Tag Archives: olympics

Who Left The Champs Out?

Brian May’s six-stringed money shot.

People are bitching about NBC’s failure to air the final portion of the Olympic closing ceremony that included Muse, Ray Davies, and The Who. Inadequate television programming is a legitimate concern, because it’s not like there’s an imminent economic collapse that will change the course of civilization to worry about. And it’s not like there’s some magical global system of interconnected computer networks – like a world wide web, or an internet – where people can upload and store content, such as videos of the final performances at the Olympics, that anyone with a connection can then watch at their leisure. So while we’re focused on what really matters, what about the fact that Queen – or what remains of Queen – performed at the closing ceremony of the largest sporting event in the world, held in their homeland of England, where they’re rightfully worshiped as gods, and not only didn’t close the ceremony, but were not booked to perform sports’ preeminent anthem – the Baha Men’s “Who Let The Dogs Out.” Wait, no. I mean their very own “We Are the Champions.”

Queen didn’t play “We Are the Champions” at the Olympics in London, England!

This warrants both the fuck and the italic effect.

Fucking Queen didn’t play “We Are the fucking Champions” at the fucking Olympics in London, fucking England!

The fffuck?

What snaggletoothed Limey prat coordinated this monstrosity?

“Right. So we’ll get bloody fucking Brian May on stage. Up he’ll go, big hair and all, play a lick or two, that daft cunt Jessie J will already be up there, so I fancy she can just cover vocals on ‘We Will Rock You.’ Then, as 300 million twats watch their tellies thinking they’ll see the most brilliant fucking moment in the history of sports and music – Queen performing ‘We Are The Champions’ live at the London Olympics while 10,000 athletes cry joyfully and 80,000 fans sing along – we’ll get everyone’s knickers in a twist and just fucking move on. Not another note outta the bloke. Just ‘We Will Rock You’ and pull the fucking plug. Oh let the Twittering asses sod right off, bloody lot of cunts. We gave ‘em the Spice Girls – let ‘em toss off to those aged lassies and get fucked! Bloody Christ! We’re the English! It’s only so often we get to fuck the entire world anymore! Brilliant li’tle scheme, in’t it?”

Mel Gibson must edit William Wallace’s pre-Battle of Stirling smack talk in Braveheart to include this offense in his list of grievances for which the English must apologize:

Here are Scotland’s terms. Lower your flags, and march straight back to England, stopping at every home to beg forgiveness for 100 years of theft, rape, and murder. And – far worse – for disallowing your finest band to play ‘We Are the Champions’ at your own Olympics. Do that, and your men shall live. Do it not, and every one of you will die today to the sound of ‘We Are the Champions’ playing on repeat from Hamish’s cell phone, which has a surprisingly loud speaker function… though… quite honestly, the bass on it is pure shite.”

But enough nonsense. Arguing musical opinion is silly, anyway. So let’s stick to facts:

Queen is the greatest band in the history of the art of sound in time.

They’re not even my favorite band, but that’s irrelevant to the fact that they are the best band ever. Oh, you disagree? Yeah, and Flo Rida is a brilliant wordsmith and Rascal Flatts craft songs for the enjoyment of straight men. And the Holocaust didn’t happen, either.

If I could take the catalog of only one artist/group to a desert island where, fingers crossed, I would never have another human interaction, Queen is my unconditional pick. Sure, KISS is my favorite band, but by the second verse of “Crazy Nights” I’d drown myself. Queen’s catalog covers every style, mood, and emotion a music fan needs, and I wouldn’t feel the least bit gay dancing nude, uninhibited, and awkwardly along the seashore to “Body Language.” And by “dancing” I mean hip-thrusting my penis into my hand in rhythm with the bass line, climaxing to the final ridiculous synth-gasm that follows the lyric “Baby you’re hot!” at the 3:42 mark.

Tits + Truth = Un-American

Meet a girl that doesn’t filter her words through the dried vagina of pop-feminist unreality. She is Leryn Franco; a Paraguayan Olympic javelin thrower / universal motherfucking sex bomb. She recently made the following observations about herself:

“My situation is different from most of the other javelin throwers. I am not just an athlete. I have to be honest; my career is really in the media. If people open a magazine, they can see me there.

