The Smurf Olympic Village

I saw some article online the other day that mentioned that during the games of the XXX Olympiad anyone could walk up to where the Irish Olympic team was staying in the Olympic village, pay $20, stroll by the bouncer, and drink as much as humanly possible while hanging out with Irish athletes. And that sounds like a deal to me. I wouldn't be able to comprehend a word that the Irish athletes were saying (Irish folks might as well be speaking Farsi, as far as I'm concerned), but that's okay. Imagine doing endless car bombs with folks who've set off actual car bombs. Awesome.

Speaking of the Olympic village, I've always pictured it in my mind as the Smurf village. You know, every four years Papa, Brainy, Vanity, and Sporty would have to share quarters with the likes of Carl Lewis, Rafer Johnson, and the Swedish volleyball babes. Can't you imagine how fretful poor Brainy would be over the whole thing? He'd be nervous. Jittery. In a panic. And rightfully so, as you gotta think that every smarmy Eastern European wrestler would make a drunken run at nailing Smurfette. The Smurf doctors would have to pump gallons of penicillin into Smurfette for months on end at the conclusion of each Olympiad. And how would Gargamel react to all the world-class athletes on hand? I'd think Azreal would be more worthless than usual when trying to pry a Smurf away from the village with Mike Phelps hanging around. The whole idea of Olympians crashing the smurf village every four years is exciting, isn't it? It's the kind of thing I think about endlessly.

I saw a bit of news in the presidential sweepstakes recently. Turns out that that rather loathsome Mormon, one Willard Mitt Romney, did something right. Hell, you could argue he did something revolutionary. Willard picked the best person possible for Vice President. Some Irish kid out of Wisconsin (name of Ryan, I believe). Of course the pick will undoubtedly doom Willard. Why? Because if Willard picks someone with views extremely similar to mine on taxes, entitlements, and the budget, the typical US voter, the folks I think we can charitably label the refuse of Western Civilization, will never go for it. It's a kind of catch-22. On one hand, Romney made the best choice of his life. On the other hand, the pick probably sealed his fate to the ash heap of history. If there's one thing we know it's that voters don't want to be told the truth about anything. They especially don't want serious ideas that would address these ugly truths. And that's what this Ryan kid does. What will inevitably happen is that Romney will lose (maybe even lose badly), Ryan will become a folk hero to about a third of Americans (most of the folks worshipping Ryan will be clueless dolts by the way, he'll never be able to get away from the clueless dolts in the T Party after this), and Barry will be a lame duck minutes after the election is over. Fun days indeed. I can hardly wait.

Speaking of Paul Ryan, I think it is worth mentioning to readers of this blog, a vast majority of whom are under 45 years old, that this is the first time one of our very own members of Generation X (folks born between 1965 and 1980) will be on a presidential ticket. I'm guessing Ryan's innate distrust of government, much like a vast majority of Xers, including yours truly, stems from all the lies propagated during our formative years. Our parents lied to us about their marriage vows. The schools lied to us about our own history. The government lied to us about AIDS, Social Security, and the idea that we'd be better off than the Boomers. All lies. Lies, lies, lies. Many of us assume that everything every person involved with government on every level tells us is a lie. Granted, I take it to the extreme and have always assumed everything that any person alive has ever told me is a lie. Ryan's obviously coped with these lies much better than I have. He's actually trying to do something to change it all. And I admire that. The problem is the kid will ultimately fail. And be vilified in the process by the likes of Barack Hussein Obama and his minions of liberal hacks.

I did make it out recently to see the new Batman. I was a little trepidatious that the theater was gonna be shot up by a disgruntled Obama supporter. But thankfully that didn't happen. After I waltzed up to the ticket counter, said "One for the Christian Bale," plunked down my $7, walked to my seat, sat through 10 previews for movies I will never see, the film finally started. Luckily, no one was sitting nearby (it was a 4:20 showing), because I started laughing almost from the get go. The plot, such as it was, was preposterous. Which I expected. I was okay with that. I still laughed though. And then there was this Bane character. He sounded like an effeminate Sean Connery. And I laughed and laughed at that. About 2 and half hours passed. Batman saves Gotham (shocking!). Then supposedly spends the rest of his life hanging out in European cafes with Anne Hathaway. Silly. It's worth your 7 bucks though. It passes the time on a Monday afternoon.

