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Entries in Olympics (3)

Thursday
Aug092012

Embrace Your Boner, Brother!

Weeny bikini bathing suits are named that for a reason. And our dear, Olympic bronze-medal-clad American rower Henrik Rummel showed us exactly why.

Those non-sexy suits are named that cause you can see everyone’s weeny weenie. Unless you’re sporting a raging, impressive hard-on, like my man Rummel was whilst on the award’s stage at the Olympics.

As you can imagine, his upright manhood made quite the stir on the interweb machine thingy. So much so, that he felt the need to make a public statement in which he claimed his pecker was not an actual erection, but merely his junk got stuck in that famous up-right position when he climbed into tight man-pants.

This upset me to no end. To the point to where I felt I needed to write him about his unfortunate boner situation.

An Open Letter To Olympic Medalist Henrik Rummel:

Dear Mr. Rummel:

Congratulations on winning the bronze for our great country. To say you did us proud would be an understatement. Your team did a miraculous job stroking yourselves into the history books. We are humbled.

I’m writing you to address the situation in which you’ve found yourself since the moment you took stage to receive your coveted medal. If you will, indulge me in a quick childhood story of mine.

When I was just a wee lad – I think around the age of 8 or 9 – I was on a swim team. We were all issued red weeny bikinis to wear for practices and meets.

For some reason the older kids took to calling me “boner.” I can’t quite remember getting a boner back in those days. It could have been my little pecker just poked out the front… or maybe it was reacting to the amazing feeling of that thin 80s bathing suit material and actually did get erect.

Either way, I had no clue what a boner was. I thought maybe it was badass, like I was getting some nickname relating to a skull and crossbones or a Harley Davidson motorcycle club.

But then I started noticing the laughter that followed being called “boner.” I was being laughed at damn it. I had to get to the bottom of this boner thing immediately.

Since there was no Google back in those days I did the next best thing and went straight to my mom.

“Mom? What’s a boner?”

I remember those words coming out of my mouth like it was yesterday. And two minutes later I was horrified. I wanted to burn that weeny bikini and never wear it again. I spent the rest of the season with my hands in front of my crotch or towel around my waist.

You see, my Olympic friend….looking back at it, I realize I should have embraced my boner.

I should have reveled in the fact my little pecker could even be seen at that age. I should have started introducing myself to people as “Boner.” I should have strutted my stuff by all the teenage girls on the swim team and been all “hey baby. Yeah….it’s real. It’s all me. Wanna hold hands?”

Instead I hid it.

You have an opportunity to represent everyone out there who’s erect pecker has revealed itself to the masses through a thin veil of material. Stand up, stick your chest out and proclaim to the world, “that is my boner, and it IS sticking straight up in the air!!”

Then take that medal and hang it from your man-wand while saluting the red, white and blue of this great country of ours. You’re an Olympian! A bronze medal winning Olympian and you have every right to get the biggest boner of your life and embrace it in front of the world.

Do it for America! And know that we’ll be right there in our living rooms proud as hell and turning to our wives to ask, “mine’s bigger than that, right?”

Your Biggest Fan,

Justin

Thursday
Feb252010

Why I'd Suck as a Figure Skater

Last night I turned the Olympics on and would you believe it—a couple dressed like my worst 80’s nightmare were throwing themselves around a circular sheet of ice to some of the world’s most awful music. I thought for a second the Russian Mafia had taken over American airways, but then I remembered – oh yeah, it’s prime time…of course NBC will play NOTHING but Winter Olympic figure skating.

Being the good American I am, I noticed I’d put the remote control down on my lap and immediately thought, “uuugh…it’s all the way down there. I don’t have the energy to reach way down there and pick up the remote to change the channel.” So I watched a couple of these talented, young, scary, boarder-line psychedelic athletes in their sport and was pretty damn amazed.

That shit takes talent. It takes years of practice, skill, balance, endurance, and a keen eye for horrific costumes. So then I thought…I could do that…until I saw the first twirling, leaping, landing of the skaters on ice. Then I thought – no…no I couldn’t.

And here are the top 10 reasons why I’d totally suck as a figure skater:

1) If you ever want to see me eat dirt or pavement faster than Octomom can find endorsements for birthing a country, just yell “ice” and I’ll hit the ground in a heartbeat.

2) Have you seen the crap these skaters wear? My partner would HATE me. We would be two minutes from having to perform and no one would be able to find me because I’d still be in front of a mirror making sure my “package” looked just right in tights for network TV.

3) The whole time they’re skating people are snapping pictures left and right. My ADD would kick-in something fierce and by the time I’d chased down just one of those shiny bright objects my partner would be a broken, bloody mess on ice.