Modeling and fashion is my job, too. It takes up much of my time and enables me to make money. It is flattering to me that people find me good-looking and enjoy seeing me wearing good fashion items.

I am not expecting a medal. The competition is very strong and there are athletes who are stronger than me. But I treat it seriously and I want to do my personal best. For me the best reward is just to be here. Getting to the Olympics is like a medal for me.”

She’s smoking hot, and happens to be a strong enough javelin thrower to make the Olympics, but stands no realistic chance of medaling. And since we’re dealing in reality, being smoking hot is infinitely more valuable than being a female Olympian. Armed with that self-awareness, Leryn Franco simply stated as much and, in doing so, went from a 10 to a soggy dream come true.

But what if she wasn’t from Paraguay? What if she was from Pittsburgh? No amount of tits and ass could ever spare an American female Olympian the wrath of the Thought Police if she spoke similar truths about her station in life. No opportunity to feign sincerity and regurgitate tired platitudes shall be passed up if one wishes to remain in the good graces of the pop culture figureheads of dead American culture. If some American swimmer prioritized her pussy over the pool, she would be hung from the diving platform while the national anthem played. And no one on TV, radio, or internet sites that won’t print the word “fuck” would acknowledge that the only reason anyone tunes into female Olympic swimming in the first place is to glimpse the contour of pussy in bathing suits – and the flickering hope of a full lip-slip caught by underwater cam.

Under no circumstance could any Olympian representing the land of free speech simply say:

“Listen, dudes wanna fuck me. So I make money getting my picture taken for them to jerk off to. I also have this Olympic gig, which, make no mistake, I’m all-in on, but I have to be a realist – I won’t be standing on any podiums. I know which side of the bread the butter’s on. It’s the side with all the money and jizz.”

Nope. We all know it’s true, and saying otherwise is vulgarly insincere, but truth is intolerable to those whose lives are lies – like everyone on TV, radio, and internet sites that won’t print the word “fuck.” There will be no stating of the obvious. Just stick to the approved script, bitch:

“Well yes, it’s true that I’ve modeled, but I never want that to be what I’m known for – I won’t allow it to define me. Analysts expect me to place poorly, hinting that modeling might interfere with my training, but I believe that strictly by virtue of having been birthed here in the United States, I have a good chance of winning the gold. You see, my true passion, other than inoffensiveness and general humanitarianism, is throwing a light stick a moderate distance. That is the core of my existence – at least when I’m not rescuing dogs or changing diapers for special needs adults. Reaching the Olympics is the culmination of a dream that I’ve worked toward for fifteen years. Eight hours a day for fifteen years… throwing a light stick a moderate distance… watching it stick in the ground… eight hours a day… for fifteen years. So I repudiate the notion that I’m only recognized for having stunning physical beauty. Men see me and imagine the moderate distance I’m able to throw a light stick – not defiling my flawless vagina–”

Okay! Let me cut you off there while I chuckle uncomfortably, it seems like you’re tired from all those hours of prac–

“Fifteen years! Eight hours a day! And I’ve never earned a penny from it. It actually costs me money to maintain this stick-throwing habit of mine. Why ever would I wish to be identified for my immaculate tits and ass? Let’s not acknowledge those, let’s just talk about a stick-throwing contest I’m gonna come in 40th at. Because you’d obviously still be interested in interviewing the potential 39th runner up at stick-toss if she had an asymmetrical face and cellulitic kankles. You dumb cocksucker. You wanna fuck me. The camera guy wants to fuck me. Every male in your audience wants to fuck me, including fags. Hell, I’m a heterosexual female and I wanna fuck me. There’s a camera suspended above my head, aimed directly at my tit meat, but I’m supposed to sit here pretending that my patriotic desire to lob a stick into an open field is better than getting paid large sums of money to show the bottom of my ass? Come look at my asshole. It’s prettier than any woman you’ve ever had consensual contact with. Newsflash, America: Being hot gets you noticed. Flinging sticks doesn’t. It’s okay to admit it. See you in London, assholes.”

We’d like to apologize for airing moments of truth in the previous segment, even though we’re going to put a provocative caption under it and air it continually for the next 24 to 120 hours, pending the occurrence of new movie-themed mass murders. To balance our previous guest’s spoken truth and breathtaking anus, we’re now joined by a homely angry bitch with short hair and pants, who will complain about fucking everything.