Because of the problematic connotations of “flaming,” the Olympic torch will no longer be lit at the opening ceremonies, but instead will be rigged to expectorate tobacco juice over the crowd.
Concerns over safety—and, more to the point, manliness—mean that goalie masks during hockey games may no longer consist solely of soothing mud packs and cucumber slices over the eyes. Fights on the ice must include the landing of actual punches, not just flailing slapping motions and hair-pulling.
The cross-country prancing and mincing events will be eliminated and replaced by stomping and interpretive stomping.
The disturbingly effeminate image of male figure skaters can be attributed largely to their wardrobe. However, this problem can be ameliorated with a few simple, tasteful modifications, including but not limited to: 1) requiring skates with mudflaps and underbody neon; 2) replacing matchy, sequin-spangled spandex costumes with cut-off shorts and sleeveless “wife beater” t-shirts studded with spent bullet casings; 3) sewing to the rear end of each competitor a large embroidered patch reading “Exit Only” with a comic-strip Calvin pissing on a pink triangle, which in turn is pissing on a Ford logo.
In order to reinforce and preserve traditional gender roles, only men will be allowed to “throw” curling stones. Women will, of course, handle the sweeping, just like at home, and also make sandwiches for the men at the end of each round. In deference to custom, curling matches will remain unwatched by anyone but straight Canadians.
Men’s singles competitors will no longer be permitted to skate to “It’s Raining Men” unless actual men are pushed from the rafters as part of the routine.
The biathlon will be renamed the heteroathlon. Men’s skiing events will take place under the rubric of “mascu-sliding.”
All promotional materials will make it perfectly clear that, contrary to reports from previous Olympics, the Nordic combined event will not consist of a “three way” among a charismatic trio of buff, blond, blue-eyed men named Lars, Sven, and Hjörvard.
The provocative visual impact of male speed skaters’ smooth, shiny crotch bulges will be reduced by making competitors stuff their jockstraps with Legos, for which purpose the bricks will be renamed “cock blocks.”
It has long been a subject of concern that the uncomfortably close “nuts to butts” contact fostered by traditional bobsled design practically ensures that even the most virile of sledders will emerge hopelessly and irredeemably man-crazy. Therefore, all bobsleds will now be configured with a running board, so that a nun armed with a ruler can strictly enforce a “six inches of daylight” rule in the midst of competition. The “six inches of daylight” rule must never be mentioned out loud, however, as the phrase “six inches” may prove too suggestive for weaker-willed athletes.
It’s “luge,” to rhyme with “huge,” not with “zhoosh.” In fact, any competitor found with zhoosh will be forced to wear beige, to rhyme with “page.” All beige. From Walmart.
Sounds of exertion and “victory” gestures are restricted to deep-throated grunting and fist-pumping. Prohibited: giggling; squealing; finger-snapping; voguing; tossing a sultry look backward over one’s shoulder; and rapid clapping while keeping the heels of the hands pressed together. Obscene gestures are acceptable as an expression of disapproval towards one’s opponents, but competitors must not under any circumstances purse their lips while slowly wagging their vertically extended index finger back and forth.
No French—athletes, fries, bread, toast, horns, doors, slicing of green beans, expelling cigarette smoke from the mouth while simultaneously inhaling it through the nose, kissing. No French. Except to fill out the bleachers during the broadcast of curling events, in which case they are forbidden from speaking to the straight Canadians.
“And I love pancakes!”
“Now say it without using the sock puppet.”
[Extended pause] “Does this mean we’re not gonna screw?”
“Please submit all declarations of love in writing and allow four to six weeks for processing.”
“It’ll never work. I’m a Sagittarius, you’re an asshole.”
“Cool. Do you have your half of the rent?”
“Everyone loves me! Except me. I hate myself. And you.”
[Quizzically cocks head to one side, like a dog hearing a high-pitched sound]
“Not when you find out what I did with your toothbrush.”
“You didn’t say ‘Simon says,’ Simon!”
“That’s just the chloroform and ball gag talking.”
“What is this thing called love? Seriously, it’s been sitting on the porch for a week and I’m tired of stepping over it.”
“You sure have a funny way of showing it, what with both hands around my neck.”
“At ease, private!” [They begin making out]
“Yes, but what about my pizza? I phoned almost an hour ago.”
“Would you be willing to state that under oath?” [Calls in notary public from next room]
“You’re the sorriest excuse for a dominatrix I ever dropped two hundred bucks on!”
“Prove it. Let me use your 10% employee discount at Walmart.”
“Prove it. Clean yourself up and swear off drugs and get a job and … nah, just pass me the bong.”
“Prove it. Move to Greenland and never contact me again.”
“I’m still taking half of everything, and the dog, and the kids have to live with you.”
“You’re the sorriest excuse for a panhandling mime I ever dropped a buck on. Also, you need to stop screaming, ‘Let me out of this goddamned transparent box!’ ”
[Leaning in and pointing at other person’s nostril] “Booger.”
“Sorry, Axelrod, but the warden says we still gotta electrocute you tomorrow.”
“I don’t think you understand how haiku works.”
“What do you want, a medal?” [Pulls out heart-shaped platinum medal with “Love” emblazoned in rubies] “Here you go.”
“Shut the fuck up, E.T.! I’m trying to watch the CHiPs marathon!”
“Go fish. Do you have any jacks?”
“That’s it? I thought you were going to tell me that you forgot to bring the coupons.”
“Danke, mein Führer. And may I add that your English is excellent!”
