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Whew. Made it. I’m back after flinging myself (off
a cliff) into the Emotional Olympics. And I survived, barely,
by the skin of a tired metaphor. Because these Emotional
Olympics aren’t satellite-tape-delayed. They’re
live. And they don’t take American Express (tm), or
any of your whining. The finest emotional athletes from
around the globe gathered to pay tribute to how far some
men will go in pursuit of the Gold, otherwise known as her
pussy. Of course, these games are completely dominated by
the women, but without men’s willingness to compete,
they would never take place.
The following is a recap of just a few of these late summer
games. Some of the events I was urged to enter; others I
merely watched in horror. So, light the torch for the one
you long for, and let the games begin.
Javelin: Distance is all that counts in this event,
measuring how far you can hurl an insult from a standing
position with one spear-like sentence. Unfortunately, all
writers are barred from this event, as well as other professional
insult artists: comedians, dominatrixes, lawyers and sadistic
school teachers. Remember, the Emotional Olympics are about
amateur competition, whatever that is. Sigh. And it was
the only event I had any shot at.
Clean and Jerk: The idea here is speed and proficiency,
as the lingerie models compete in how fast they can clean
out the man’s wallet, make him jerk off, and leave.
400 Meter High Hurdles: In this event, a “high
maintenance” woman throws up a hurdle every ten seconds
that you must clear in order to reach the finish line of
desired intimacy. Speed and resiliency (but rarely accuracy)
in overcoming her demands for attention, reassurance, time
alone, time together, time out, time to fuck someone else,
etc, are necessary to win the Gold Medal: one lousy moment
in her arms.
Discus: Which is really discuss, as in how far
can you throw yourself into discus(sing) the relationship
and all the problems she’s having with you. Only men
who have seriously worked out with freaky-deaky, finicky,
panicky, paranoid, delusional, narcissistic women have the
emotional muscle to enter this event and not wear down.
If you can bench press two borderlines and half a bulimic,
you may actually make the finals.
Pole Vault: As in pole vaulting over mouse turds.
You break a date with her (because you had to actually live
your life and go to work). Therefore, are you willing to
clear 17, 18 even 19 hours of discussing the relationship
as a result of this gross trespass against her? Or make
the most fantastic, only-in-the-movies romantic gesture?
For example: rent a ferris wheel at a carnival in Kansas
for one night, flying her in and out on a private jet with
a mariachi band playing love ballads on the way there, and
a one-on-one interview with her favorite celebrity, in-flight,
on the way back. Only those willing to vault over the moon,
if necessary, can ever hope to take home the Gold: she relaxes
around you and doesn’t complain for about two and a
half days.
400 meter individual medley: In this event, she
gets to unveil her arsenal and use four different strokes,
each one determined to bring you to your babbling knees
in the shortest time. For example, in the butterfly, she
cuts you so quick and deep, you don’t even know you’re
bleeding till after the event. At the very least, butterfly
bandages are required to close the emotional wound. In the
freestyle, she comes at you with a wild potpourri of everything
she’s got: “I saw you look at her... what did
you mean by my shoes are ‘interesting’... we’re
just not getting along... how long are you going to do that...”
In the backstroke, she goes back over every little fucking
thing you’ve said or done wrong dating back to the
womb (your mother’s, not her’s). Finally, in the
breaststroke, she taunts you and teases you with the prospect
of stroking her breast, or some other portion of her anatomy,
until you give in to whatever she wants.
Four by 400 relay: In this event you must drive
her to four completely different places, or accomplish four
unrelated tasks, where at each juncture there will be about
400 things to do. You will be expected to assist in every
conceivable way, thus facilitating the passing of the baton
to the next leg of her itinerary. Speed, patience, credit
cards, cell phones and a knowledge of everything under the
sun are prerequisite for any man wishing to reach the finals:
you’re home in one piece and you get about five minutes
of peace. Frequently, the male runner is seen collapsing
across the finish line after the last leg in this event,
having taken himself beyond human endurance in competition
with other teams who have: secured a bank loan, fixed her
vehicle, driven to several different stores buying her specialty
foods, supplements and “treats” at the best sale
price, and installed a new shower head (that pulsates) all
in 2 hours, 36 minutes.
Decathlon: In this grueling event, she’ll give
you ten completely unrelated reasons why “we’re
not getting along and we need to break up.” As each
reason is overcome, she’ll throw another one at you
out of nowhere that’s even more ridiculous and demanding.
Men who compete in this event are rightly considered the
“world’s greatest emotional athletes,” and
usually wind up on cereal boxes, living by themselves in
a Chicago tenement, unable to compete (date) ever again.
One moment of fantastic glory for a lifetime of withdrawal
into obscurity... it’s sad, but it sure sells a lot
of cereal for about six months after the decathlete is crowned.
Marathon: The distance from the first kiss to the
last, or the last to the first. You decide. It’s pain,
torture, hell and monumental endurance either way, baby.
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