Yesterday, some old man with a bad German accent declared the XXII Winter Olympics officially closed. Which probably came as a surprise to many who thought the Games were over a good week ago. You gotta feel a bit sorry for the Winter Olympics, they just don’t draw the world’s attention like their big brother does, but then even sports enthusiasts don’t quite get what the Winter Olympics are all about. There’s just too many events that seem like they were made up to fill airtime. I mean I’m glad so many snowboarding events are now part of the Olympics for winter, but you’ll note the Summer Games have never bothered to add skateboarding to their roster. No need. There’s enough real sports available to choose from for the real Olympics.
I’m probably one of the few who watched the entire prime-time coverage of this year’s Games. I’ve never watched the entire Winter Olympics before. And probably never will again. NBC’s constant cheesy attempts to wrench some emotion – or even a modicum of interest – out of its viewers was bad enough. But the nail in my future viewing’s coffin was what sitting in front of the TV for 4+ hours a night for 18 days did to me. I’m sure that ratcheted up my likelihood for suffering from alzheimer’s and/or senior dementia a decade sooner than my brain cells had planned. Worse, the immediate impact was that forced somnolency resulting in packing on poundage that would qualify me for instant citizenship in Sunee Plaza.
But all is not lost. I could, of course, immediately go on a diet and relearn what exercise is. Instead, I’m gonna take a page from my brethren in Pattaya’s play book and celebrate my new-found corpulence. I’m gonna embrace my XXXXL size. But rather than just roast that fat by laying on the beaches of Thailand’s cesspool by the sea, I’m gonna put those extra pounds to work for me. I’ve got four years to learn a new skill set. So expect to see me marching into the stadium with my fellow not-really athletes at the 23rd Winter Games in Pyeongchang.
Yup, my new goal in life is to become an Olympian. And I’ve found the perfect not-really a sport to use as my vehicle for my run for the gold: the four-man bobsled. I know the bear who drives the bobsled is called the pilot, and the bear who stops the thing after it crosses the finish line is the brakeman. I’m not sure what the two bears in the middle are called. Other than dead weight. But that’s the job for me. I figure with a full four years to learn how to push a bobsled for about ten steps, which seems to be the entire skill-set required, this is doable. Sure, there’s also the technique of being able to jump into the sled and execute a perfectly synchronized hand swoop while doing so, but as a gay man I figure I already have a natural talent for that one. And I think, if my teammates and I demand it, having our sled designed by Porsche instead of BMW, will mean we’re looking at gold in South Korea. Well, that and eating a lot of Big Macs.
Don’t laugh. Come 2018, y’all will be not watching the XXIII Games of the Winter Olympics, but I will be living them. And while y’all will be drooling over all the Korean hotties out looking to be done by an Olympian, I’ll be doing them. Not that I’ll be hanging with the bobsledders mind you. Partying with the snowboarders, yes. Scoring male figure skater booty, no doubt. (You know that with the majority of them being gay, the percentage into daddies has got to be high. I mean do you really think Tom Daley hooked up with Dustin Lance Black for his body?) But the real draw will be the boys of The Land of Morning Calm. Whom, I assume, will all be lining up to bite my gold medal. Just a soon as I learn how to pronounce Pyeongchang.
Yup, I’m planning on redefining just what the opening ceremonies mean. And I might even do a few twinks, just to make y’all jealous. Because the thrill of victory is just that much sweeter when it involves someone else’s agony of defeat. And that’s what the Olympic spirit is all about. So let the Games begin . . .