An Open Letter to the Ofuckinglympics

Dear Ofuckinglympics:

Why you go away?

It makes me sad.

I want you to stay here.

I like you.

I hate sports-- but, I like you.

You make me a very, very happy Apron.

You have increased couch snuggling time with Mrs. Apron exponentially and, for that, I thank you. Thank you for keeping the cauldron of eternal snuggle burning brightly, you with your rings and your perfectly coiffed commentators.

Bob Costas, you have an errant rod up your asshole, but you're a pretty cool guy-- because your appearance on my television heralds the Ofuckinglympcs, and that's nice for me.

I have gained a few pounds over the course of the last sixteen days, and there is no salsa left in the house, but that is to be expected: it's the Ofuckinglympics, y'alls, and what better way is there to celebrate the absolute epoc of fitness than by consuming copious amounts of sodium and sugar whilst beached on an Ikea couch?

God, I'm going to miss all of this shit when that flame is extinguished tonight.

Please, come back soon, Ofuckinglympics. I'd make a Johnny Weir joke at this point, but it's already been done.

It's all been done.

Yours Faithfully,
Mr. Apron

Come On, Baby, Light My Torch

While I'm supposed to be working, I just happened to glance at "Yahoo! News" and saw the headline, "Gretzky's Not Lighting the Torch." Now, while I'm supposed to be working, I'm going to blog about that, even though I've already done my duty for today (see below for a post that's all about a gay cruise-a-palooza!)

While I know that it's fun for the Vancouver Olympic Committee to shroud the identity of the cauldron-lighter in secrecy, I've decided that it's time to stop all of these shenanigans and tomfoolery and just get it out there in the open.

Ready?

I'm lighting the fucking thing.

That's right. Mr. Apron hisself. Yeah, I called up VANOC and said, "Listen, Tedd-o, stop jerkin' me off and telling me it's Natascha McElhone using her left hand-- I'll do it for $76 mil and a 1963 VW Beetle that's had a frame-off restoration and retrofitted shoulder seat-belts."

That's what I said to him, and he was like, "Okay, but my name's not 'Ted'."

And I said, "Fuck you, Horrace-- now it's $77 mil."

Then he hung up, but I'm pretty sure it's a done deal. Now, hold onto your spoiler alert, because this is how it's gonna go down in Vancouvie tonight:

I'm arriving at around 6:30pm EST at Mountie Provincial Airport under heavy guard. From the airport, I'll be whisked to the Stadium Olympique du Provencal au de Toilette Faux Francais in a 1987 Plymouth Caravelle (the Canadian version of the thoroughly unpopular Plymouth Gran Fury) and I will be dressed as Chester Cheetah to avoid suspicion from curious onlookers. At the olympic stadium, I will be taken to a private area where I will be cavity-searched for drugs and stolen Olympic memorabilia and then my entire body will be hot-waxed and spray-painted gold. I will then be coated from toe-to-former eyebrow in Shed's Spread Country Crock Light.

Seven minutes prior to the torch-lighting ceremony, I will be summarily fondled by the members of the German Women's 2 Bobsled team who will then attach meathooks to both of my shoulder blades. To prevent an unfortunate scatalogical gaffe from occuring on live television during the opening ceremony, my asscheeks will be sutured shut by Olympic physicians utilizing a sterile needle and steel banjo strings.

I will then climb into the mouth of the sole remaining British Columbian ruffled stork after shoving the Olympic torch up its asshole. It is a little known fact that the British Columbian ruffled stork actually has a vestigal appendage shaped just like a human hand in its asshole, so this part of the choreography is bound to proceed flawlessly.

Just as the stork is 300 metres away from the torch, I will receive the go command from Olympique Centrale to tickle the stork's gag receptor, which is shaped exactly like the human clitoris, and the stork will proceed to vomit me out. As I fall, I will need to exert superhuman strength, grabbing onto the stork's beak while I pirouette below its taint, summarily grasping the burning torch with my other hand. I will then drop the torch into the cauldron, setting it ablaze in a haze of Olympic glory and showmanship unequaled since the last Anita Bryant concert.

