Post-Olympic Depression

Since the opening ceremonies began, I've been dreading this moment - when I'd have to accept the fact that I can't just turn on the television whenever I want and see the greatest athletes in the world compete against each other over the sound of vaguely offensive commentary, all the while secretly waiting for one of them to die, or at least be carted off on a stretcher.

...I meant that I was secretly waiting, but that sort of made it sound like the athletes were hoping for that, too. Which...they probably were.

"Swam 1500m and not ONE PERSON DROWNED?!
You have GOT TO BE KIDDING ME."

So to fill the void, I've started treating everything like a competition and infusing my daily life with the spirit of the Olympics. Unfortunately for The Boy, I haven't told him about my new competitive drive, so he's thrust into events without any advance training. Or knowledge. Really, though, I think life is more exciting this way. He'll just be calmly sitting down to eat his breakfast when I look up with a gleam in my eye.

"I CAN EAT THIS BOWL OF CEREAL FASTER THAN YOU CAN!" I slur through the mouthful of Kix I've shoved down my gullet, milk dripping down my chin already, because I play dirty.

But even though I cheat, I still only place second because despite my bravado, I'm really more of a marathon eater than a sprinter. I cry into my bowl like a Russian gymnast as I place the silver medal around my own neck and try not to think about the shame I've brought to the Motherland.

Whatever. The Olympics are stupid, anyway.

Images via Deadspin, Zimbio, The Hour.