Only If The World’s Problems Could Be Solved With a Javelin…

I’ve never given much consideration to the Olympics, to be completely honest with you. Yet, I find myself sitting on my couch, right now, watching men’s swimming in HD.

How arbitrary are these games? I mean, since when have we collectively given a shit about track and field since we left high school? Who cares about the back story of the tiny Ukrainian gymnast who battled through some adversity to get to the international stage? Don’t we have enough problems in the world than to care about feats of athleticism?

I’m not saying I’m not patriotic by any means. For every slam dunk our over paid professional NBA players throw down on top of some poor Slavic bastard, in a game that’s so horribly one-sided that it brings new meaning to ‘massacre’, I feel some sort of tinge of pride, down in my balls, believe me. But last time I checked, we have some real international warriors sweating and grunting in the middle of Iraq, Afghanistan, and not to mention, that shit that’s currently starting to jump off on the Russo-Georgian border.

Yes, I believe it’s important to recognize the hard work of athletes, and I encourage friendly competition between nations, however, I think the Olympics could be updated to more reflect what’s going on in the world.

Did you know that the majority of Olympic sports stemmed from Greek combat? Some events are blatantly obvious, such as the Javelin, Discus and Hammer Toss (The Hammer Toss has, in my opinion, the best history. The ‘Hammer’ was actually a giant ball on a chain, and on the chain there were razor sharp hooks jutting out from it. All one person had to do was spin around fast enough and let it fly into a crowd of on coming enemies, and the falling weighted razor bladed contraption would slice through the lot. The Greeks were the first to coin the idea that it was far more advantageous to injure enemy combatants than to kill them. A dead combatant could be left on the battlefield, whereas an injured comrade had to be tended too by his fellow soldiers, effectively taking more men out of the front lines…), where as the track events were more based on the ability to quickly get messages from the battlefield back to the supporting city. The aspect of the ‘Marathon’ was based off the history where some Greek ran for 26-sum odd miles to get a message back to …Troy? Athens? Whatever, that they were going to be invaded.

So update…. instead of the jav, have our athletes throw grenades, or grenade-shaped objects. Instead of sprints, have men and women run an obstacle course where they’re under sniper fire. Swimming will not be touched, only modified to incorporate a burning sheen of oil on the surface of the pool.

But you know, I’m just as compelled to sit here and watch the exposition of ancient games the way it is. Granted, as the women’s bicycling thing wraps up in the rain, I can’t help but hope for a major wipe out in the final stretches.

I’m Just sayin’…

The Monster Inside of Us

There’s absolutely no reason for energy drinks to exist. I’m actually still trying to figure out one conceivable reason why someone would want to pump their bodies full of pure sugary-sweet liquid.

My roommate recently has been trying to quit Monster. If you don’t know, Monster is an energy drink product, typically in a black and green can, which tastes like liquefied cheese cake. My roommate has been straight addicted to it for the last three or four months.

All over the apartment I find these empty Monster cans, a trail le disading to his room, where I will find him wired in front of his Xbox 360, screaming into the microphone at some also energy drink-swilling teenager, who’s equally screaming back at him.

How has our society disintegrated this far?

I’ve been around coke-heads. My roommate, when he’s ‘riding the monster’ is exactly like the frantic, manic, panicked state, and then there’s the inevitable crash, where I’ve literally seen him curled in the fetal position, in corner, strung out, hugging his knees, looking at a spot on the wall.

Kids are on this shit and it’s scary. To what purpose do these drinks serve? Have we become so busy in our lives, that we require pure adrenaline in our systems to operate?

Call me a Luddite, but I’m almost certain that Quakers, and Pilgrims and Shakers and such, get more done in a day without the use of a fucking Rockstar or Monster, or Red Bull. They fucking build houses and barns with their bare hands, they get up at ungodly hours (hours most kids like my roommate) have never even heard of, to take care of animals and livestock. The day I see some black-clad Quaker kid chugging a Monster, is the day I officially become a goddamn Canadian.

My personal experience (because I would not be an objective Gonzo journalist without getting into the story first hand…) with Monster was about two weeks ago. Everyone where I worked was on the stuff, thanks to my roommate. So I told the roommate to pick me up a regular sized can of the stuff, to see what all the hype behind it was.

I had a two thirds of a can over the course of three hours, my roommate drank his can in three gulps right in front of me, crushed the can in his fist and threw it out, not before screaming something that a Goth warrior would right before battle. I sat in my chair, at work, and fiddled nervously about while I tried to conduct some sort of business that I was expected to perform during those hours.

