Here come the Summer Olympics. Time to give myself the speech: “Ashley, you’re all about world peace and shit. The Olympics are the only time that countries come together and put up any sort of front in the way of global unity (in a nice way—not when they’ve all decided to get together and bomb the snot out of one particular country). Yes, the games are as boring and confounding as your Jurisprudence class in law school, but you should at least make an effort and watch them”
Crap almighty.
Maybe it’s bad television coverage, but it’s just such a mishmash of stuff. I always seem to come in on the middle of whatever is going on and I rarely know what in the hell I’m looking at—particularly if it involves track and field. I find myself getting pissed at what they call the “Cinderella Stories” because they always pick some well fed American kid whose town sold donuts to support his training and buy him the ticket to London while ignoring the Namibian kid whose parents were mauled by lions and whose one remaining sibling sold his left kidney on the black market to get him to the games.
I also fantasize about beating the poo out of the parents who let their daughters become irretrievably malformed for a few good years of gymnastics while conveniently forgetting that their kids have to live the rest of their lives like...that.
Let’s not forget that overblown Olympics theme music played at every possible moment by NBC. It only takes about one commercial break and I am ready to stab my ears with forks.
If I’m being honest, the aforementioned reasons are all perfectly valid, but the main reason that the Olympics don’t really crank my tractor is that I have all that and more in living color right outside my office window. Thanks to the criminal activity spurred by the malt beverages sold at the Mount Olive Deli and Grocery (although he thankfully doesn’t operate a deli as the sign suggests) and the adjoining Bicentennial Park where such malt beverages and every other mind altering substance known to man is consumed, I have the Crimlympics 24 hours a day, 365 days a year right outside the window of my office.
Let’s begin, shall we?
Of course, Track and Field is a given. I’ve always said that there is no point whatsoever in running unless there is an axe murderer behind you...or ...you are being chased by a gang member or a drug dealer. You thought I was going to say the police didn’t you? Nope. Never, everevereverever run from a cop. They hate it when you make them work for it and it guarantees that your lawyer extraordinaire won’t be able to get them on board for a deal when it comes down to a plea in court.
Actually, the cops are more or less bound by law not to completely render your body impossible for identification purposes. Those little Olympic dudes all decked out in their too-short shorts as they line up nice and pretty on a track field got nuthin’ on someone running from a gang or a dealer. If one of those guys catches you, squirrels will be storing your teeth with their acorn stashes.
The Olympian runners can’t really help it; there’s nothing more inspiring than an all-out sprint for dear life. I have seen such sprints in bare feet, sprints with one shoe off and one shoe on, sprints in high heels (interestingly worn by a man), clothed, half clothed...the list goes on...
What next? Well the best example I’ve ever seen is a combination event: Shot put and gymnastics. This couple was adorable and I call them George and Tammy (after George Jones and Tammy Wynette—and if you don’t get the connection Google away).
George apparently loved the hooch and Tammy had him on a tight leash. I don’t know if Tammy had to leave for a bit or if she wasn’t paying attention, but George got out. Where did George go? Straight to the closest malt beverage emporium: The Mount Olive Deli and Grocery. I like to think that he saw it bathed in a heavenly light while being serenaded by a chorus of angels. George shuffled right on in for a fix.
In the meantime, Tammy discovered that her man left the building. Through her amazing powers of deduction, Tammy also figured out where George went to get his groceries because lo and behold, when George came out with his nice tall can of King Cobra, Tammy was waiting for him on the sidewalk impatiently tapping her pretty pink bedroom slippers with her arms crossed.
George was in deep poo. The man had been caught red handed, but like all addicted individuals, he was still going to do his damndest to bluff his way out of the situation. Accordingly George and Tammy had a fine argument that resulted in a lot of arm flailing for Tammy and a lot of protective beer cradling for George. Unfortunately, George was not protective enough because Tammy got hold of the hooch. I guess she figured that it would take too long to crack it open and pour it out (George might get to it and salvage the remains), so she took that 24 ounce can and hurled it slap onto the roof of the grocery store. Tammy was a little bitty thing and her performance beat the tar our of any shot put mess I’ve seen ever on the Olympics.
Of course, George wasn’t going to go down without a swallow. I’m guessing that he spent all the money he had on the can that went sailing onto the roof or he would have just gone back inside and bought another while dragging Tammy as she clung to his legs. Instead, George performed an amazing feat of gymnastics that I can only liken to a combination vault/uneven bars. There is a fence on the side of the store that is about 6 feet high and I would guess that it stands about 2 or 3 feet from the side of the store. Good ‘ol George—in sandals and with the D.T.’s no less—got up to a running start, vaulted onto the fence and propelled himself to the roof of the store. I never would have thought he had it in him. George sat up there and drank his beer unmolested by Tammy and tuned her out until someone else eventually got fed up and called the police on her for disturbing the peace.
No, I do not know how George got off the roof.
Finally, boys and belles, we come to the closing ceremonies of the Crimplypics: Diving. No, Bicentennial Park doesn’t have a pool or a fountain or anything like that, but it’s the lack of a water source that makes the diving so spectacular.
Alas and alack, our fair athlete was running from the police. Really, I don’t want to beat a dead horse here, but KNOCK IT OFF, YOU DUMBASSES!!! Anyway, I could tell that something was going on because the police cars started circling the block like sharks. They don’t normally make appearances in our neck of the woods unless something has actually happened. Suddenly, the shark circling got a little more restless.
I saw the Olympian running down the street at Mach 2 with about 2 or 3 cops in foot pursuit. Before I could seriously contemplate going out on the front porch to yell at the man for the fallacy of his resisting arrest, the man took off as smoothly as if on wings, kept his form as straight as an arrow and dove slap into the dumpster being used futilely for park cleanup. It was the most graceful and proud dumpster dive that I have ever seen in my entire life (and I am sad to say that I have seen more than my fair share).
Sadly, the police apprehended the Bicentennial Park Diver—I can only surmise that the Diver believed he had more of a lead on the cops than he actually did and thought that he could hang out in the dumpster until they ran past. I’d like to think that Greg Louganis himself would have been so impressed with the man’s obvious talent that he would have lent one of his own gold medals to the occasion, alas all our diver had to show for his effort was clinging Slim Jim wrappers and the unmistakable odor of Mad Dog 20/20.
So there you have it, boys and belles. Gasp! I’ve just come to a possibly unpleasant realization about myself! Maybe the real Olympics are too squeaky clean! Do I need guns, drugs, cops and domestic disputes if my attention is going to fixate on something for more than 1 minute? Oh look, my minute’s up...
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