-The Ghost of Roy Hobbs
USA! USA! USA! USA! Hooooooboy! We got us a MASSACRE here, boy I will tell you what! We ain't even half way through these here O-Limpics up there 'round Canadia and already we're moppin' the floor with these other sumbitches! We got more metals [sic.] than Pittsburgh, baby! USA! USA! USA!
And we gotta give credit where credit is due. That belle of a woman Lindsey Vonn sucked it up like a man and skiied on that bad leggahers. That red-headed stepsister won at the halfpipe, like she's done over and over again, and against the menfolk! Well-done and bravo.
But even in the sissiest of "sports" has the flag of our fathers reigned soupreem [sic.]. I'm talking about...
(/accidently swallows mouthful of Skoal)
...men's figure skating.
I ain't never watched it before. I don't ever plan on watching it. That's for them people who float around and dance around like this right here (/jumps around oddly with wrists unfettered), not for me and not for most Amuricans. We like meat and potatoes. We like our trucks and four-wheelers. We like George Strait and we think that homewreckin' Keith Urban can make out with that Adam Lambert all he wants to in the presence of the Devil in his den in hell. Not for me, thank ye kindly.
But I'll be derned. This Evan Lysacek (I think it's pronounced like Licorice, like Twizzlers) gone and won for the US of A. How 'bout that. Bout time he did something meaningful for his country, I guess. I don't know. I didn't watch it.
I didn't watch one minute of his what-I-heard was a flawless performance; a dextrous combination of athletic prowess and regal grace. Not once was my television tuned to his masterful 6'2" frame, gliding through the air like an angel that done falled from heaven to say hey to us humans on Earth. I didn't see him stick every landing with the authority of a grown man commanding the Earth beneath him.
(/wipes drool off chin)
I think I was watching an episode of 'Reba' or something. Tammy's got a few of them reruns taped, so we watch it most nights.
Not saying I wouldn't have liked to have seen the Twizzler boy whip up on that ole Ruskie. From what I
sawheard, he was walking in like the skatin' court the Hotel Del Queero and he was the pro-pry-etor [sic.]. Figures as much. You know what they say about them fairy Russians...gotta keep warm somehow! HEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHAWWWWWWGawh!
I was just happy to see one of them godless, sinful communist bastards git theirs. Heard he came back just for the gold medal, now safely in Amurica, where it belongs. Got nothing against him, the homo, and I hope he finds Jesus through this tragedy ah-his. Hate the sin, not the sinnin' queer, to quote my mama.
Too bad I didn't watch the whoopin, Lysacek threw down on him.
(/tobacco falls out of mouth, down shirt, to floor, arms fall to his side)
Maybe I would have half-way enjoyed the show. Maybe I could have actually stomached the way he masterfully skated along the ice with the precision of a vernerable brain surgeon; slicing and cutting his patient, the ice, with the tender care of a loving father. Hell, I mighta been able to sit through his routine, as his body moved with both the viscosity and purpose of liquid hot magma spouting from a volcano atop Mount Olympus, gleefully scaring all those who come into its contact with the happy memory of a performance so wonderfully demonstrated with the ease - yet strength - of a world class athlete; a portrait willfully etched into all who purveyed it for all time. Maybe I could sat comfortably instead of with my legs all bunched up, or even stand up knocking over my Dr. Pepper and my Bud Light, as he danced, in the truest form of the word, he danced to Rimsky-Korsakov's Scheherazade, reflecting each note with a concordant move; as if the two were born of the same womb, destined to be paired together. And as the sinews of his quadracepts, torso and mighty shoulders melted together with the rest of his brut frame, losing all sense of individulity, rather becoming one mass, one energy, one synergy in lockstep with the rest of this beautiful thing we call the Universe, climaxing to a point in which every living soul and creature turned toward the rink, which was its epicenter and acknowledged "You are Supreme," maybe...
...uh, maybe I wouldn't have thought it was all THAT bad. Maybe chant "USA!" a coupla times. But I really. Can't stand that sissy crap. Not one bit.
(/adjusts pants, oversized belt-buckle)
So, uh, congrats Mon-sewer [sic: Monsieur] Lick-o-rish. USA? All the way!
I'm not gay.
Danny Joe Hampel, Jr.
Goose Bucket, Alabama