The story of young Beauregard Fritzen’s road to the Olympics is a bumpy one. On the boy’s eighth birthday Pocko, his turtle and only friend, was struck down by polio. At age twelve, Fritzen’s neighbor’s milkman was blinded in one eye by a wayward spoon, leaving Beau with an incapacitating fear of pudding. At age eighteen directionless and despondent, the boy developed a severe addiction to string cheese. This had little to no effect on anyone except his roommates who were forced to share a bathroom with him and really would have appreciated it if the guy used a little air freshener every once in a while. Yes, if it weren’t for that wealthy patron who fashioned a pair of braces for Pocko out of gold plated paperclips and some duct tape, Beauregard might never have realized his dream to one day become an Olympic — insert name of sport here.
Don’t get me wrong. I applaud the remarkable skill of all the competitors at the Olympics, truly I do. But if NBC television is going to have those maudlin intros they need to provide their viewers with at least a handful of Xanax or a bottle of Bordeaux to handle the ensuing stress during the competitions that follow.
And then there are the sportscasters. Yes, I’m sure it is every mother’s dream to one day hear a washed up shot-putter stage whisper six inches away from her child’s ear…
“You know Bob, we saw Venetia Crysinfitz at practice earlier today have one of the worst performances in Olympic history. In fact the only thing that didn’t happen was a random episode of blood shooting out of her ears. Who knows what tonight’s medal race will bring? A dislocated hip? A severed toe? Soul crushing defeat at the hands of her technically inferior yet surprisingly composed teammate? We don’t have long to wait though as she’s just passing by us now on her way to the–insert sporting arena here.
Can you imagine what it would be like to have a pair of reporters following you around town commenting on your every move?
“You know Bob, we saw Heidi at breakfast earlier having one of the worst hair days I’ve seen in recorded history. In fact, the only thing distracting us from that monstrosity of a dye job is the cab that almost side swiped her as she raced across Third Avenue. Who knows what today’s battle with Manhattan will bring? A bum with his fly open? A woman carrying a seven-foot tall fiberglass banana? (This is NYC, trust me, it happens all the time.) We don’t have long to wait though as she’s just passing by us on her run down the subway stairs. And oh—that’s a pity, I’m sure she was going to need that kneecap. Yes, one thing is certain. What Ms. David lacks in height she more than makes up for in pizzazz. She may not win the gold, but she will surely amuse us all the way to the bottom of the leader board.”
The following is a short list of events in which I am likely to win an Olympic gold medal:
- Witty repartee
- Mallomar eating (It seems important to note that my word processing program does not recognize “Mallomar” as a proper noun. Shame on you Microsoft. Shame on you.)
- Unspeakably inappropriate fantasies about Michael Phelps (Oh, come on, you know exactly what I’m talking about.)
- Simultaneous dislike of Celine Dion music and the Kardashian sisters. (They’re going to name an eye-roll after me.)
- Arriving late for meals
- Vacuuming whilst looking hot in a feather boa and a rhinestone tiara
Okay, Heidi Klum might have me beat on that last one, but surely I could win the bronze? (It’s good for a girl to dream)
In conclusion friends, as you are cheering on these extraordinary athletes in the closing ceremonies tonight while 800 school children dressed as Big Ben sing a beatific hymn about the godliness of competition, remember… We are all champions in our own way. Even when our gift is how many gold foil-wrapped chocolate coins we can inhale in one sitting. (I was five and it was Chanukah, don’t judge.)