Details on how I will survive remain sketchy, but I was assured that it will "work itself out."

Don't forget to tune in tonight to see it all! Ofuckinglympics, baby!

Ofuckinglympics!

People, wake up. The Ofuckinglympics are coming!

I'm almost embarrassed to admit how excited I am about the Ofuckinglympics.

Almost.

But not really.

I get crazy around Ofuckinglympics time, and I probably gain at least seven pounds. For a guy who's statistically forty pounds underweight for his height, I guess that's not such a terrible thing. But the Ofuckinglympics are, for me and my wife, a time of intense sofa-nuggling, consumption of a wide variety of objects-- most of which are edible-- and a relationship with our television of unmatched affection.

And neither of us are sports fans.

That big game that happened with the team from there and the other team from that other place who collide with each other and fight over who gets to hold the elliptical-shaped ball? Couldn't care less.

The Ofuckinglympics? Sold. Vancouver. I'm there.

I don't know what it is about the Ofuckinglympics that gets me so.... jeez, I almost hesitate to use the word... "horny?" but it really seems appropriate, and maybe that's why I can't even call them just the "Olympics." No, man. No. It's the "Ofuckinglympics!" and I've got a major, throbbing, purple, veiny, wet-tipped hard-on for the Olympics. Especially the winter Ofuckinglympics. Summer? Summer is okay. I like the summer games. No, I love the summer games. But I'm fucking ready to spurt about the winter games, the Ofucking Winter Goddamned-lympics, bitches.

Woot.

The Ofuckinglympics are really the only time where sports fans and non-sports fans can really converge in appreciation of great feats of athleticism. Why? Well, I don't know. I guess it's because baseball is something that's pretty hard for the uninitiated to break into. How can a guy like me compete with some numb-head, fantasy-league bat jockey who's got every ERA and batting average of every odd-numbered player who's ever played in the National League since 1952 memorized and tattooed on the underside of his tongue? I mean, nobody knows who's favored to win the 2-person men's luge, for Christ's sake. So, in that respect, the fan base is somewhat equalized. We're just rooting for the fucking American, or the German with the biggest tits. Either way, this Friday, it's on, son.

Like any suspiciously heterosexual theatre-major, I love the glamor and pageantry of the opening and closing ceremonies. I totally get off on the choreography and the costumes and the music and the drama. I love expressions of creativity, especially ones that involve a shitload of people, are expertly executed, and cost a fuck-of-a-lot of money. Force me to watch two minutes of a golfing championship, and I'll be crying like a baby or attempting to stab you through the adam's apple with a pencil, but sit me in front of a TV to watch a coronation ceremony, and you'll be hosing me down and stuffing a gym sock down my throat to get me to shut up.

Sure, there are things about the Ofuckinglympics that I don't like so much. The insipid, predictable, cloying media stories about athletes (American ones, of course) who are "overcoming adversity." Like downhill skier Katie So-and-So who had medal hopes last year and, while she was competing in the 300 meter moguls was grabbed through the eye sockets by the talons of a swooping falcon and now she's skiing in Vancouver fucking blind or whatever.

You know-- that kind of shit.

And I hate whatsherface, the dyke on NBC who was a former Olympian with short hair who did all those feel-good "color commentary" pieces about the people of Olympic Village and she goes to the zoo and interviews the animals or whatever the fuck it is. I hate her. Rachel somebody. Looks like a dude. You know who I mean.

But, aside from one or two quibbles, and you know me well enough to know by now that this is pretty much Quibble Central, I'm still good and boned for the Ofuckinglympics! I wish they were in Philadelphia, but you know some figure skaters would be getting shot the fuck up if they were. Those summer folk are safer in Rio.