards, then they deserve far worse than the verbal abuse I’ve lobbed their way and will continue issuing until I die or become bored, and one of those will happen soon enough.

When I picked up running at 14, I was regularly called a faggot and a pussy by motorists, as much a reflection of being seen running alone in a woodchuck town like Canterbury, New Hampshire as of the crueler norms of the day. I laughed at these, except when accompanies by brief, “playful” swerves in my direction, but perhaps I should have paid attention to the granularity of the insults. While I doubt that distance running disproportionately attracts gay people—and if it does, who cares—but it’s become clear decades later that running certainly attracts a lot of standard pussies.

Rather than complain that this is the case, I’ll instead thank the God of my understanding that all of my meaningful years in this “sport” and “industry” preceded the massive influx of cowards, scammers, retards, trannies, and lazy lardbuckets demanding—and getting—money and praise simply for being deformed, lazy lardbuckets.

I wonder exactly what it is, besides facing the reality of their own gruesome, crippling vocational and human shortcomings, that keeps my targets from simply answering any of my emails and explaining their decision. They can insulate themselves from my direct venom, but when they turn the lights off at night and set the phone down and have to listen to their own honest thoughts for a few tortured minutes, I’m certain that the reality of what thoroughly loserly people they are invades their frazzled and feeble thinking, and the comfort of knowing they’re getting away with what they are only because they entire morality of the world is upside-down is replaced with thought-stabs like, “Wow, I really am a dumb, lazy, worthless turd” and “Why wasn’t I rammed up my father’s asshole when I was born for about three weeks of further incubation? Would my brain have worked any better that way?”

In addition to regretting ever lining up for a race and meeting any of these disposable human turds, I also have to ask: Where exactly did all of these abject pussies come from? Did parenting radically change in the 1990s or is the Internet more to blame than coddling? Does America overproduce squint-eyed, drool-basted, poly-flailing cretins and functional mongoloids in the way I suspect it does, or is this caliber of hapless and pointless biomass being spat out of vaginas (and occasionally, cut deftly out of abdomens) all over the world at the same discouraging rate as it is in this ‘tard-patch?

Most foreboding of all: Is a shortage of Jesus the problem some say? Most religious loons who like to mix it up with the godless or the unconvinced are not craven people even when they detest the rhetorical opposition. Wokish people have introduced not only idea with an unprecedented level of insanity, but rules of engagement straight out of nursery school. They’re gross; the misbred kids they’re churning out and that I will never see will be even worse, and the more of them I compel into even shady, ferretlike actions like the one this post describes, the better.

Modern communication methods have revealed one key fact about humans: As a rule, we suck pretty badly. Does anyone out there actually like more than the small handful of these animals that are able to tolerate you and your own noisome peccadilloes? If it were somehow possible to miss or in any way judge this womb-to-maggots experience after it ends, I sure the hell wouldn’t.