What they won't do for us, those life-averse citizens of Suicidefoodland!
They will pledge their miserable lives to us.
They will sign up to die.
They will—even without the ability to extract oxygen from the atmosphere—pant and sweat for nearly five miles of punishing masochism!
Defying the limitations of their anatomy, the fish strap on shoes—to what we are not sure—slip on the runner's vest, register for their race number, and take off running. If it kills them (which it surely will), they will finish this thing. They will cross the finish line and then they will cross, you know, the Finish Line. The big one. And there, from the winner's circle that is your plate, they will experience at last what all their training has led them to: the thrill of victory.