WHY SO SERIOUS?

I am chaos. I am anarchy. Lawlessness. Mobocracy. I incite riots. Encourage disorder. Give me tumult and turmoil. Bring on rebellion and revolution. I am a crazed malcontent whose brain has been warped by too much beer and marathon training. I am a rabble-rousing drunken reprobate. I am no longer Dartman. There was an accident… A terrible accident. And my face is now hideously deformed. My grin is a craggy slash, a razor-blade frightening, demented smile. My skin a pasty, tallow-faced, sickly white. My hair a dirty, sewer-green, greasy and grimy, filthy like a stringy, worn-out mop. Don’t call me the Dartman. Don’t call me the Batman. Call me…

The Joker.

HA! HA! HA! HA!
HA! HA! HA! HA!
HA! HA! HA! HA!

Why so serious?

OK, I’m NOT the Joker. I just saw THE DARK KNIGHT one too many times. Same thing happened a few years ago when I saw that Chris Kattan film and thought I was CORKY ROMANO for three months. Still, there is a method to madness, and my proclamation that I am now a subversive agent of chaos. (And no, I’m not referring to GET SMART).

You see, what happened was… This is hard to admit… And it’s why I haven’t posted in some time. I also went into my third coma in five years after drunkenly smashing my head against a lamp. That doesn’t sound so bad, but it was actually a LAMP POST. And I smashed my noggin against it while I was sticking my head out of a Corvette doing 80 mph. I was brain dead for three days, but luckily my brother was a perfect match and unselfishly donated his brain. My benevolent sibling gave up his life for me, and all I can say is… SUCKA! I would have NEVER given my brother my brain. I wouldn’t have even given him a pint of blood if it would have saved his life. If I came across him dying of dehydration in a desert, I would have guzzled a 5-gallon water bottle of Poland Spring in front of him, stuffed his mouth full of dry Saltines and watched him die. That asshole thought he was so… Sorry, getting off track. That’s another post. But, bro, if you’re reading this, and this comes from the heart: Now, I’M THE BRAINS OF THE FAMILY, DOUCHE BAG!!! Yeah, that’s what I said, tough guy. You are, were and always will be a douche bag! Vaginal irrigation is even above you. You’re a friggin’ enema nozzle, butt munch. Mom WAS right. You were smarter than me. But now you’re topsoil and I’ve got your brain. HA! HA! HA! HA!

Sorry. Like I said, I may not be the Joker, but I am mad as a hatter. Anyway, so there are two reasons why I haven’t blogged lately. One, as you can probably tell from my last few blogs, is that I’m having a ¾-life crisis. No, not a mid-life crisis. I had THAT when I was 20. So that means I’m a goner at 40. But at age 30, I’m having a ¾-life crisis, and I blame it on REASON #2. And REASON #2 is: I started taking running seriously. Why so serious you ask? I don’t know. Running is like a drug to me now. I love it. I need it. I abuse it. I snort it. I’ve sucked d**k for it. I’ve tossed the salad of a 1,324-pound shut-in amputee named LaSandra just to feel the rush of a 5-mile sprint. OK, that’s an exaggeration. I’ve never snorted running. But the rest is true.

Two Sundays ago, I ran 20 miles. Not biked or drove or flew. I RAN my first 20-miler. And I averaged 9-minute miles, and that’s with hills. I ran 40 or so miles that week, which was another new record for me. I also ran 9 miles at a 7:30 pace, my fastest ever. I can now sprint one mile in under 6:30. And I’m following it up this week with another 40 miles and my upcoming 23-mile run (the longest of the training).

Am I patting myself on the back? NO!!!!! These are all BAD things. That’s what SERIOUS runners do. I’m a joker, a toker, a midnight… Wait, I hate that song. But I’m becoming dedicated to this training and the marathon and, well, I don’t like it. I’m Dartman. I’m a Drunken Reprobate. I’m NOT a runner!

So that’s where the Joker comes in. The anarchy. The craziness. The madness. To make up for all the progression I’ve made as a runner, I went off the deep end and mutinied this past week. Yeah, I’m still gonna run 40 miles, but like Sinatra, I’m gonna do it MY WAY. Last Sunday, yeah, I ran my 13 miles. But I did it after drinking 10 strong-ass beers the night before, mainly Captain Lawrence Double IPAs. Last Tuesday, yeah, I did my speed run of 5 miles at a 7:30 pace. But I did it after drinking sangria, a margarita and three pints. I was sweaty and stunk of alcohol afterward, but I was still fast. I’ve increased my miles, my drinking and my lack of sleep. I live on coffee, fried foods, burritos and hot wings. And I LOVE it!!!

My name is Dartman. Not Batman. I am not on the side of good or order, lawfulness or compliance. I am a rogue runner. I am a good-for-naught. I am self-destructive. I am an unprincipled, scampish, frolicsome scapegrace. And if I fall on my face and don’t finish the marathon, you can wag your finger at me and say, “I told you so.” But if somehow I DO finish the marathon, while DRINKING BEER, and I get a decent time, well, then my puckish personality will have paid off. I won’t have compromised. Runners are a methodical, systematic, orderly and regulated lot. I am a stye in their eye. An irritant. I defy classification. I am chaos. And my goal is to watch the running world burn. Call me…

The Dartman.

Wait. I’m getting a little full of myself here. I admit, I AM crazy. But I’m insignificant, not super-serious-runner-fast and like 32 people have read this friggin blog. No one cares about my revolution. The real runners rule. During my 4-month training, I can almost guarantee that I will have had more beer, eaten unhealthier and gotten less sleep than anybody else in the Chicago Marathon. But who cares? I’m a delusional dork trying to pose himself as an unhinged firebrand and psychotic troublemaker who actually has a voice that is heard and listened to. But wasn’t the Joker delusional, too? Exaggerating his importance and impact on Gotham City? Batman saves the day, is the hero, gets the girl and represents righteousness. Oh, wait, that’s Spider-Man and Superman. Batman is actually pretty cracked, too. But the Joker will always be the cynosure of my eyes.

Why so serious?

HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA!

8/16-9/4

DRINKING
8 beers (avg. ABV: 7%) (5 days a week)

RUNNING
40 miles total/week (and my first 20-miler)

SLEEP
5 hours/day