Thursday, February 18, 2010

The Thick, Blue, Ragged, Blue Lines of Skiing

I hate these olympics. I really hate them. When I was a kid, I loved the olympics. I've tried to watch them, honest, I really have. Every night I flip over to NBC 8 or 10 times, give them a couple of minutes to interest me -- and they always fail. I'm not sure if it's the television coverage or the actual sports or both.

Take the blue lines, please. Take them away and give me back my white snow. Those blue lines are flat-out, butt ugly. They look like:

1. Every Porta-John on Whistler Mountain has leaked
2. The Tidy-Bowl Man is trying to draw a football field in the snow in a pathetic attempt to turn the olympics into a real sport.
3. A Giant Smurf has pissed all over British Columbia.

I know its for safety reasons, depth of field and speeds up to 70 MPH (I try not to listen to Bob Costasworth but the stuff leaks in). What was wrong with the nice pine branches they've been using for 100's of years? They're all wintery and Christmasy, and don't remind me of stuff from a toilet.

In the old days, Franz Klammer did not need Blue Dye #4 to nearly break his neck racing down a mountain. He did just fine with pine needles and a shot of Jag.

Iconic. Beautiful. And a week or two later? Cheryl Tiegs wearing nothing but net!

I've got 1,000 other reasons why I hate the olympics but I'm planning on dragging them out over a series of whiny, nit-picking posts so stay tuned "because when we get back, our own Suzie Creamcheese will have an interview with the massive blonde American that won the gold medal in the downhill while we totally ignore the cute, brunette, underdog American that brought home the silver because it was not in the script."

Talk about the agony of defeat, torn ACL, broken ribs and a mouth full of mysterious blue crystals.


  1. Bobby,

    Sorry I haven't commented for awhile, I've been under the weather. The dry heat down here plays havoc with my sinuses.

    Truth be told, I've been enjoying the olympics. This is hell so watching is mandatory.

    Maybe I can help you accept those ugly blue lines that scar every olympic ski slope. When I see them, I do not think of toilets, I think of my wife's delightful breasts. My wife had beautiful white, alabaster breasts, not unlike two moguls covered with newly fallen snow.

    But as the advances of time ravaged her body, her previously soft and irridescent skin became blotchy and almost translucent. Soon her beautiful mounds of white were traversed by an intricate network of blue veins, not unlike the ragged, blue lines that disect today's ski slopes. What you would have thought of as ugly, I loved even more.

    I hope thinking about this analogy helps you learn to enjoy the olympics -- just like thinking about the blue veins on my wife's breasts helped me enjoy the younger breasts of my many mistresses.


  2. Bill!

    Thanks for the heartfelt comment!

    Do pine boughs remind you of your wife's bush?


  3. Bobby,

    While my wife often smelled of pine, usually after she polished the furniture, the answer is no.

    Of interest to your readers, the origin of bush is from the Dutch busch around 1745, which originally meant to "beat the bushes" to rouse birds but was corrupted in New Amsterdam "to beat your meat in a bush."


  4. yeah I understand you, when I was a kid I never miss a event, in the case that I can't watch the event I recorded, now if I try to sit and watch ten minutes of this, I fall asleep.