The average Ramones song lasts about two and a half minutes, or roughly two full minutes longer than I could go down on Lily Aldridge before I burst into tears of relentless joy.
The average Olympic ski run lasts a little less than two minutes. And a bunch of guys train basically their entire life for a couple shots to qualify to take that final two minute run, barreling down an icy mountain (or a slushy one, as the case may be) at about 100 miles an hour and trying really hard to win while presumably trying really, really hard not to die. Or maybe not.
My man did not give a fuck, or thank Hans.
The 4th place finisher is a complete loser bum who never should have been there in the first place because he finished at least a couple one hundredths of a second behind the guy who won gold and who will now get paid millions of Swiss francs to sell Swiss Miss to Swiss Franks… and cereal, and beer, and maybe watches.
I have a watch. Someone needs to call Bob Rolex and have him explain to me what one one hundredth of a second is.
No one needs to train their whole life to be completely forgotten because they ran into a Siberian Frostbite Gnat on the way down a goddamn hill. I wouldn't work for a whole day just to afford enough booze to serve to Faith Hill so I could go down on her for the 3 tenths of a second it took before Tim McGraw blew my brains out like I was a Native American scoundrel.
Someone should open a casino for skiers only, because you could have a roulette wheel the size of Serena Williams panties with about 1000 numbers on it, and skiers would still put their chips down.
If a gust of wind comes along, a golfer will back off a shot long enough for NBC to show a whole episode of The Voice. You can't back off a ski run and ask your caddy for a hit of Powerade and a beta blocker. If the wind shifts, your aunt who bought you that first set of Rossignol's when you were three is gonna have to support you, bro, or you are toast, because 9th in the downhill won't even get you a job making Pop Tarts, much less hawking 'em.
Less than a tenth of a second? Don't give me some Jack Handey needlepoint bullshit about the Olympic ideal and the spirit of competition. You can't even think "should I or shouldn't I try to be an Olympic skier" in less than 4 million tenths of a second.
And the flip side of you not getting a medal is that while you're in the Olympic Village right swiping some figure skating supermodel from San Marino on Tinder, there are probably 500 guys back home that can go just as fast down a ski hill, and they're still getting stalked by some girl from Steamboat Springs they met on craigslist. All because of a gust of wind.
Ski runs might as well have those goofy, cartoonish booby traps like in Wipeout,
Jill Wagner letting me know how many minutes I have to stalk her
before she calls the cops
and who ever survives a couple bops with an oversize purple boxing glove and gets up to ski down the hill wins.
Actually,I have a lot of respect for Olympic skiers. It's not like they're acoustic guitar playing comedians with props. At least with Olympic skiers, every 4 years somebody remembers one of them fondly.
The average Olympic ski run lasts a little less than two minutes. And a bunch of guys train basically their entire life for a couple shots to qualify to take that final two minute run, barreling down an icy mountain (or a slushy one, as the case may be) at about 100 miles an hour and trying really hard to win while presumably trying really, really hard not to die. Or maybe not.
The 4th place finisher is a complete loser bum who never should have been there in the first place because he finished at least a couple one hundredths of a second behind the guy who won gold and who will now get paid millions of Swiss francs to sell Swiss Miss to Swiss Franks… and cereal, and beer, and maybe watches.
I have a watch. Someone needs to call Bob Rolex and have him explain to me what one one hundredth of a second is.
No one needs to train their whole life to be completely forgotten because they ran into a Siberian Frostbite Gnat on the way down a goddamn hill. I wouldn't work for a whole day just to afford enough booze to serve to Faith Hill so I could go down on her for the 3 tenths of a second it took before Tim McGraw blew my brains out like I was a Native American scoundrel.
Someone should open a casino for skiers only, because you could have a roulette wheel the size of Serena Williams panties with about 1000 numbers on it, and skiers would still put their chips down.
If a gust of wind comes along, a golfer will back off a shot long enough for NBC to show a whole episode of The Voice. You can't back off a ski run and ask your caddy for a hit of Powerade and a beta blocker. If the wind shifts, your aunt who bought you that first set of Rossignol's when you were three is gonna have to support you, bro, or you are toast, because 9th in the downhill won't even get you a job making Pop Tarts, much less hawking 'em.
Less than a tenth of a second? Don't give me some Jack Handey needlepoint bullshit about the Olympic ideal and the spirit of competition. You can't even think "should I or shouldn't I try to be an Olympic skier" in less than 4 million tenths of a second.
And the flip side of you not getting a medal is that while you're in the Olympic Village right swiping some figure skating supermodel from San Marino on Tinder, there are probably 500 guys back home that can go just as fast down a ski hill, and they're still getting stalked by some girl from Steamboat Springs they met on craigslist. All because of a gust of wind.
Ski runs might as well have those goofy, cartoonish booby traps like in Wipeout,
before she calls the cops
and who ever survives a couple bops with an oversize purple boxing glove and gets up to ski down the hill wins.
Actually,I have a lot of respect for Olympic skiers. It's not like they're acoustic guitar playing comedians with props. At least with Olympic skiers, every 4 years somebody remembers one of them fondly.
you answered your own question by posting klammers records.because its not about just one race.its about doing it again when the chips are down like our silver winner today who hadnt won dick since the last olympics. i understand your disgust with luck, its why i played hardball into by thirties on field in detroit with smoke from burning houses wafting across the outfield, just so i could get some more swings at a ball that coulda killed me if it had barely touched my face. because its so fucking awesome to connect..
ReplyDeleteKlammer's run was so balls out…I wish I still had that Sports Illustrated cover.
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