The Running of the Bullshit
WHY YOU SHOULD CARE
Because smart dogs don’t chase cars.
By Eugene S. Robinson
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.