I could barely sit still. I was taking tiny sips of the stuff, and then try to type. My fingers couldn’t find the right keys and I was at a loss for words. It was as if everything I wanted to say wanted to come out at the same time, as if the insides of my mouth were a burning night club, and the words were drunk patrons, trying to escape the inferno.

By the time I was relieved from my post by another fellow employee, I was straight wired. I couldn’t concentrate on what was going on, and I was jumping from one task to the next without so much as completing the former before the latter.

I was riding the monster, hard.

I couldn’t go to sleep that night, my heart was thudding hard in my chest, making my eyes pulse and hands shake. I tried to pace around, but I only found that my legs weren’t moving fast enough for the rest of my body. Should I go for a run? I thought. I thought better of it, considering it was 0330 in the morning.

The next morning (after nodding off at some point, from the crash) I had a terrible stomach ache. I tried to take a shit, but nothing would happen, no matter how hard I tried. I was sweating and still shaking, my nerves were set on high. I felt like if I had one more sip of Monster, I’d even out a little, I could at least get something done that day.

And that’s how addiction gets you by the balls.

It wasn’t until about a full 48 hours later that I felt secure that I was out of the grasp of the demon that is Monster. But it doesn’t mean I wasn’t looking over my shoulder the whole time, wondering where it was. And to think that kids as young as 11 are pumping this stuff into their bodies.

I’m just sayin’…

My Roommate Has AIDS…

At least he’s convinced he does.

About a week ago, inexplicably, he hooked up with an ‘older woman’ whom he met while getting ice cream at the local Ben and Jerry’s here in town. The way he tells it, he was minding his own business, eating an ‘I’m Addicted to Chocolate’ milkshake, when he was approached by two women, both of them sloppy drunk.

So, my often women-inept roommate, let them sit and in the course of things, got one of their numbers. Or it was slipped to him by one of these floozies. I don’t know.

So some time passes, about an hour, and he texts the woman. She invites him over and he goes, like any horny 19 year old would, and gets it on.

He’s not the most sexually experienced kid on the block. He wears a condom (despite her best efforts to convince him otherwise) but the condom doesn’t fit right or it rolls off, or something. He has some very brief skin on skin contact. He’s freaking out, and now, for the last week or so, thinks he has AIDS.

Me and the Lady have done everything to convince him that … there’s an extremely slim chance that he’s contracted anything from this woman. We, who have some decent experience with sexually transmitted diseases (which isn’t to say we have them, you know…) have drilled him on the whole story, his personal condition and events that have led to know.

He can’t be convinced that he’s fine, and he’s slowly going crazy. Psycho-somatic ailments have compelled him (even as I write this, he’s sitting next to me on the couch complaining about his balls hurting, and then earnestly asking me if it’s “the AIDS”), from pimples on his arms to sweating profusely, he’s blaming everything on his possible HIV exposure.

You have to know something about my roommate; he’s crazy, and the craziness lends itself to his naivety on how the world works. By no means do I want to convince him that you can have sex without repercussions to one’s health, but the experience he’s describing (providing he’s giving us the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help him, God), it would be very surprising if he came down with anything at all.

I’ve invited to take him to an AIDS support group to sit in on a session with AIDS sufferers and he’s expressed interest, but done nothing to follow up on it. He’s a hypochondriac of the worst sort: one who thinks he has a problem, but won’t listen to reason when it’s clear he’s fine.

Accordingly he’s set two or three appointments to get checked for exposure. He’s extremely anxious for the middle of the week to come, because he’s getting the cheek swab at a local clinic, followed by a more thorough examination by a doctor in a few weeks from now. But what do I tell him in the mean time? It’s driving me crazy.

But this is how my roommate’s been since I’ve known him, going back about eight months: nothing I say can convince him that he’s going to be fine. He refuses to listen to me because he’s still holding on to that teenage thing where there’s no possible way anyone else might know anything about how the world may or may not work. Any clarification of a problem must come from an expert, perhaps one wearing a white lab coat.

What compounds his current health troubles is the fact he eats garbage. I’m not one to talk, my basic fuel consists of pure junk food and caffeine, but this kid pounds 24 oz Monster Energy drinks in three pulls. His breakfasts consist of handfuls of Lays Salt and Vinegar chips and diet coke.

And he wonders why his balls hurt! He’s eating nothing but salt! Not to mention his idea of working out, is walking into the gym, wearing his ipod, and throwing weak little kicks to a punching bag, and otherwise wandering around aimlessly, trying to talk to me while I actually work out.

What more can I do for this kid?

I’m just sayin’….