By Eric Voliva
Mention the word Olympics around me and I usually shrug, sigh, grunt, or use some other primitive gesture to express my general disinterest in the whole idea of competing for gold in games that involve wearing spandex, chucking spears and tossing oversized balls around.
Where’s the challenge, I ask?
I grew tired of the repetitious events in elementary school, I became bored of them in middle school, and today I’m as mind-numbingly apathetic as ever. It’s gotten to the point where there’s more entertainment value to be found in trying to pick out the all-natural Waldo from the rest of the crowded pack of performance-enhanced “athletes” than enduring two minutes of uninspired teenagers moving robotically through their routines.
Where’s Tanya Harding when you need her?
But after listening to hours upon hours of the all the hype surrounding this kid Michael Phelps—whom I’ve dubbed “Flipper”—I couldn’t help but tune in and see what all the fuss was about.
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