You Can Almost Smell the Olympics Fever

Rio looks amazing in helicopter shots trailing over Christ the Redeemer in movies featuring tan-lined tits. Less so when you’re on the ground maneuvering tourist death traps. Snake Plisskin would choose carotid explosion over the hellacious gauntlet to the gymnastics center just to watch midgets vault.

Portions of a mutilated body washed up on the shore next to the beach volleyball venue. The body has yet to be identified. Unless it’s one of the IOC members who took fat bribes to award the Olympics to Brazil, there’s no justice in this world.

The beach volleyball chicks are pretty hot. You can dismiss a corpse or two while tugging one out to the tight-assed girls from Senegal by way of Central Florida University. Yet a fetid human femur is a boner killer. If you believe in God, you might see the mounting ill omens as a sign to relocate the quadrennial games. If you don’t believe in God and you’re traveling to Rio for the Olympics, you’ll find out soon enough if you were right. I wish I could go to sleep and wake up six weeks from now when all the great rowing events begin.