skot AT izzlepfaff DOT com
Thursday, 19 August
With midweek rest from doing the show, the wife and I have been, as many of you have been, suffering through the Olympics. While I have many non-NBC programming options, their coverage remains so consistently wretched and appalling that really, it's hard to turn away for me.
The other night, the tiny little whores (if you're just joining us, that would be the female gymnasts) continued their grating antics, various limbs jouncing about on uneven bars, here and there ponytails bobbing woefully under the vigorous shouts of the coaches, the occasional mons veneris taking a vicious beating on a block of wood. You have to give it up to these little fucking dynamoes; they shot around the arena like a bunch of superballs launched from a cannon into a bank vault; even the supernaturally haughty Svetlana Khorkina--who looks like one day she will make some man out there very miserable indeed--was seen to exhibit a smilelike rictus at one point.
But then after a little while I stopped caring, because for all the flash and dazzle--and, as athleticism, some of it was really fucking impressive--they still in the end just seemed tawdry and misplaced and creepy. Maybe if they put plush toys and pink taffeta all over the place; some tasteful Leo DiCaprio posters for the girls to enjoy. It might start to look normalesque.
As the week has drawn on, we've gotten some perfunctory glimpses of other, less popular sports, like the physics-defying weightlifters, whose chores simply cause my groin muscles to twang and whistle in sympathetic misery. Or the guys riding bikes here and there--unfortunately for the bikers, the Tour de France kind of sucked all the limited appreciation we (Americans) have for tiredly watching footage of guys, well, riding bikes on the road. I confess that I regard watching biking with the same enthusiasm I have for NASCAR, which is to say: none. When bikers fall down, which is by far the most exciting possible outcome, the best they can do is wipe out competitors. When bike tires start hurtling into the audience and causing civilian deaths, then I might grudgingly watch the ESPN highlights.
Today's coverage that I saw started out with the shot put, which is pretty enjoyable. (Though the coverage was again basically an afterthought.) Mostly for the peculiarly male trait of post-performance bellowing. Time and time again, the Living Thyroids would pick up the slug of metal, spin weirdly, and then launch the fucker into space, and then, at the precise moment of release (that is to say, after nothing else could possibly help the shot's trajectory), they would emit horrifying screams, as if bull snakes had suddenly crawled into their anuses. AAAAAAUUUUUUUUUGGGGHH!
Dude, you already threw the thing. You're not helping in any physical way. Then again, if my whole purpose in life was to throw a heavy lump of crap as far away from me as possible, day after day, I might be tempted to cut loose with frequent existential howls of my own too. Maybe these guys are just weirdly regular about scheduling them.
What else? Oh, I saw some "whitewater canoeing." This is fine, but having actually worked on a river before, their definition of "whitewater" is depressingly lax. The jacuzzi-like nonturbulence of the water hardly made me think, "Oh, lord, watch out for the rocks!" No, more like, "Get that canoeist a spritzer!"
And then there was swimming. So much fucking swimming. And it's not just the varying strokes--though that's part of it. It's also the varying distances. And the varying relays. Of varying strokes and distances. You know, after seeing the weirdly cool dolphin-kick several dozen times (and the accompanying wish that Patrick Duffy, the MAN FROM ATLANTIS would show up), really who gives a rotten fuck? Some swimstrokes are plainly ridiculous, such as the breaststroke and the butterfly. Can we just not say: "Look. There's a rock over there a ways off. Get swimming. First one there wins." Do you think anyone would even think about doing a breaststroke? Of course not. Jesus Christ, people, let's just do the crawl. The breaststroke is to swimming as what speedwalking is to track and field: really, just sort of dumb.
But no. We have to endure the backstroke, the baconstroke, and the Choco-stroke, at all distances and configurations, and worse (thanks, NBC, you dumb choads), we have to endure the qualifying heats. This is just the worst. Hey hey, this means nothing, really, since 90% of the time the heats have no surprises at all! This also, in addition to carrying no dramatic freight at all, leads to commentators doing what they do worst, which is talking. I actually heard this exchange:
"How about that young Hungarian team?"
(Barely masking utter boredom) "Yeah! They're . . . really coming on."
Oh, for Christ's sake. Bring back the tiny little whores. I guess given a choice between miserable little girls and laughably inefficient swimmers, I'm more interested in watching little girls cry.
It's just the kind of nice guy I am.
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As a former competitive breast-stroker of four years, I got (and still get sometimes) that shit all the time. "Why would you want to swim the slowest stroke?"
BECAUSE ITS THERE. Being the fastest at something is better than nothing, eh? They all could still kick your ass at it. But I agree, the tiny little whores are much more exciting. But Ian Thorpe looks like a veritable Greek god.
Next thing you know, they'll proclaim Nordic Walking an olympic discipline.
conversation i overheard:
man 1: u excited about the olympics dude?
man 2: oh yeah, i especially love the gymnast, i watch it only for the cameltoes.
BECAUSE ITS THERE. Being the fastest at something is better than nothing, eh? They all could still kick your ass at it.
I figured I'd hit someone's nerve about this. I understand, and I'm sorry I picked on your particular bailiwick. However, none of this mitigates against the fact that after a while, I just cannot get very jazzed about yet another swimming event. "Stay tuned! It's almost time for the 200m facestroke quarterfinals!"
Well . . . no.
While watching the little whores the other night I turned to my husband and said "seems to me that they've finally nipped the cameltoe problem in the bud". His reply was "yes, some kind of anti-toe pad seems to have been found. They're all wearing them". My reply was "now if Ian Thorpe would just borrow some of those low rider swimming britches from Phelps I would be a very happy woman".
I'm personally waiting for the new trampoline competition. It's considered gymnastics too, so maybe there'll be tiny little whores.
"I figured I'd hit someone's nerve about this. I understand, and I'm sorry I picked on your particular bailiwick."
No worries, since I get it all the time and am not even a competitive swimmer anymore, it doesn't bother me. I totally know where you're coming from.
I felt like a dirty old man watching the gymnasts last night. The US girl who won the gold finished her uneven bars with a bright white patch of rosin or chalk or whatever right on her anti-camel-toe pad. Dark red outfit, bright white patch. Aaiiee! Must...not...glance...at...underage...crotch! Look away! Look away!
A friend of mine used to be a swim coach, so he offered to teach me all the different strokes so I could start taking advantage of the pool at my gym. So first we went over the crawl, which I already knew, and that was fine. And then he taught me the breaststroke, and I was, like, "okay, I think I get it. So, in what circumstances would I do the breaststroke?" He didn't quite grok my question, so I clarified: "I mean, the breaststroke is harder and slower than the crawl, so there must be some certain circumstances where it makes sense to do it, right? And I'm wondering what those circumstances are" And he kind of thought for a moment before saying "well, you'd want to do the breaststroke if you were, you know, competing. In the breaststroke ..."
Because of this post, when I was on lunch break at work today and glancing through the paper I looked at the sports section. Apparently one of those little whores from the U.S.A. won a gold or something. She was on the main sports page on the shoulder (or something) of her coach. It did, indeed, look as if she was wearing some anti-camel toe pad. It made me feel ill, both the looking for, and seeing.
I just introduced my mom to your site and she laughed as much as I did. The funniest thing was when she asked me what a camel toe was........another Mother Daughter moment brought to you by Skot.
Laugh-out-loud (i.e. wiping tears away and snorting quietly so as not to alert cubicle neighbors) moments AND a Man From Atlantis reference? Skot, I would want to have your children. If I wanted children.
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