Every four years the world pours itself a cold one, grabs a bag of chips and parks itself in its recliner to burp out a salute to athleticism.
I'm referring to the Olympic Games, of course. The Games were originally thought of by the ancient Greeks, whom history tells us declared a truce in their nearly continuous warfare every four years, stopped killing each other with swords and spears, stripped naked and tried to kill each other with their bare hands. This was considered such a bad idea that it was forgotten for over two thousand years, until it was revived by some bored Englishmen and gradually became the can't-miss media spectacle it is today.
The Games begin with an enormously long and expensive opening ceremony. This year's climaxed in a battle in the clouds between the evil Lord Voldemort and a sky full of Mary Poppinses. Voldemort lost, which should come as no surprise; he gets his hiney handed to him by a twelve-year-old at the end of every Harry Potter episode, so it's no news that a platoon of flying nannies with sharp umbrellas made short work of him.
After the theatrics, we had the Parade of Nations, in which the athletes enter the stadium in costumes peculiar to their native lands. My favorites were the Czech Republic's squad, which wore their peasants' customary bright blue plastic boots. Few people know that the Czechs have worn blue boots since medieval times while hiding out in the swamps of their homeland from their neighbors, who traditionally have tried to massacre them.
The athletes don't march anymore; they get on down the road in a sort of well-muscled boogie, iPhones in hand. The members of the US squad were by far the worst offenders; they barely glanced up from their smart phones as they went by, frantically Tweeting and Facebooking their presence at the Games to all of their followers. NBC posted breathless updates on the number of Olympic tweets being tweeted worldwide, as if to say Look at how many people are not actually paying attention to us right now!
I never have time to count the number of people who are not paying attention to me, but I can confidently say it is in the billions. One of them is my girlfriend, who has eyes only for the men's diving and water polo matches, in which vigorous young males without a single hair on their bodies splash around in man-bikinis in which their athletic man-bulges are clearly visible. The stripes on the American team's briefs ripple not in the breeze but over their proud packages.
My Significant Other couldn't help herself. She burst into spontaneous song. "Oh say can you seeeee…"
"I've heard that tune already today, you know."
"The camera angle makes it look It's like it's right in your face," she said appreciatively.
"Shut up."
"I wish I'd gotten 3D TV for this now."
Eye-candy for we guys seems to be down a bit this year. We have beach volleyball and women's diving but the girl swimmers now wear what seem to be wrestling singlets in the pool and figure-skating is in the Winter Olympics.
The big news item is that the condom quota for this year's Olympics has been raised to 100,000 prophylactics. They ordered 70,000 for last time but they ran out. This confirms what students of the Games have suspected all along; these extraordinarily healthy young humans are not spending the two Olympic weeks like we are, goggle-eyed in front of their TVs. They are slapping their waxed and muscled bodies together in Olympic lust as often as they can and in as many variations as they know how, no doubt including the sprint, the dive, the dash, the score, the relay, the medley and the marathon.
There are just about 11,000 competitors in this year's Olympics, which allows an average of almost ten random sex encounters per performer for the two weeks of the Games. If you're planning to have more sex than that, you have to bring extra condoms on your own.
You might just want to do that because I can't imagine any better souvenir from your moment of glory than an Olympic rubber. I assume they print some sort of logo on them to distinguish them as Olympic condoms; the five Olympic rings would be nice, and also a handy way to compare your dates by noting the number of rings visible when the condom is fully filled out. Or just a simple scale of one to ten, with the decimal points in between. That way, when you know your performance was a 9.5, no sneering Eastern European judge is going to be able to deny you.
Or just print "Let the Games Begin" on the things. If your partner can't read the entire sentence, considered yourself washed out in the preliminaries.
I'm referring to the Olympic Games, of course. The Games were originally thought of by the ancient Greeks, whom history tells us declared a truce in their nearly continuous warfare every four years, stopped killing each other with swords and spears, stripped naked and tried to kill each other with their bare hands. This was considered such a bad idea that it was forgotten for over two thousand years, until it was revived by some bored Englishmen and gradually became the can't-miss media spectacle it is today.
The Games begin with an enormously long and expensive opening ceremony. This year's climaxed in a battle in the clouds between the evil Lord Voldemort and a sky full of Mary Poppinses. Voldemort lost, which should come as no surprise; he gets his hiney handed to him by a twelve-year-old at the end of every Harry Potter episode, so it's no news that a platoon of flying nannies with sharp umbrellas made short work of him.
After the theatrics, we had the Parade of Nations, in which the athletes enter the stadium in costumes peculiar to their native lands. My favorites were the Czech Republic's squad, which wore their peasants' customary bright blue plastic boots. Few people know that the Czechs have worn blue boots since medieval times while hiding out in the swamps of their homeland from their neighbors, who traditionally have tried to massacre them.
The athletes don't march anymore; they get on down the road in a sort of well-muscled boogie, iPhones in hand. The members of the US squad were by far the worst offenders; they barely glanced up from their smart phones as they went by, frantically Tweeting and Facebooking their presence at the Games to all of their followers. NBC posted breathless updates on the number of Olympic tweets being tweeted worldwide, as if to say Look at how many people are not actually paying attention to us right now!
I never have time to count the number of people who are not paying attention to me, but I can confidently say it is in the billions. One of them is my girlfriend, who has eyes only for the men's diving and water polo matches, in which vigorous young males without a single hair on their bodies splash around in man-bikinis in which their athletic man-bulges are clearly visible. The stripes on the American team's briefs ripple not in the breeze but over their proud packages.
My Significant Other couldn't help herself. She burst into spontaneous song. "Oh say can you seeeee…"
"I've heard that tune already today, you know."
"The camera angle makes it look It's like it's right in your face," she said appreciatively.
"Shut up."
"I wish I'd gotten 3D TV for this now."
Eye-candy for we guys seems to be down a bit this year. We have beach volleyball and women's diving but the girl swimmers now wear what seem to be wrestling singlets in the pool and figure-skating is in the Winter Olympics.
The big news item is that the condom quota for this year's Olympics has been raised to 100,000 prophylactics. They ordered 70,000 for last time but they ran out. This confirms what students of the Games have suspected all along; these extraordinarily healthy young humans are not spending the two Olympic weeks like we are, goggle-eyed in front of their TVs. They are slapping their waxed and muscled bodies together in Olympic lust as often as they can and in as many variations as they know how, no doubt including the sprint, the dive, the dash, the score, the relay, the medley and the marathon.
There are just about 11,000 competitors in this year's Olympics, which allows an average of almost ten random sex encounters per performer for the two weeks of the Games. If you're planning to have more sex than that, you have to bring extra condoms on your own.
You might just want to do that because I can't imagine any better souvenir from your moment of glory than an Olympic rubber. I assume they print some sort of logo on them to distinguish them as Olympic condoms; the five Olympic rings would be nice, and also a handy way to compare your dates by noting the number of rings visible when the condom is fully filled out. Or just a simple scale of one to ten, with the decimal points in between. That way, when you know your performance was a 9.5, no sneering Eastern European judge is going to be able to deny you.
Or just print "Let the Games Begin" on the things. If your partner can't read the entire sentence, considered yourself washed out in the preliminaries.
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