This Sunday, I and 44,829 others with similarly terrible judgment ran the ING New York City Marathon. In my case, I use the term “run” generously, for though my first 18 miles went at a decent clip, my body then succumbed to paraplegia. The sheer bloodlust of competition would move me once more, however, as I spent the final miles in a duel to the finish with a transvestite Minnie Mouse. But I give away the end of the story without properly addressing the origins:
