The Oatmeal Runs

Seriously. He does.

And then makes this post about The Blerch and e'rrbody goes CRAZY.

Buyin' Blerch shirts. Blerch hats. Blerch bitches. Blerch turds.

I'm with him, though. I'm hip. I'm with it.

I run for the Blerch, too.

Only my Blerch is bad poetry.

Like this:

"There is no cold.

There is no rain.

There are no legs.

There is no pain.

There is only you you.

Running.

Breathing."

Sucks, yo, but I still get my miles in.

Shitty rhymes all the way.

Can't empty my head.