Street Joggers

There is little on god’s green earth that can incite more rage than this sight.

This guy is probably gay.

That’s right. I'm talking to you joggers. Cut that shit out. You know what I'm talking about. No, I don't want to talk about how good you feel after a good run, and no, I don't give a flying fuck what Omega-3s do. Look, you get in the way more than a divorced father with weekend visiting privileges. And it’s not just the driving thing. Note: I didn’t say it’s not a driving thing. They are my worst nightmare as a driver, and on more than one occasion I’ve envisioned myself hitting the gas at a stoplight and plowing over a thirty-something mid-sprint, knocking him clear out of his Nike Shox, embedding his microfiber shirt into the fender and feeling the bump as I roll over his shoulder-band iPod in the heart of its Enya playlist. But again, it’s not JUST a driving thing.

Look, the street jogger is a breed of its own. Pumping their arms more flamboyantly than I'm doctors would advise, and eternally in a state of motion, like at stoplights where they suddenly become Jennifer Beals from Flashdance. And they always make certain to plan their routes around the highest trafficked areas. You see, without an audience, the jogger can't exist. So... what are ya trying to prove, there, jogger? You know that gyms exist. It’s impossible not to be aware of their existence. They’re all over the place, and people talk about them in casual conversation. Many people go there, especially the ones interested in Omega 3s – and oftentimes to run. Jogging paths, parks, beaches, country roads, all of these exist as well, and are outstanding locations for jogging-oriented exercise. Needless to say, the jogger is aware of these options as well. No, it’s not a lack of awareness that leads the street jogger to become a blatant enemy to society and all that is right and good. It’s their biological make-up. You see, friend, whereas normal people such as you and I are stimulated every day by the usual life incentives of happiness, success, sex, love, candy, and jerking off, the street jogger is fueled by memories of their fathers hitting them in the face with an empty beer bottle or their mothers making love to themselves cause daddy never came home. You know what? Get over it, joggers.

The city equivalent to the jogger… the biker.

And don’t even get me started on the city biker, the city dweller's closest comparison to the street jogger. Let’s just say the next time I literally come in contact with one of these bikers – who only wants to be considered equal to a car when it doesn’t involve following traffic signals – the foot in his spokes that lands him jaw-first on the asphalt will let him know I say hello.