Every two years, the world's greatest display of athletic prowess takes place under the name of "Olympics." Here, athletes from every corner of the globe (um, sidebar: the globe doesn't have corners. Leave to the idiotic idiomatic idiosyncrasies of the English language to come up with something like that) come together for the most renown competition ever to grace this cornerless planet. These two weeks, a mere 1/52 of every two years (I do math!!), are by far the greatest two weeks ever to be lived by an Olympic fanatic.
I live, breathe, sleep, and eat for the Olympic Games. And for what? The sport? Oh, but of course. For watching a young athlete represent his country and fulfill his dreams? Absolutely. For seeing hard work pay off to be written in the history books for our grandchildren's grandchildren? Definitely. But above all, there is one reason that surpasses all others for which I love the Olympics:
The husband shopping.
Seriously, have you seen the man candy? No one can deny that the Parade of Nations is a who's who of whom I need to make immediate acquaintance. Thank you, NBC for your montage of options. I'm pretty sure that 5/8 of qualifying rounds to make it to the Olympics are based upon whether or not the athlete will aesthetically represent his home country well.
It's a week and a half in, and I have several new husband options. Even the figure skaters, most of which have no desire for the female anatomy are appealing. Mr. Lysacek, I am warm for your form. And I'm also insanely jealous that you got Vera Wang to design all your costumes. Hey girl heeey!
I would like to formally announce that Mr. Ted Ligedy and I are engaged to be married. Save the date for the 12th of Never. (I still haven't told him that we're engaged. Also, I am assuming that he would like to know that I exist first). Balls.
I have taken a hot glue gun to my eyelids for the last two weeks. My Diet Coke consumption has skyrocketed. And I'm starting to experiment with daily energy drink consumption. My chihuahua hands are more chihuahua-y than usual. And coffee, oh coffee: I love thee. But the high caffeine intake is all for a good cause: giving a fair share of my viewing time to each Olympic sport.
The average-joe Olympic spectator is a curious thing. He sits on his couch, beer in hand, wearing a Big Dog t-shirt circa 1995. His toenails are freshly clipped, and his 5 O'clock shadow is developing into a scruffy 7PM. Lasagna from four days ago that has taken crusty residence on the right thigh of sweats that haven't seen the inside of a washing machine since Beijing. Surrounding him are Swedish meatball TV dinner trays, Bud Light empties, and a pile of lukewarm reserve beers so he doesn't have to get up. To his right is a mint-condition still-shrinkwrapped VHS of Richard Simmons' "Sweatin' to the Oldies" that an old girlfriend gave him in feeble attempt to beat around the bush that she had little desire to stick around and become acquainted with the gut that was beginning to take shape. Said girlfriend is long gone, and said beer gut has has firmly established itself as a member of the family. Don't make any harsh judgments though, because even though the only exercise he gets is running to the bathroom while the tear-jerking Visa commercials come on, he is the world's greatest expert on all Olympic sports. As he watches figure skating, he shames the athlete for the rocky landing of his triple axle. He shouts expletives as the ski jumper doesn't time the takeoff right. He shakes his head as the halfpipe snowboarder doesn't complete the last quarter turn of her 1080.
You know you do it too. You can't even spell Double McTwist 1260 (d-o-u-b-l-e-m-c-t-w-i-s-t-t-w-e-l-v-e-s-i-x-t-y), but you'll scream at the TV when it's done wrong(ly, use your adverbs).
And while we're on the subject of Olympic sports, I have to touch upon ice dancing: the red headed stepchild of the figure skating world. I am quite sure that the ice dancers get beat up by the other figure skaters in rink parking lot. They're not invited to the cool-kid figure skating parties, and they are probably suffering long term rectal damage from years of wedgies. And what's with all the brother/sister pairs? I would not be ok with my brother holding me up mid-air by my crotch. And I'm quite sure that my brother has no interest in that very same maneuver. I am also quite sure that he would drop me on purpose as some form of vengeance for ratting him out for stuffing his broccoli under his booster seat when he was three. I'm still paying for that, 18 years later.
And here ends my Olympic rant. Broadcast is about to start, I'm fresh out of beer, and I can't find my Big Dogs shirt. Thank God the Olympics only come once every two years. Remember to save the wedding date.
And one final shout-out to Jamie, who reads this at work while he's pooping. Hi Jamie, hope it all comes out ok.
