Poop 2012 Vol 10: Time For an Intervention

Hello, and welcome to another exciting installment of The Weekely Poop. As you may remember from my closing statements last week, I spent the weekend at a bachelor party in New Orleans and as much as I'd love to tell you all about the crazy stories of depravity that one might expect from such an event, the universal bylaws of Guy-Code prohibit me from doing so. As it turns out, it there isn't a lot to tell anyway. We drank a lot of beer, and we spent most of the time bar hopping down Bourbon Street, which was tame by Bourbon Street Standards. To depict some sort of tale of debased human behavior full of flashers, hookers, and all of the other things commonly associated with the French Quarter, most of which I might add, are more legend than reality these days (except during Mardi Gras), would seem dirty; like political ad campaign dirty. Sure, everyone loves a good story abour whores, and I'm not above running a line of BS, but if there's one thing that's remained a constant with this little weekly abomination of an online "publication" it's that the majority is based at least somewhat in fact. For the reasons state above, I will skip the NOLA narrative and skip right to a confession. I'm an Olympics Junkie.

Weekly Words of Wisdom
A fine beer may be judged with only one sip, but it's better to be thoroughly sure.
-Czech Proverb

My World Class Addiciton
It's that time again; time for 'round-the-clock ESPN "The Ocho" worthy, obscure sports, and unlike in years past, I have a means to tape every event and rapidly watch everything without the annoyance of a multitude of commercials about tampons, political mudslinging, and other such sources of primetime nausea. Of course, I'm referring to the London Olympic Games, and I must confess, I'm hooked. Hell, I'm an all out junkie for this crap. Thank God it's only once every four years because I can already tell that my productivity has taken a nose dive over the last week. I get up, run/go to the gym, go to work, and come home to watch 8 solid hours of random sports, many of which appear to have been devised by fans of more traditional sports while in an alcohol induced psychotic haze after watching the aforementioned traditional sports.

Take handball for instance. Let's say for a minute that Basketball took Soccer out for a night on the town and got her good and drunk (and given the fact that the majority of our team is comprised of NBA players, probably slipped a Rufie in her strawberry daquiri). They had a great time and once Soccer was good and out of sorts, Basketball took her back to the hotel and gave her the business, not unlike Kobe Bryant might do with a chamber maid (let's try to get at least a little british terminology; after all we are playing in London, here). The next morning, Basketball realizes that he should've used that mickey on the much hotter beach volleyball because the beautiful game is actually a 6 at best, and he slips out of the room before Soccer even wakes up. Everything is cool, and basketball goes about his daily life thinking nothing more of Soccer like 90% of Americans when, Bam! he gets a call from a strange number with a European country code. Before he can even think to say, "No hablo Ingles" he's getting an earful from Soccer, now heavy with child. Like any self respecting NBA star, Basketball says, "Shit, how do I even know that's mine?" to which Soccer replies, "Oh no jou don'! Dis ba-bee is jours and jou know it!" Eventually, Soccer spits out the new sport and Basketball is on the Maury Povich show awaiting the results of the paternity test. Maury gets his audience of unemployed whitetrash and ghetto dwellers worked into a tizzy. The he brings the crowd back down, leans over to basketball who is staring indignantly at Soccer who is holding a rather odd looking little sport, and quietly says, "Basketball, you're the Father" at which point the throng of subhumans whoops and hollers. But wait there's more. After a commercial break to calm the fracas, Maury reveals that Basketball and Soccer are in fact, related, and suddenly all hell breaks loose in the studio and suddenly the unerving appearence of the little sport makes sense.

You know, I could've just said that Handball looks like the retarded, incestual love-child of soccer and basketball, but wasn't this more fun? I think so. Besides that, it filled a lot more space.

Anyway, I've immersed myself in a multitude of obscure sports alredy, and we still have over a week to go. What a wonderful thing this Olympics is. Where else can I see girls with flimsy swords poke each other then let out skreeches that would make Beyonce's skin crawl? Where else could I see a woman with a beard lift 300 pounds over her head? Where else could I see 2 teams simultaneously try to dump a game of badminton in what was the most glorious display of unintentional comedy I've seen in years...then see another pair of teams repeat said act of hilarity 5 minutes later? Simply put, the Olympics are specactular. Aside from the amazing athletes and the games that have amazingly somehow been qualified as sports, there's the wonderful side stories that NBC has managed to not screw up even if they have routinely given spoilers and other unforgivable faux pas during their exclusive broadcasts of the games. People who've trained all their lives just for one chance at a medal that I'm told would leave them with an astronimical bill from Uncle Sam's tax collectors. There's the gymnist from Miami and his wooby that he unfailingly carries with him everywhere like an acrobatic version of Linus. Then there's the British Equestrian star who is in fact part of the royal family, and a mere 13 national tragedies away from being queen, and no more than probably 12 olympic tragedies away from her own gold medal. Don't tell me that you don't think that a royal could have a few of her rivals "come down with a freak injury." I keed, I keed, but not really.

Who wasn't inspired by what has now become an international penis measuring contest in the opening ceremonies. OK, so I didn't care enough to watch it, but I saw the highlights of kids jumping around the beds of some orphanage like Oliver, and a swarm of Mary Poppinses floating down while a shockingly well preserved paul McCartney sang "Hey Jude" and J.K. Rawlings read excerpts from her newest young adult book, "50 shades of Harry Potter and the giant throbbing wand of destruction." There were so many british references in the production that I actually feel like I've been to London now. All it was lacking was the inagural quidditch cup and buckets of butterbeer.

Well, as much fun as I'm having spinning a yarn about the 33rd (i think) Olympiad, I have many more juiced up bar games to watch, like tonight's much awaited ping pong match that one commentator lead me to believe will be captivate ne fewer than 1 billion chinese people. With that kind of following, you know it's gonna be off the chain. And of course, I'll have to watch Phelps and Lochte battle for the souls of the swimming world while the rest of the Americans try to regain the medal count lead. Is it any real surprise that it's always between us and China? China is like the World's 8A highschool playing in a 1A league. If you can't find at least one really good player for each sport out of a billion or so people, then damnit, you ain't looking hard enough. It's also well known that China essentially breeds kids to be olympians, or at least that's what 30 years of watching sidebar olympics features has taught me. As for Amur'ca, we win at everything because we have the most free agents. If we don't have a person who can compete at a high level in one of the sports, then by God, we go and get us one. "Oh, so not only do you know what this bastard sport, handball is, you're actually good at it? How's about a green card?" With that way-too-long closing statement, I'll bid you adieu, because in all seriousness, I actually have some very inportant reading and prep to do for my research tomorrow. Yeah, I'm still doing that.

Ya'll have a good, safe week and try following Ashley's Marathon training blog. It should be fun.