It's that time again

Last night, at four in the morning, I was in bed watching soccer. I don't particularly like soccer, as a sport. I hate watching soccer, as I do most sports. So why did I spend three hours on the edge of my bed staring at these human stallions sprint up and down a field? It wasn't very exciting. There wasn't even a goal scored until the 48th minute. So why did I stand up, pump my arm, and scream "Yes!" when that goal was scored?

Because it's the freaking Olympics.

I'm not a big fan of most sports, and I can often be found making fun of people who spend their time watching other people play them on television. But every four years, I become obsessed. I watch every Olympic event I can. Last night was my first this year. I've often wondered why the Olympics steals my heart, courts me furiously for a couple of weeks, then leaves me standing out in the rain as it hails a cab, saying "I'll be back, baby. I promise. I love you so much, stop crying. Please stop crying, you're embarrassing me."

And I think I know the answer. Somewhere in my soul, deep deep down, we're all the same. Americans, that is. At a base level we all share one desire.

We want to see America stomp every other country on God's green Earth in the face.

Seriously. The Olympics is the only time I get even a little patriotic. But it's extreme.



By the way, we made it look like we were playing a team of retarded gorillas last night. I'm pretty sure I saw three of our players lay down a blanket and have a picnic at the beginning of the second half. I'm sure the Japanese are all in their underground techno-bunkers designing some transformer soccer playing erector-set robot players for the next Olympics. They'll never regain enough courage to face us themselves again.