"Woman! Beer! Now! Roooaar!"

Men. Seriously. Who do they think they are? More importantly, who do they think we are? Beer wenches? I scoff in the face of men everywhere.

Cousin Thrice Removed, CTR, offered up this suggestion today:

"I'm now officially entered in the ... Marathon. I'm shooting to repeat last year's 2:50 or so... so, if you're going for 2:07 then you'll be done before me. I was just wondering if you'd mind waiting around an extra 40 minutes or so and grabbing a beer for me as I cross the finish? That would be awesome, I had to wait in line myself last year."

Pardon moi?

Keep in mind, folks, that while this tough guy is running a full marathon, I'm going only half. Yet he's coming in only 40 minutes later than me. Rub it on, guy, rub it in. Ugh. Scoff. Dirty look.

So I'm just going to "wait around" an extra "40 minutes or so" and hand you a beer while you bask in "I just finished a marathon in under three hours" glory? You don't think I'll be basking in my own "it took 1,000 people less time to run 26.2 miles than it took me to run 13.1" glory? I'm just going to wait patiently at the finish line, ice cold beer in hand, ready to thrust the cup into your grubby little paws?

Oh, alright. But you owe me. Shots on you, pal. I don't do beer.