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The Triple-Axle of Evil: Our Naughty Winter Games and the Surreality of Sexual Terrorism.

By Jade Hays
March 1, 2002

I recall clearly during the seventh or so viewing of the Office Max Olympic spot how comfortable it felt being dummied into the sport of curling. In this commercial, a pleasant barkeep informs a potential office supply customer of the intricate rules of play: whisking stones across a sheet of ice. Despite the non-convincing argument that Office Max is supreme benefactor of arcane sport edification, curling hearkens nostalgic winters of yore when spry young Euros whiled their brisk winters gurgling mead and whacking each other’s shins in jubilant drunken frolic. It was at that moment I finally understood the basic premise for the waning Winter Olympics: like teen sex, one didn’t need to know the rules, comprehend the origins of the contest or fathom the subjectivity of the rating system. Supreme joy was to get lucky and participate with your opponent for the evening. Beauty was to be found rummaging in another’s long underwear or collapsing in a snow bank with a scrumptious Swede named Oriander. I wasn’t to enjoy this epiphany for long. After the Canadians received their controversial gold medal, in the profound words of Dr. Evil, “things got weird.” I arranged the conspiracy in my mind. Faster than an Enronian paper shredder, I triangulated and assassinated my repressed, intellectual foes, which represent a trilogy of intrigue, espionage and middle-earths unseen.

Ice Skaters are Gay (or French.)

Maybe they are not. Maybe they are. Maybe they are not. Is this a question or a statement? Can you support your assertion with facts? Does Apolo Ohno have a nice juicy rump? Does owning a juicy rump categorically make one a gay rod? If a 19 year-old male’s tights rip from an ice-skating accident and his rump pops out like a ripe peach, does that make me gay? Statistically, Kinsey reported 10% of the human population as being gay. More recent studies suggest something like 3%, although all statistics appear to as accountable as a preacher’s right hand in a confessional booth. I for one think ice skating is lovely but for the same dubious reasons that I think ‘Will and Grace’ is hilarious: it is comforting for straights to see homosexuals yucking it up like bitchy high school girls with their narcissistic preening and worrisome nail-biting. By god then we don’t have to imagine what it would be like to be manhandled by some ass-kicking queer, full of rage and violence against the lawn-mowing, middle-American homophobe who prances about his living room and wiggles his butt in mock, pejorative gayness. ‘Will and Grace’ appropriates the subculture of homosexuals the same way hip-hop is homogenized, castrated and safely corked for the hopelessly bewildered, hand-jiving mainstream. What a different sport it would be if ice-skaters were permitted to carry rifles and encouraged to vent their frustrations a different way. A better question remains: if one were to successfully auto-fellate during cold weather, would it be fair to call this event the real sport of ‘curling?’ If so, where can I get tickets?

And how perfect for the American viewer that the ice-skating controversy was spurned by the antics of some snot-nosed Frenchy. Who do they think they are? If it weren’t bad enough that they have popularized cunnilingus to the degree that no American man can keep a women in today’s society without paying oral-homage to the Great Freudian Raisin, they’re big fat cheaters. All I want to do is spit grape Popsicle juice onto that fluffy mink coat of hers. What a perfect, heartless Euro-bitch. Robbing the noble Canadians, those dedicated athletes who nobly took to a life of skating because they couldn’t make it as rock stars. Really. What untold damage this scandal will do to the world of ice-skating (for the record, is this world any different then our normal world?) Close your eyes for a moment and envision humanity without Tanya Harding. See what I mean? This travesty is a wake-up call for all of us.

Federal airport security personnel are actually horny transgender communists.

The last time I was felt up by a guy I was on the high school wrestling team. A special brand of denial is required by the pimple-addled, teenage jock that for about four months must endure the constant derision of classmates who feel obligated to remind him that he is a ‘sweat-pig’, ‘jock-sniffer’ and ‘mat-fag’. Although the occasional abduction and inevitable duct-taped torture of an indisputably heterosexual basketball player offered short respite from our perpetually injured egos, it was only in our incestuous grapplings, group yells, and ultra-macho, Darwinian ranking system that our intimate body play made any goddamn sense at all.

For one, the workouts were brutal. Routinely I lost ten pounds by the end of practice. Furthermore we were encouraged to wear plastic trash sacks under our singlets in order to crank up body heat and shed ‘excess’ weight. My lungs were constantly on fire. In fact, my walking pneumonia was actually sprinting. In order to compete with properly skilled (mustached) wrestlers on the team I became bulimic. So withered from weekly, cyclical starvation that the only chance I had in winning my matches was to pin my opponent in the first round. The rare moment after my hand was raised in victory, I sprinted across the road to the Dairy Queen to immediately binge on what would all too soon become a violent purge. More often than not, I exploited my Achilles heal: a paper-thin blood vessel in my nose could be easily ruptured with a quick uppercut to the nose. When matched-up against a ferocious, hairy monster, I never hesitated to clandestinely strike my face, release a chilling howl of anguish, and forfeit the match by bleeding like hemophiliac all over the Gardner-Powell Memorial Gymnasium. I was an absolute loser but none of my teammates could resist applauding me for how murderous I looked with blood shooting out of my nasal passages like a shaken can of cream soda. I grooved-on the ultra-classlessness only Greco-Roman wrestling, the original Olympic sport, could provide.

