by Bill Freitas
The Olympics are like bowling and karaoke. Sure we ridicule it in conversation and act like we don't care. But once you cram your fingers in the e. coli-crusted bowling ball holes or slam a shot of tequila and belt out a little Bon Jovi? Oh, it's on now.
Let's pound on some foreigners.
If anybody needs any evidence of how spiffy government-smothered economics can play out, you need look no further than the days leading up to the Olympic opening ceremonies in beautiful Sochi; come for the pink-eye and Putin pureed stew, stay for the for the packs of stray dogs and urine-stained mattresses. Commie leftovers never tasted so yummy. Now that's good reheated Russia. But fear not: Bob Costas was actually infected by a goo that seeped into the water supply from Chernobyl that will eventually make him the newest superhero in the latest X-Men movie. Move over, Cyclops!
Since football is over, hockey is on hiatus and baseball is so close, yet so far, off we're absolutely jonesing for any nugget of news out of Port Charlotte (David Price missed a workout! Joe Madden has a sweet RV! Wil Meyers left his hat-cam on in the toilet! Awesome!), the Olympics have been on in the background at most bars, dinner tables and living rooms with empty DVRs, engaging some and forcing others to watch, learn and begrudgingly appreciate sports they never watch more than two weeks every four years. Until then, "couples skate" is a term at a roller-rink in junior high signifying to dorks like me that it was time to play Missile Command until the cool kids finished feeling each other up. Now we find ourselves saying, "Say what you want about that dude's purple pirate outfit, it's pretty badass to hold another body over your head with one arm on a couple of blades in front of millions of people, I don't care who you are." Two skinny slabs of plastic are the only thing differentiating skiing and falling down a mountain. And the skeleton? You want to shoot down an ice trail at 100mph on a lunch tray? These athletes whom most of us never heard of are insane and deserve all the part-time recognition and respect they can get, particularly when they represent Old Glory, regardless of whether or not they look like they ride a Disney roller-coaster. And I don't care why curling teams are stuffed with a bevvy of international snow-melting hot females; I'm just happy to tune in to watch them sweep their tight little buns off.
Honorable Afterthoughts: Buccaneers head coach Lovie Smith hinted at considering drafting a quarterback in the first round of the 2014 NFL draft (Translation: The Bucs will not be picking a quarterback in the first round of the 2014 NFL draft); the No. 2 Florida Gators beat the Auburn Tigers Wednesday night and have laid claim to be ranked tops in the country after the No. 1 Syracuse lost to unranked Boston College (my hands are sweaty, my mouth is dry and voices in my head have returned ordering me to kill; March Madness is beginning to set in ... that, or my 3 a.m. Nachos Bell Grande is about to make an unscheduled emergency exit. Either way, I'll feel much better soon); as a result of the Martin/Incognito/bullying/racist/sexist/meanie bo-beanie scandal, Miami head coach Joe Philbin promised a better working environment in the Dolphins locker room next year (Players will be hazed with scented candles, secret Santas, trust falls, Barry Manilow music, compliments on their wives' sense of humor and pregame speeches conducted by Stuart Smalley. Look for an 0-16 season filled with self-confidence); and finally, the Russian hockey team is officially out of contention. HA! Take that, you vodka-slurping bastards. Now you'll have more time to smoke in the shower. Ivan Drago was a murderous loser and so are you. Sorry...I'm a product of the '80s. USA! USA!