The Olympics are boring. There, I said it.
Throughout my life, I have found only two things that will put me to sleep within 10 seconds. One is documentaries on Native American culture that I was forced to watch in grade school, and the other is NBC’s coverage of the Olympic games.
Don’t get me wrong. That 40 seconds of Shaun White winning the gold in snowboarding, and the full 104 seconds of Lindsey Vonn winning her gold, were spectacular and exciting. However, the other 120 hours of coverage – 115 hours of which were painfully dull interviews and tearjerker stories stretched to the limit of believability – made my comfy couch feel like a hostage situation.
“Just show the damn competitions!” I screamed fruitlessly at the TV. Bob Costas smiled into the camera, his already tight face stretching just a little bit tighter than I’m comfortable seeing, and said, “We’ll be right back after this commercial break, and sometime in the next four hours we’ll actually show the sport you want to see. We won’t tell you when, though, and neither will TV Guide. Keep watching!”
See? Hostage situation. I can’t afford Tivo and Bob Costas is a bastard.
He’s holding us captive, forcing us to watch no fewer than 27 advertisements for “The Marriage Ref” and hours of analysis from a reporter named Dick Button. Whose name, frankly, is only amusing for the first few minutes. Once I’ve drawn a picture of what I think a dick button would look like, and discussed at length with friends the masochistic tendencies that would entice a person with that name to not just call themselves Richard, the thrill is over.
“But those Olympic athletes are so inspiring!” They are, but Bob Costas isn’t, and that’s the person whose surgically-altered mug I’m staring at 90 percent of the time. There’s no telling how many people have gone legally insane from staring into his sunken pirate eyes five hours per day for two weeks. Remember that Nazi from “Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade” who drinks from the wrong grail and ages 100 years in five seconds? Costas looks like he did the same thing but got stuck when his eyeballs started to melt.
I actually have nothing personal against Costas. It’s just that he’s been kicking me around for two weeks, forcing me to watch six hours of men’s figure skating just to get to 15 minutes of snowboarding, and for that, he deserves some light ribbing about his hollow, ghostly eye sockets. I will be kind to him again if NBC shows the next USA vs. Canada hockey game on regular TV instead of MSNBC. If not, I will hate him for a thousand years and haunt his grandchildren after my death.
You know what else is boring? Tiger Woods.
“But he’s addicted to sex!” No he’s not. Give me a crowd of young gorgeous women dying to sleep with me every time I step outside, and I too will be “addicted” to sex. I will literally keep having sex until I pass out from exhaustion, and if I wake up and am not having sex, I will demand to know who is responsible for the lull in activity.
Addicted to sex. Ha! People who repeatedly have sex with ugly people are addicted to it. People who have sex with swimsuit models and Playboy centerfolds are just fortunate. You mean I met this girl who looks like a supermodel and she’ll have sex with me instantly for no reason? Well call me addicted as well.
“But he cheated on his wife!” Yup. He’s a douche. There’s no tiptoeing around that fact. But the situation is still lacking in basic entertainment qualities. It needs a big ending, like Woods jumping off a cliff at Pebble Beach, and then Lee Trevino finding his twisted corpse two weeks later when he steps into the bushes to take a leak.
But look at the ending we get instead: Therapy? Yawn. Rehab? Snore. Reconnecting with his Buddhist upbringing? People worth billions of dollars don’t need religion. They need someone to come around and beat the snot out of them once a month so they remember what it feels like. That’s the only thing Woods needs.
There’s just one thing that could possibly qualify the Tiger Woods scandal as not being boring, and that’s if more hilarious news conferences are held where high-profile lawyers representing sobbing porn stars give hilarious statements like, “He led her to believe she was the only woman in his life . . . other than his wife, of course.” I love it! Gloria Allred should be shot out of a cannon like a circus clown.
There are a series of other things I find boring that I don’t have time to discuss here, such as Whole Foods and Kim Kardashian’s vagina, both of which, I understand, get great reviews on Yelp.com. But I’ll leave those topics as fodder for another time. They won’t spoil with age. Like a fine cheese, both with just stink a little worse the longer I wait. And in this business, the stinkier the subject, the better the column.