The One Where I Play A Mean Prank On A Fat Man

The NBC television network and all its sister stations have been running relentless coverage of the Olympics here for the past several months (at least it seems like months). When I first saw the title of the broadcast on the old DirecTV, I got a little excited because it said XXX Summer Olympics. I figured I'd get a heavy dose of porn. That wasn't the case. No porn in sight. What the Olympics are instead, is one long commercial for Nike and a giant fucking hugfest. The Nike swoosh is so ubiquitous during the coverage that you feel like you're watching the Oregon Ducks football team. An example of this was underscored the other night. I was sitting at the infamous Kickin Chicken watching the Cards/Saints game and on a number of the TVs was Olympic coverage. There was a South African track athlete competing. This athlete must be a veteran of the Boer Wars because he didn't have any legs. Some South African doctors rigged up these flipper looking things so this kid could compete in the Olympics. If you haven't seen the kid, picture those clone robot dudes from Star Whores. This South African runner would fit right in with those clone warriors in the movie. Anyway, on the bottom of his flippers, you guessed it, Nike placed a damn swoosh. That's how ubiquitous  the swoosh has been on the Olympic coverage (I was pulling for the flipper kid to win his event; alas he finished dead last). As for all the hugging, I don't get it. It must be a rule that you must hug anyone nearby every 30 seconds during competition. Volleyballers do it after every point. Gymnasts hug, hug, hug, and hug. These Olympians hug constantly. So that's the Summer Olympics in a nutshell, all Nike swoosh and hugging. It's unwatchably silly.

Speaking of the infamous Kickin Chicken, I was in there on a Thursday not too long ago. The main bar was pretty full when I strolled in at 10:30. The only open stool was next to this guy I see around the seedy bars in the Gate City from time to time. His name is Chris. He's in his mid 50's, has a nice gut going for him, and sports spikey orange hair (like Johnny Rotten, if Johnny Rotten weighed 300 lbs...). If you've ever seen the kid around town, he's memorable for the hair. He's also a bit of a tedious gasbag. He annoys me quickly every time I run across him. Here's a key insight into this Chris character - he's dated Michigan Molly. He really has. I am not making that up. He admitted to me that he fucked Michigan Molly. He fucked Michigan Molly numerous times. Anyway, I'm sitting at Kickin Chicken next to this spikey haired Chris. He was running his mouth about Owen Wilson being a whore for some reason. I couldn't quite figure out why. After my first beer I sauntered out to the smoking/Cornhole area. I chatted with a brother out there for a few minutes about Horseplay U (the NCAA penalties had been announced earlier that week). I finished my smoke and went back in and continued to listen to Chris ramble on about Owen Wilson fucking every waitress in Winston-Salem. A half hour passed. I finished another beer and went back out to the smoking/Cornhole area to light another Marlboro Light. The same brother I was chatting with during the previous cigarette was back out there. Only this time he was out there with a sister. The sister very quickly invited me to join her and the brother in a threesome. Turns out it was her 40th birthday and she wanted to make it memorable by doing a white dude and a brother at the same time. I agreed instantly. Obviously. The sister spent the next 3 minutes debating which of the 2 of us would get which hole (I think eventually she decided I'd get the old poop chute). I told her I'd be right over to her table inside the restaurant with my number and she could get with me later in the evening for where this little tryst was gonna go down. So what I did was, can you guess??? Can you??? I bet Andy can. For the rest of you, what I did is I went back to the bar and asked my man Chad behind the bar for a pen and some paper (it wasn't football season yet, so I didn't have a pen on me at the time). Chad obliged me. I then asked spikey haired Chris for his phone number. I then wrote down some fake name on the piece of paper and put Chris' phone number under the fake name. I finished my beer, settled up with Chad, and approached the birthday celebrating sister's table. I handed her the piece of paper, said something like "Hit me up soon, baby," and left the bar. I went to Wing Joint for a bit and forgot all about my little prank on spikey haired Chris. Well, the next time I ran into Chris, he was none too happy with me. The sister did indeed send a text to Chris minutes after I left the bar that night informing him where the threesome was happening. As Chris told me this, I started laughing uncontrollably. Eventually I calmed down and asked him if he took the sister up on her offer. I then learned that Chris did try and take my place as the anal pounding white dude in the threesome. However, when the sister asked Chris what he looked like and Chris described himself a bit, the sister uninvited Chris to the threesome. If you're wondering why this Chris character would consider getting involved in the sordid world of multi-racial fetish sex, I would remind you that this is a man who fucked Michigan Molly. And with that in mind, no deviant behavior can be surprising. Can it?