The Never-Ending Olympics

Every four years, nations from around the globe send forth their finest spandex-clad athletes to compete in that noblest of sports competitions, the Olympics. For two weeks, these athletes parade proudly in their uniforms, showing off their physical prowess and national pride—and that’s just the opening ceremonies. The games themselves seem to last for two years, not two weeks. Thankfully, the games ended yesterday, and all that’s left to watch today are the closing ceremonies, which no doubt will be digitally enhanced to make all the Chinese medalists appear to be over the age of 11.

I must confess that I’m not a big fan of the Olympics. I think I’d enjoy watching them person, although not in a city so polluted that you need your own oxygen supply. In watching it on TV, I could definitely do without the "inspiring" personal stories of the athletes that are intercut among the competitions to kill time and give the overly sentimental something to blubber about. It seems that virtually every athlete has had to overcome some adversity, such as being raised in a broken home by a one-legged single mother, or being born with webbed feet or no hands.

Whatever the case, the adversity was overcome and the young athlete went on to become a champion and/or hero and a living lesson to us all—that your dreams can come true if you get your feet unwebbed and give it your best shot. And there’s always the sad footnote that the athlete’s mom or dad, who died tragically the week before from some form of cancer or being bitten by a rabid skunk, can’t be there to see their son or daughter compete in person, although mom or dad is surely watching with the angels above.

Can’t we just skip the sappy stories of personal triumph and stick with the hot chicks playing volleyball in bikinis?

I’m betting the original Greek Olympics were far more interesting, because back then Bob Costas wasn’t around (or so I presume), and the athletes competed in the nude. And maybe I’m confusing the early Olympics with ancient Mayan sports, but didn’t the losers get their heads lopped off? Now that would be a good reason for athletes to give 110 percent and glory to God after a win. 

This Olympiad’s biggest story was of course American swimmer Michael Phelps winning approximately 42 gold medals. But after learning that parts of the opening ceremonies broadcast to the world were fake, I have to say I’m skeptical. If the Chinese can digitally doctor footage of a firework display to make it look as if “firework” footprints are treading across the sky and can substitute a cute lip-synching Chinese nymph for the not-too-cute little girl who actually sang the opening anthem, who says NBC can’t be faking the rest of it?

Maybe Michael Phelps isn’t real at all; he is a little goofy-looking (albeit in a cute way), and his unusual physical proportions seem perfect for swimming... too perfect, perhaps. And maybe the cute ass I was admiring on American volleyball star Misty May-Treanor is just a cruel digitally generated hoax. Oh, say it isn’t so!

After three seconds of further reflection, I must refute my own theory. There was footage of President Bush attending the opening ceremonies and being his usual jackass self, so every else must be real. Although in addition to its opening ceremony fakery, the Chinese gold medal-winning gymnast He Kexin apparently turned out to be a 14-year-old girl who looks like a 10-year-old girl competing in a sport where the “women” must be at least 16 years old. It’s all so confusing.

Anyway, I feel that this Olympiad accomplished its mission: it’s given these impressive young athletes a chance to strut their stuff, given millions of TV viewers something to watch besides “Law and Order” reruns, and provided an international distraction so that Russia could invade a neighboring country.

Thankfully the next winter Olympics won’t be held until 2010, long after President Bush has left office. Otherwise he might take a cue from Vladimir Putin and invade Iran while the international community is busy watching buff young men and women in glittery costumes hoist each other overhead by the crotch while figure skating to old John Tesch tunes.

Hmmm. I think I’d rather watch an invasion.

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