Well the Olympics are over. How sad.
Sure, they were obviously created by Donald Trump solely as a vehicle to advertise NBC's second season of 'The Apprentice,' but I tried not to let that get in the way of my viewing enjoyment. I'm actually going to miss waking at 4 A.M. to catch the live broadcast of rhythmic gymnastics. There was no way I was allowing the rhythmic gymnastics results to be spoiled by internet news or the unavoidable buzz on the street concerning the sport. I had to watch it live, baby!
I'm also glad to report that the Olympics have inspired me to jump start my sputtering athletic career. That's right, I've been moved. The flame has been rekindled. My very existence suddenly has meaning again, and I have the 2004 Olympic athletes and their permiscuous ways to thank for my new direction in life.
I am henceforth completely dedicated to competing in Beijing in four year's time and enjoying rampant sex with countless female athletes from all corners of the globe!
I'm sure we have all heard the stories of the Olympic village being stocked with an initial supply of 130,000 condoms and the rumors of rampant sex among athletes. Allegedy, the Olympic village is one big orgy.
Try as I might, I just can't get this image out of my head. I'm like Woody Harrelson in 'Indecent Proposal.' I can't let it go. These things are very important to me. It's a good thing I'm single, or the thought of Amanda Beard accepting her share of free condoms would be tearing my marriage apart.
Read this quote, which I did not make up (although it definitely sounds like something I would have):
"They love sex and they can't get enough of it. Some blokes get it on with a different girl every night - even two or three. Threesomes and foursomes are pretty common."
Wow! The greatest plans of mankind have been sparked by less.
There are more quotes where that one came from, and they're tormenting me to no end. I just can't shake the mental image of athletes bumping into each other at some party, or bar, or the arrivals terminal at the Athens airport and briefly checking each other out before one of them says, "Hmm? Yes, let's."
This is what I've always dreamed about. Always!
Thus, Beijing 2008 is now my main focus in life: two weeks of rampant sex in the Olympic village with athletes from distant lands such as Qatar, Luxembourg or Canada. Oh, sure, four years of intense dedication will be no picnic, but it's a great deal in exchange for two weeks of wild, unlimited, no-strings-attached screwing. Life is give and take, and I'm a giver. Since my career as a rock star hasn't gone as planned, I feel the Olympics may be my next best move. I've yet to decide on a sport, but, really, that's not of importance.
Here's a few possibilities, however:
1) Gymnastics. It appears that a sport monitored by judges might be the way to go. That would at least offer the possibilty of biases and/or complete incompetence on the part of the judges allowing me to slip unexpectedly into medal contention...and don't worry, fellow Americans, if I win a medal unfairly, I'm not giving back shit. They'll have to pry that medal out of my dead, condom-holding hands. True, actually winning a medal isn't my main focus here, but I think waltzing around the Olympic village with a medal around my neck would make me a prime target for eager groupies...that and me holding up a handful of condoms and announcing, "I am an American athlete and I would like to enjoy some rampant sex!"
I've been jumping down my bottom three steps in an attempt to perfect that flat-footed landing thing that's apparently important in gymnastics. I don't mean to brag, but I can really "stick it" now. And that thing they do where they raise their arms, smile like an NBA player on a road trip, and swivel in the direction of the judges? Whoo, boy! I'm more than ready in that department. I must be a natural or something. I figure I can build on this.
After the scoring debacle at this year's Olympics, I have the correct protest procedure memorized, and, believe me, if I don't medal I'll be protesting my ass off no matter how many points are deducted from my overall score should I not be able to jump high enough to reach the rings. I figure a messy protest will get me a lot of invaluable publicity, which should go along way in the Olympic village. You never know when a pair of Swedish high jumpers might see you and say, "Look, there is that American gymnast who is all over the news. Let us both have rampant sex with him, yah?"
Besides, after hearing Paul Hamm's munchkin-like voice, I bet I'll come off looking like the friggin' Marlboro Man.
2) Basketball. I couldn't help the feeling that this year's poor-shooting team could have used my help. Being a white guy of average height, minimal quickness, and the jumping ability of a laundry machine, the outside shot, naturally, is my specialty. It would be an honor to help restore our lost American pride in a game we invented. Hey, I am
a patriot, not just a guy who would like to enjoy some rampant sex.
3) Beach volleyball. I was once cut from my high school volleyball team, so I think this more than qualifies me for making the jump from "real" volleyball to the beach, which is more my style anyway. I'm not too keen on having volleyballs violently spiked in the general direction of my face by big men who take volleyball seriously enough to play indoors, nor am I a big fan of diving on a hard court. Sand is more up my alley. And those dance teams that perform during breaks in the action? Sure, they're not official Olympic athletes, but I think I could sqeeze in some rampant sex with them too. Lastly, I already own a pair of wraparound shades.
4) Race walking. How hard can this sport be? I mean, it's walking
! I've been doing that since I was a baby, and when I haven't been drinking I'm damn good at it. There can't be more than a handful of Olympic-caliber race walkers in America, and surely they're all wusses. My chances of qualifying should be pretty good, especially after I revolutionize the sport with roller blades. However, if I manage to make the Olympic team as a race walker, I don't plan on mentioning this fact in my pick-up lines. Admitting to being a race walker could possibly be the one thing to prevent me from enjoying rampant sex in the Olympic village.
Rest assured, whatever sport I choose, I will be well prepared to represent my fellow Americans honorably. As of this morning, I'm adhering to a strict regimen of A.) slowly adding onto the 80 pounds I've been bench pressing since sophomore year of high school, B) doing some research on beating drug tests, C) finally, once and for all, memorizing the words to the 'Star Spangled Banner,' and D) switching to light beer. I may even eliminate my beloved burritos from my diet, but I'll see how I'm progressing first.
