The Running of the Bullshit

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Why you should care

Because smart dogs don’t chase cars.

Sorry for being so intractably rigid about all of this, and call us old-fashioned, but we’ve never liked seeing guys in white pants with red sash belts molesting cattle. The fashion tragedy of it all. The faux danger. The reliving of some half-baked Hemingway-esque rite-of-passage garbage that the friends of said runners will have to hear about until their ears drop off. Approximately 30 seconds after someone says, “Oh, man. I just got back from Pamplona and …”

Don’t get us wrong. We’re as fond of fun as the next drunken woo-hooing college-age guy with tons of disposable income — yes, the stats fall soundly on this being most majorly a guy thing. We’re just not down with fakery, and until humans can really run faster than angry bulls, we ask: What’s the point?

Other than this rant? We’re not exactly, completely, totally sure.

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