Where’s the Olympic beach?

Readers of this blog know that I do not approve of the Olympics. What started out as an eccentric bit of 19th century classics nostalgia has morphed into the expensive, corrupt, drug fueled, real-estate orgy we endure today. Whatever athletic ideals the Olympic movement espoused died on national and corporate altars decades ago.  By the time the first national anthem sounds the real gold has long since traded hands. It’s disappeared into offshore accounts, kick-back schemes, hidden payoffs and good old-fashioned high roller whoring. Despite the waste, drugs and corruption the public still bends over and begs flaccid IOC sodomites for more because only the Olympics decides pressing issues like who can best tumble on a mat and catch a ribbon!  What’s wrong with you people?

My normal Olympic reflex is to head for the hills and ignore the damn circus. In 2008 I was deep in cell phone blocking redwood forests so I didn’t hear a peep about the Olympics. This year I’m not so lucky.  Work and family obligations have kept me firmly locked in the Olympic vise. On my own I would change channels or read but I’m not on my own.  My wife enjoys the games and her elderly demented mother enjoys them even more.

Dementia and the Olympics are perfect for each other!  Last night while watching women’s beach volleyball my mother in-law complained about the game’s chief virtue: bikinis on tight female bodies.  She wanted to know why these women were so shamefully dressed.  My wife calmly explained that they were playing a game that’s normally played on the beach. “Where is the beach?” my mother in-law retorted.  Indeed, where is the beach?   It’s a perfect metaphor for the billions flushed down the Olympic sewer:  connected cronies get rich, the proles ogle some fine ass and the taxpayer doesn’t even get a real beach to pound sand on! Again, what’s wrong with you people?

Click for more beach volleyball butts.