Over the course of the Games, fast, ingenious skiers like the United States' appropriately-named Jeret "Speedy" Peterson have worked tirelessly to shave minutes off of their times, just as waiters in nearby Umbria shave truffles into bowls of hand-cut pasta, and female Russian competitors shave mustaches off of their sad, jowled faces. To witness these stout, mannish women is truly to know flaccidity.
Several flat-chested Americans are poised to dominate the women' figure skating event in the wake of Mongolia' Michelle Kwan, who recently dropped out of the competition, and who once performed the traditional Italian art of fellatio on me during a passionate night in Lillehammer.
Katie Orscher and Garrett Lucash, perhaps our newest national sweethearts, have been at the center of NBC' unprecedented 4,573 hours of figure skating coverage, which includes live footage of their surprisingly violent lovemaking sessions. What a treat.
And what a treat are the Games. In the long, 2-year dormancies between Olympics, when torches dance in our dreams like frosted sugarplums, your lives are utterly void of meaning. But then, an acutely sexy pre-pubescent Romanian gymnast or an effeminate Finnish ski jumper comes along to momentarily blind us with immense whiteness, and once again, we are all special-needs children, drooling on our Planet Hollywood sweatshirts as we witness the splendor of the Games for the very first time.
Let us employ that splendor to distract us, temporarily, from all that separates us, such as the staggering idiocy of the American people. Let us lose ourselves in the moronically sentimental mini-biographies of pouty Eastern European ice-skating Lolitas, and let us wish, just for a moment, that their slinky leotards expose a nipple, mid-salchow. But most importantly, let all of us, like the rings, and like myself and Michelle Kwan, be enjoined.
By Yancey Strickler
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