By Jade Hays
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
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…
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.