“Now you tell me!” [Holds up empty pill bottle, slumps to floor]
Irish Sod Bread. Impoverished nineteenth-century Irish farmers, unable to afford all four letters of “soda,” were forced to make do with only the first three, using clumps of their front lawns as a leavening agent. While years of regular consumption of Irish sod bread inevitably turned one’s teeth green, it was often said that a woman who suspected her husband of infidelity need only look for telltale grass stains on his member.
The Wearing of the Greek. As the result of an unfortunate yet never-corrected typographical error, generations of Irishmen proudly proclaimed their heritage on St. Paddy’s day by affixing a resident of Crete or Athens to their lapels. The practice finally fell out of favor after an incident in which an overenthusiastic Dubliner doused his Greek in brandy, set him on fire, and shouted “O’Pa!,” mistaking the traditional flaming-cheese exclamation as the name of a clan from County Cork.
Sliverdance. Bored and embarrassed by the unsettling, convulsive leaping-in-place touted as “entertainment” by touring Irish dance companies, a group of rogue artists developed an exciting but short-lived choreographic spectacle in which bare-footed participants attemped to moonwalk across splintery, heavily weathered planks of plywood salvaged from demolished skateboard ramps. The last man standing was declared the winner and given a victory tweezing by volunteers from the audience.
The Pot at the End of the Rainbow. Politically radical but socially conscious leprechauns of the 1960s replaced the traditional pot of gold, a hated symbol of materialism, with a Band-Aid box full of “Kilkenny Kush,” a particularly potent strain of marijuana known for inducing strange, fantastic, multi-sensory hallucinations, including a Blarney Stone that danced the frug and reeked of b.o. and patchouli oil.
The Running of the Seans. Taking their cue from the acti0n-packed pre-bullfight custom of Pamplona, Spain, adrenaline-addicted Irish thrill-seekers allowed themselves to be chased through the streets of Belfast by a herd of fresh-faced, red-headed, similarly named males in kilts. Upon arrival at the stadium, a violent free-for-all would ensue among the participants, in the cause of establishing once and for all the primacy of “Sean” vs. “Shawn” vs. “Shaun.” Survivors would then repair to a nearby pub and link arms and sing songs of the old days and hoist pints of Guinness as they paid tender, tearful tribute to the “foine lads” whose skulls they just cracked open.
Boys Gone Wilde. The Emerald Isle’s gay population eagerly awaited this yearly memorial bacchanal honoring the great Irish writer, in which participants, clad only in low-rise briefs with a single lily tucked into the waistband, danced the night away to a Victorian techno beat, their arms above their heads, all the while exchanging witty epigrams and the occasional phone number. At midnight, revelers were treated to a stage show hosted by “Lady Windermere” (known to daytime colleagues as bank teller Kevin Herlihy), with prizes for the best drag impression of Dorian Gray’s picture. This much-beloved annual observance was finally discontinued when organizers realized that it was much more fun to repeat every weekend.
Driving the Snakes out of Ireland Yet Again. Though St. Patrick’s most famous feat became the stuff of legend, rising real estate prices on mainland Europe and a move toward reptile gentrification quickly led the banished snakes to repopulate Ireland’s trendiest neighborhoods and create an unprecedented demand for gritty industrial lofts with lots of exposed brick and “character.” When onerous humans-only restrictions at the local organic food co-op failed to discourage the snakes, one serpent-sick entrepreneur came up with a brilliant plan. Promising the snakes a “free gift” in exchange for attending a two-hour presentation on timeshares in Boca Raton, he instead put them on a charter ferry across the Irish Sea to Scotland. The Scots, for their part, found the snakes delightful, especially breaded, deep-fried, wrapped in paper, and sold with chips from sidewalk vendors. More adventurous but overly optimistic Scottish epicures failed, however, to make a mark with “snaggis.”
I gave my love a cherry that had no stone
I gave my love a chicken that had no bone
I told my love a story that had no end
I gave my love a baby with no cryin’.
How can there be a cherry that has no stone? (1)
How can there be a chicken that has no bone? (2)
How can there be a story that has no end? (3)
How can there be a baby with no cryin’? (4)
(1) “Let me get this straight. You took the $8.00 pint of organic cherries I was saving for my compote, sucked the pit out of each one, and then replaced the cherries in the refrigerator?”
“I like to suck on the pits. I’m trying to stop smoking.”
“Get out of my sight.”
(2) “Hmm. Well, I asked you to get me a Filet-O-Fish, and gave you enough money to get something for yourself, but the McNuggets are fine. It’s a 20-piece box, but there are only three left, so I guess you helped yourself on the way home. I also see that you got some honey mustard sauce, even though I go into anaphylactic shock if I get anywhere near bee products, which you might remember from driving me to the emergency room after I accidentally had some of that salad dressing last summer. Let me guess: you forgot napkins, too, didn’t you? [Silence] Yeah. I thought so.”
“Are you going to eat those?”
(3) “This story makes no sense. I mean, we don’t know if Brandi was telling the truth to the blacksmith, or if Padmalochana was actually her long-lost twin, or if the parrot spilled the beans to the police, or if the archbishop was really willing to give it all up to become a rodeo clown. And couldn’t you have at least stopped at the end of a sentence? This story is just like your community college career and that half-restored 1978 Trans Am that’s been on cinder blocks in the backyard for three years. You never finish anything you start. So, if you really want to get me a present, take these newspapers out to the recycling bin and make sure they end up in it, and not blowing around all over the yard.”
(4) “He’s teething, and I was trying to watch Judge Judy, and I couldn’t hear myself think, so I dipped his binkie in bourbon and crushed half an Ambien into his applesauce. He went out like a light. I hope that was OK. You need me to babysit again tomorrow?”