The Armchair Expert Olympics
The Olympics provides us with an opportunity to observe many of earth’s finest athletes scoff at the physical limitations of mere mortals while battling for honor and glory, both individually and for their countries. A sports bar provides us with an opportunity to observe many of earth’s biggest losers scoff at the performances of the Olympic athletes while battling for more room in their stomachs, both for beer and for nachos. It’s an interesting phenomenon, worth exploring a bit. On one hand you have the proverbial cream of the athletic crop; extraordinary human beings who have trained their hearts out in anticipation of putting everything on the line for all the world to see. On the other you have a group of morbidly obese forty-something men who, because they scored a few touchdowns a quarter century ago, while playing high school football in some backwoods shantytown, honestly believe they are know-all, see-all, unquestionable divine authorities when it comes to bashing the imagined ineptitude of Chinese synchronized divers, over their tenth mug of Pabst. “Synchronized my ass. They were off. Did you SEE that? What a joke. What bullshit. My ten-year-old AMERICAN nephew can dive better than this.” I think all such oblivious fucktwits should be forced to participate in an Armchair Expert Olympics, which showcases them attempting to high jump over a tower of beer cans, sprint between piles of potato chips, breaststroke through a pool of melted butter, and throw hammers made of American cheese. After those events, the person who’s had the fewest heart attacks is declared victor. He’s then rewarded with a trip to the golden arches, where he’s presented with the combo meal of his choice. Silver and bronze are stuck with fucking Happy Meals. I’d watch it.