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.