4) I’ll admit it…I haven’t bought new clothes in quite a while. The wifey and our friends laugh at me because 90% of my clothes have at least one hole in them. But for shit-sake, I can still dress better than those bastards. Did you see the guy in the American couple? He looked like a mix between a pirate and Greg Brady. I rest my case.

5) I hate things on my feet. It’s taken me years to just master running, but skating? When I was 19 I went rollerblading with the wifey and being the stud-muffin I am, I only wore shorts…no shirt, pads, nothing. Within two minutes I was covered in blood, grass stains, mud, and shame. Twenty minutes later I was at Wal-Mart demanding a refund.

6) It would take me a year just to pick that one song…that perfect song for our skating performance. And I just know my partner would pick Wham! And then I’d have to call in a favor with Tonya Harding and the whole American figure skating world would be scarred yet again…

7) I’d try to be the NASCAR skater of the Olympics. I’d roll out on the ice with stickers all over me for sponsors that read: Jagermeister. Guinness. Legalize marijuana. Ford, cause our cars stop. Vegetarainism, cause beer is technically a meal.

8) I couldn’t for the life of me, meet a group of dudes, have them ask, “hey man, what do you do for a living?” and say, “Oh, I’m a figure skater! So…uh…how about the Bears this season huh?!”

9) My tourettes would totally fuck me up. I’d have to spend millions hiring a choreographer who could work head twitches, blinks, and other obscure body flailing into a routine that actually looked like something other than a fish out of water dying.

10) When I’d be sitting there on the bench, waiting for our score, after our performance, they’d never put a live camera on me…I’d be all, “that was fucking awesome. Holy shit we rocked that. Someone beer me!! Seriously – throw me a beer and tell the other teams to suck it cause they just got owned. Fuckin’ owned!!”

I’ll stick to running and trying to make sure I don’t bust my ass in the process.

Friday
Feb192010

Wifey & I Discuss Olympic Curling

I’ve been waiting for Curling to come on TV so I could let the kids see this glorified old-folks game of shuffleboard on ice. Secretly I also want to see the women wearing short skirts, squatting, and yelling passionately at each other…oh shit, did I say that out loud?

Anyway, so it comes on and I’m all, “sweet…kids come check this out.” The family gathers and we settle in to watch some Olympic goodness when all hell breaks loose:

Wifey: “Why are they brushing in front of that stone thingy?”

Me: “You know you’re the reason our daughter talks like Sarah Palin and ends all her words with “y.”

Wifey: “Is it some kind of static electricity thing that helps the stone?”

Me: “Who, Sarah Palin?”

Wifey: “Yes, moron…I’m asking you if Sarah Palin uses static electricity to move the stone thingy along the ice.”

Me: “I’m sorry, but how do you get static electricity on ice? And how would that help the stone move on ice? You think this is the Olympic version of the Hairy Gary game?”

Wifey: “I don’t know…I was just asking.”

Me: “It’s a brush that smoothes the ice out so the stone thingy goes further…SEE!!! Now you’ve got me talking like thaty withy the “y”eee.

Wifey: “And why are they yelling at each other?”

Me: “The Denmark women-folk are telling the American women-folk their douchebags, suck at this sport, and are going to dry hump their brothers. Curling is a big shit-talkers’ sport.” (the kids had left the room by this point out of sheer boredom.)

Wifey: “You seriously have so many issues it’s ridiculous. Why can’t we talk like a normal couple?”

Me: “Oh…I have issues. You’re the one that thinks those magical brooms they’re holding weld super static electric powers that allow the stone thingy to go where they want.”

Wifey: “You said “thingy” again.”

Me: “SHIT!”

Wifey: “I could totally do this sport.”

Me: “Oh, I have no doubt. Hell, just last night you were crouched down in the kitchen while holding a broom, pointing and screaming, ‘really!!! I JUST swept and already there’s pieces of crackers, cat hair, and a grape on the floor!’”

Wifey: “I’ve got good aim, and it would be one hell of a leg workout.”

Me: “You know what else would be one hell of a leg workout?”

Wifey: “You walking up the stairs backwards so I can watch TV in peace?”

Me: “You wanna have sex don’t you?”

Wifey: “No…and will you promise me something? Promise me you didn’t get that breath from eating out of the cat box?”

Me: “Rawr…feeling feisty aren’t you? I’m gonna go brush my teeth, slip out of something comfortable and get ready for your sexiness to join me.”

Wifey: “You do that slugger. I’ll be right there…”

Me: “Don’t forget to put on that sexy thingy I like.”

Wifey: “You said ‘thingy’ again.”

Me: “SHIT!”