The Picture of Cory-an B.

Well, he's done it again--sped through a marathon at a pace that left many far better trained than he far behind him. As you have read, Cory credits his success on his freakishly intense workouts on the stairmaster and the exercise bike. Which I do know to be true. But com' on man! You can't run 26 miles at an 8:48 pace without doing large chunks of running. There's got to be something else going on here.


Something sinister.



Something dark.



Something disturbing.


Something, well, how can I say this? . . . Something so TOTALLY EVIL that only an attorney would do it.


And that frightening reality, I'm convinced, can only be explained one way. Or, at least, can only be explained one way that entertains me as much as my following supposition.

Doesn't it make sense that what's really going on here is that, hidden in his attic, covered with lead-lined blankets, and inside a Fort Knox-quality safe, is a painting of Cory? A painting that right now is ravaged with injuries that would scare off Mother Teresa? A painting of a 63-year-old man with a broken pelvis, a sports hernia, an inflamed Romulus-and-Remus tendon, a stent in the heart, and--most horrible of all--grey hair.

Meanwhile, the Cory we see runs on like a Hollywood superhero.

This is a picture from 29 years ago, but pictures of him following this year's Boston Marathon would look identical. Well, almost identical. I think this year he finished with a beer in each hand.

So, watch out South Africa! Here come Dashing and Doofus!