This past Sunday, memories of this triumphant athletic past came to mind as I was indoctrinated into the brave new world of federally run airport security. I do not wish to sound ungracious or sully my permanent record. Of course I am thankful as all hell loaded guns are pointed towards all of us. But as a very tall your gent slipped his hand between my slacks, I resisted the instinctual urge to lay down on his back and begin riding him bareback, reach behind his neck, and deftly slip-in the head-lock. The faint smell of armpits filled the air and I imagined J. Edgar Hoover looking down at this pleasant scene in a fit of envy. I eventually passed unscathed, gliding really, with my mascara barely running and my high heels clicking together like razor sharp blades of steel…

‘Jack Mormons’

My home town in Oregon was run by Mormons. The high school, the picturesque college, and city hall were largely staffed by high functionaries of LDS. They played chaperones to our high-school dances (they created the ‘one-foot-rule’ of space between slow-dancing sweethearts,) were patrons and supporters of our high school field trips and were the civic leaders who spearheaded blood-drives and food banks for the needy. One of my uncles called them ‘cricket stompers’ which I believe was his grinning, red-necked way of diminishing their legendary aptitude for farming. Yet I was too stupid or too innocent to make any cognitive distinction between Mormons and any other religious group in the region because I was well into friendships with these kids before I figured out they were Mormons. Later I found out my uncle had another name for my type of people: ‘Jack Mormons’.

According to bigot Hoyle, a Jack Mormon was a fallen angel. Not content with root beer floats and family reunions, the Jack Mormon would hide behind bushes and smoke cigarettes to the pace of Samuel Beckett’s arrhythmia. Jack Mormons were often intellectuals or outcasts who, facing the crossroad of puberty, opted to barter their strict religious path towards heaven for a frivolous, ostracized, thumbs-up sashay down AC/DC’s ‘ highway to hell.’ Although enormously popular among their new peers, pariah status among the church elders and Mormon community added a sad dimension of supreme sacrifice. As a consequence, between chivalrous bouts at keg-draining and can-do attitude around bong loads of freshly imported Humboldt that mercifully arrived via ex-con truck-drivers at our backwoods hamlet, an equal amount of buzz-kill nights were spent on suicide watch or listening to anguished sobs of my teenage consorts slowly being defrocked of their once unassailable spiritual self-worth. Typically this created even more pressure for the Jack Mormon to distinguish themselves from the pimple-faced fray. Psychosis, car wrecks, runaways, and overdoses ruled the day. My fatal attraction to these poetic souls earned me my own shot of teen angst when my favorite Jack Mormon broke my heart my sophomore year.

I had already earned half of my third-base sexual experiences with the regular Mormon girls who were experts at exploiting loopholes inexplicably woven into the strict, virginal fabric of their religious decrees. While technically remaining chaste, the whole lot of them seemed biologically determined to make pornography out of the remainder of their willing, lily-white flesh. The net result was a wholly satisfying, discreet and guilt-free sexual exploration of goods and services, soon to be married-off and locked away to some buck-toothed, cow-licked dipshit with Christ-happy blessings. Instinctively perceiving their looming monogamous eternity, these young tarts were insatiable for non-penetrating foreplay. That was until I found “Miss V”. After Miss V, I never tampered with the God’s chosen stock of Mormon girls again.

Miss V had an acute problem with drink. While it was common for some Mormons teens to experiment with alcohol to fend-off peer pressure, most remained impressively steadfast to following dogma i.e. go on missions after graduation and keep a year’s worth of Campbell’s soup in their kitchen pantries. Sweet Miss V, on the better hand, was purebred Jack Mormon. As long as I had a pint of hard-stuff, I was guaranteed to reach the Holy Land. The strange part was that the day following our trysts, she would never even look at me. Unless we were drinking or groveling in a car, as far as she was concerned, I didn’t exist in her day-to-day collection of friends. When I said hello to her in the hallway she would stare at me blankly as if I were from another planet. I couldn’t believe it. Even today I don’t think she knew my name. It was absolutely the most perfect arrangement.

Except for the unfortunate fact that Miss V had a co-pilot, Sandy, whose father was the most important man in our town. According to rumor, Sandy never caved-in to sex, but she was always hanging nearby when my “Jackalina” and I would make our late-night rendezvous. Focusing so intently on my darling V, I had dismissed Sandy early on as a minor player and would regularly ditch her at parties. This freed me up to abduct Miss V into a broom closet or go hump like a hyena on the municipal golf course. Underestimating Sandy’s influence in the community (an alien concept to my non-Mormon, country-bumpkin psyche) was a horrible mistake. In a luckless twist of fate I came discover Sandy had a bit of a crush on me. When Miss V finally broke-down one tender evening to describe to Sandy all the wonderful grand slams she had been assisting me with me for several, blissful weeks, Sandy (the good friend) promised to inform her Dad of the affair who was Deacon Supreme something of LDS if she didn’t wise-up. Not equipped at the time to comprehend the lifelong benefits of excommunication, Miss V was lost to me forever. Not a kiss or a whisper goodbye. My first and last true Mormon bride was but a faint, bittersweet memory.

And yet, the Jack Mormon still gives us cause celebrate during our winter games of late.

For is it not the Jack Mormon who would allow the homosexual ice-skaters who span the globe to frolic with unabashed homosexual gayness in complete opposition of all that is known to be good, un-gay and Mormon-holy? And is thanks not due to some Jack Mormon who chose not to exploit this moment in history to proselytize the ‘true way’ to the rest of us a-hole pagans of the world? And would not our beloved Jack Mormon be so kind to offer us a glimpse of Appolo’s rump-flesh as he mercifully burst out of his so so tight tights? Did anyone miss that sight? Wow.

For without their kind sympathies, Salt Lake City would be one large chaperoned dance with punch un-spiked. Zealous youths with thin ties would harass our foreign dignitaries on ten-speeds which would engender international animosity towards Americans for the very first time. Our principal Mr. Madugal would have no choice but to pull us apart from our dance floor sweethearts towards that great, un-gay, polygamous temple in the sky. Yes, praise be to God for the Jack Mormon, the true Evil Kenevils of LDS. When the winter winds blow, my unsung heroes win gold every time.

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