Ode to Bode

By Marv Blackstone
Editor-in-chief

I decided I should probably watch the Olympics, since I sent that loopy-haired black man to Italy to cover them. But I can't understand him now that he's there, his syntax is poor, and he's always talking jiveback to me on the phone. It was a mistake to empty the tin can for him, I tell you.

I was excited to hear of this Bode Miller, skier supreme. He comes from the woods and does his job while drunk. In other words, he's me, but 25 years younger.

But you already knew that.

He grew up eating nothing but berries, he skies while drunk, his parents were hippies, he is a media bad-boy, he has plentiful endorsement deals, he has his own website, he grew up on $600 a year, he skies recklessly like a blindfolded cowboy on meth riding down the mountainside on a drunken horse in a driving Oklahoma thunderstorm. He also fucking sucks.

After failing to live up to expectations in his first Olympic run, he was disqualified today for straddling a gate. Agate? What? That means he's either crashed or been disqualified in six of his last eight races. That sort of failure chaps my balls.

I expected so better from you, Bode. You disappoint. Much like the time I was promised a date with Farrah Fawcett and it turned out to be Rosie O'Donnell. And then she was a lesbian. And wouldn't bring her friends. And completely dominated me. And then stole my shoes. And then punched me in the face repeatedly until I couldn't see for three weeks. Yeah, Bode's kinda like that.

Now, Bode, get off of my damn television screen and come on up here to Montana so I can piss in your corn flakes.

Other flotsam

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