Watch That 3,237th Step

This is the kind of behavior that makes one cynical. Now, granted, I won't claim to be the furriest bunny in the rabbit hole. But if I see a man down, I'll at least ask if he's OK before I continue on my way.

Enter the Jackass in White Shorts.

Most of what happened is my fault. It was night. I am fighting off a cold (if you call this fighting). I was running on the sidewalk where there were piles upon piles of fallen leaves obscuring the terrain. Let's just say the conditions were favorable.

Two miles into my run yesterday after work, I encountered an uneven sidewalk, at Hereford and Merriman, covered over by wet leaves. The leaves hid an upheaval of pavement, which caught my foot unexpectedly. My body pitched forward and my limbs flailed.

For a moment, I thought I might make it, that my feet would stay under me. That was a short moment. My body tumbled past its center of gravity, and my face aimed for a mouthful of grass, saved from this mid-run meal only by my right palm, which broke the fall.

I pulled myself up, checking for blood -- none. However, my palm was certainly scraped, the skin flap raised like a bunched rug. I looked up to see Jackass in White Shorts run past me without so much as a sideways glance.

What a douche nozzle.

What kind of self-important dick can't even ask a fellow runner -- nay, a fellow human -- if he is all right?

I walked for a few moments to make sure all my pieces and parts were functional, and then I took off after that son of a bitch.

I caught up to within 30 feet of him (quickly, I might add), but I didn't pass him. I wanted him to hear me at his heals. Also, I didn't want to get in front of him and then biff it again.

[Drunkard's note: If by chance Jackass in White Shorts reads this blog, you're an ass-hat and I hope you feel like a bloated turd. Also, you're slow. I'm fine thanks.]