Olympic Fever

Normally, twelve years of being picked last for gym class turns me vehemently anti-Olympics when the Games roll around. Not to mention that phoned-in John Williams theme song, the corporate sponsorship, those same commercials over and over and over again. And honestly, you have any idea how freaking boring watching someone swim back and forth and back and forth and back and forth is? I do. I spent a whole semester doing it.

But this year's different, because NBC is broadcasting the Olympics on five networks, not counting Telemundo, and since there's not enough boring-ass track and field events and rhythmic gymanstics — my impression of rhythmic gymnastics: Look at me! I'm throwing a ball in the air and catching it! Give me a medal! — they're showing sports that don't get their proper due in America. Water polo, table tennis, women's ten-meter air rifle. That last one isn't even a sport, but the Ukranian gold medalist was hot, so no complaints.

In that sense, things are going well. The Dream Team, what Carlos Alazraqui called our national 'fuck you' to the rest of the world, got their asses kicked by Puerto Rico. Neither bridge nor poker nor bowling nor fucking auto racing made their way into Athens. I sort of figured out the rules to handball, except I'm still not quite sure what a seven-yard penalty is. Doesn't make much sense in the context of throwing a ball into a kids' league soccer goal.