The Fathlete Thunder thighs lies about it's "marathon" run. DNS, couldn't waddle it's fat past the starting gun. If spectating wasn't sickening, it could actually be fun. Blaming everything but itself on the fact it never won. ... I wonder what lies in store for the fat it claims to love. Crematoriums with no heating bills and toxic clouds above  Sink or swim, you fat disaster, or we'll give you a shove  Sink it is then Butterball, let me get my glove.