The Sport of Kings

As you may recall, O wondrous readership, I promised that I would have more to say about a certain question. For those of you who happen to be degenerate, I remind you that this question was:

Could I beat him in a footrace?

The answer to this inquiry is self-evident. It cannot be any other way, for wherever I go, there I am. As I look around, he is not here, and I am not there, but I, being here, am where I must be, and he, being there, is not where I must be, for to be is the key to victory, to be at the finish, that is, and I have two feet. On these feet, I must declare, I have toes, five on each one, and that makes ten. As Baron Medusa put it, "...Five plus three makes eleven... take four leaves six... two plus seven makes eighteen. / That's right..." We shall yet turn a profit on these numbers, which count the appendages of Mankind. O the appendages of Mankind! Without them, how could there be a footrace? How could I throw a ball farther than he? After all, he is the fool who starts miles upon miles behind me. There is no hope for that one. How does he expect to meet with kings? How shall he suppress his bizarre thoughts, when he is miles away? There will be no need; the kings are not there to hear him. If there is one thing that can be learned from this, it is thus:

There are some who can walk on water. You should all see the film and read the book.

No, read the other book.