I don't do things half-assed where rampant sex is concerned.
Of course, there is always the little obstacle of actually making the Olympic team. That could be tricky. In the unlikely event that this proves too difficult, I have a backup plan already brewing. Believe me, the association of words like "Misty May," "threesomes," and "free condoms" trigger my brain into overdrive. I've been up all night for weeks chain-smoking and plotting wildly. I feel like the lunatics who invented the atom bomb. Or whoever invented the halter top. How can you possibly stop to rest when you're so close to greatness? I haven't shaved, showered, or answered my phone in days. I briefly thought I heard two of my friends banging on my door and yelling, "Are you in there? Hello! Hello! Please answer! We're worried!" but I chalked it up to hallucinations caused by lack of sleep and the banging eventually stopped. Once I emerge from the all-important initial planning stages, I'll tell my friends about all the rampant sex I'll partake in and they'll fully understand. Maybe they'll be equally inspired and we'll start a rowing team or something. Occasionally, I do feel the desire for sleep, but I quickly TIVO some beach volleyball, take one glimpse of Misty May and Kerri Walsh practically dry-humping after winning their gold medal, and that immediately gets me back on track towards my ultimate goal of rampant sex. There is work of great importance to be done.
So, anyway, if I fail to make the team this is my backup plan, which is a work in progress: I'll still head to Beijing with a suitcase full of as much replica U.S.A Olympic attire and as many varied condoms as I can afford. Once in Beijing, I'll hang out as near to the Olympic village as possible and walk around in my U.S.A attire doing my best Uncle Sam-as-a-BALCO-client impression while wearing headphones and looking like I'm in deep concentration on my upcoming event. I may even do a little stretching and shit. You know, for added affect. It might be wise to enlist a friend who can pose as my coach and say things like "Yes, yes, the drug test is two days away. You're safe" or "The Malaysian judge has been taken care of." I'm definitely going for the complete
serious-athlete-eager-to-enjoy-some-rampant-sex image. No shortcuts will be taken in this endeavor, no corners cut.
If anybody asks me what sport I'm competing in, which I'm sure I'll be asked once I politely introduce myself with "Hello! I'm an American athlete and I have two pockets full of condoms," I have two options:
1) Make up as sport. I'll say I'm on the dodgeball team or maybe the mens trampoline team. Sure, there is no mens trampoline competition, but who knew that womens
trampoline was a sport. Am I right? As far as dodgeball goes, I firmly believe it should be a sport. So, hey, if I can inadvertantly get people to think about the possibility of dodgeball as an Olympic event, while at the same time enjoying some rampant sex, I feel this is a win-win situation. (Incidentally, I honestly believe I could make a U.S. dodgeball team as I was the shit back in junior high.)
2) Or I could rattle off the most obscure Olympic sport I can think of. I mean, who can name an athlete who competes in a sport like equestrian or archery? Nobody. That's who! I should be safe. Of course, if I unknowingly mention these sports in a pick-up line on, say, an attractive archer from Zimbabwe or Lithuania, I'll just turn around and run faster than a woman fleeing William Kennedy Smith. This is where my strict exercise and diet regimens will pay off even if my goal of being an actual athlete is derailed.
Then again, my best bet might be to concentrate solely on athletes from countries where English is least likely to be spoken, if even slightly. This, unfortunately, would eliminate athletes from large parts of Western Europe and New York, as well as that Australian basketball player who posed naked, but, with 130,000 condoms viewed as merely a starting figure, I think my chances should still be quite good. Besides, I'd prefer not to tell blatant lies if at all possible, and this honest plan of attack would leave me with the cleanest conscience should I choose to be respectful in my devious plans. Hey, I'm not a monster.
Just imagine a possible conversation:
Me: "Hello there, unbelievably fit female athlete with an unmistakably foreign look about you! I have many, many free condoms and would like to use as many as possible with many beautiful women whose names I won't be able to pronounce let alone remember from many countries I may or may not have heard of before."
Female athlete who obviously speaks very little or no english: "Sorry, no speak English good. I is Russian. Me - how you say? - swimmer."
Me: "You're a swimmer from Russia? Gee, that's great. So did you see all these free condoms they've given me?"
F.A.W.O.S.V.L.O.N.E.: "I'm sorry. No understand too good. I like know about America."
Me: "Honey, America is the best. Now, tell me, are you part of a relay team? Where are they? I'd like to meet them too. Look at all these free condoms I have."
F.A.W.O.S.V.L.O.N.E.: "What sport you?"
Me: "Uh, basketball. Yeah, yeah, basketball. I'm the point guard. Just look at all these free condoms I have! Let's have rampant sex."
OK, OK, I may be forced to resort to lies at the first sign of hesitation in her voice. Shit, I can't be wasting too much time on a conversation with somebody who doesn't speak English when I have my fair share of 130,000 condoms to put to good use.
Anyway, I feel unbelievably rejuvenated. Admittedly, I can be a bit of a slacker and have not been this motivated since trying to get kicked out of my all-boys high school. My family and friends will be overjoyed to see me, at long last, highlighting a definite goal and wholeheartedly dedicating myself to achieving it. Sure, it's going to be a long four years full of blood, sweat, tears, and painful needle injections, but it will all be worth it when I triumphantly and proudly enter that Olympic village overflowing with American pride and I head directly to the free condom machine with that spine-tingling official Olympics anthem playing loudly in my head. You know the one.
Still, it would probably be wise to pack a few condoms of my own in addition to the many free ones I'll be given.
You can never be too safe when it comes to all the rampant sex I'll be enjoying.