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August 15, 2012

The true story of a brave man who in three short days overcame his addiction to organized sports and was still able to safely resume a life of being judgemental and eating Doritos.



Despite the fact that many Americans are leading an increasingly sedentary lifestyle, every four years an unprecedented amount of men and women take a sudden interest in organized sports with an emphasis on how much better they are than the rest of the world. Fighting this addiction is an uphill battle. Kind of like in triathlons when those guys run up hills and it looks very difficult because they are all red in the face and sweating, you know? Or kind of like when you play that game on the Nintendo Wii where you have to run up a hill, and you have the body of an Italian plumber. It’s about that difficult. But I mean when you’re actually trying to play the game properly, not those wild instances on Friday nights when you’ve tied the end of your nephew’s Wiimote to your exposed manhood in a drunken attempt to impress your even drunker friends. It’s like that. About that difficult.


My name is Gregor and I’m an Olympaholic. I’m 37 years old and even though I have never so much as cast a fishing rod, every four years my interest in organized sports suddenly surges. Though it’s been a fun ride and I’ve learned lots of things like how fencing is a sport and how the archery from “Lord of the Rings” is an actual sport, my crippling addiction to organized sports and games has had a negative impact on my friends, my family, and in turn my country.

From late July to the second Sunday in August, 2012, I spent three hours a day, minimum, watching organized sports. Which the other 47 months of the four year cycle is two to three more hours than I normally spent conscious or coherent. I hadn’t even heard of those words before I right-clicked them on Microsoft Word looking for synonyms. Another word I hadn’t heard of. There’s no synonym for synonym, isn’t that weird? But I digress, yet another word I just learned.

At my peak of Olympaholicism last week, I was going through three cans of paint a day, painting one-third of my torso either red, white, or blue. I didn’t realize at the time that regular paint is different than body paint so I was also huffing a lot of fumes and as a result became very belligerent while watching the games. Coke and McDonald’s both served as sponsors for the event, and as such I spent three weeks eating and drinking only their products. Coincidentally around this time I suffered three heart attacks  and forgot my own name and gained two hundred pounds.

My patriotism reached all new heights, and lows. That first race when Michael Phelps placed fourth and shamed the USA on an international level, I sent him a number of tweets about how disgraceful he was to America and how he should be shipped to Guantanamo Bay and be forced to swim back. But then when he resumed winning every race as usual to go on to become the most decorated Olympian in history, I tweeted him in forgiveness and invited him out for a bong hit at Subway. He hasn’t written back but I’m sure he’s rather busy and gets lots of fan mail.

Gymnastics are not normally something I watch but my interest took a sudden spike during the Olympics. I invested a ridiculous amount of pride in 16-year-old gold medalist Gabby Douglas and as a result spent hours a day yelling at the other young, multi-ethnic girls, telling them they sucked and were losers and throwing empty Dixie cups at the TV. Usually when this happens on the street it happens the other way around. I took things too far and I would understand if none of the legal runner-up Olympians returned my phone calls after this.

47 months out of every four years, I couldn’t give a fuck about horses. But during the Olympics, I found myself debating their merits on horse message boards for about an hour a day. I learned new words like “equestrian” and “polo” and sent tweets to the horses that didn’t win races in very angry derision. The word “glue” got thrown around a lot and I now regret my insensitive actions in light of what happened on the HBO series “Luck” this past year. I hired an all-American horse to ride to the pub one night to watch the latest race and he did $17,000 in damages and I’m currently working on making that back by siphoning money from the Take-A-Penny tray at 7/11.

Around this time, I was dangerously addicted to geography. I took a sudden interest to a man by the name of Usain Bolt who hails from the distant land of “Jumanji”. Not the Robin Williams board game movie, there’s a country called that too apparently. I think. I was usually screaming deafeningly when they talked about him so I may have misheard. I ruptured my eardrums on  a daily basis during the games. Before Mr. Bolt the only Jumanjian man I had ever met was my cousin’s pot guy. But there I was, spending several hours a day, chanting “Usain”, at the top of my lungs while sipping beer from a beer-sipping-hat, and imitating his dances.

You’re probably wondering, as my life was in the depths of despair, how did I quit the Olympics? I quit cold turkey, which I learned during the parade of nations is the name of a country too. One day, NBC simply stopped broadcasting about them, and like many I simply picked up the pieces of my shattered life and soldiered on.  Within hours I had forgotten about everything that had happened. I will not once think about the Olympics again for four years, and will avoid all organized sports, flags, and physically fit people until then. I recently found out that they host Olympics in the winter as well, but I have no desire to watch those as I usually spend my Februarys in a cold-medicine-induced haze, and as they’re being hosted by Russia next I don’t want to see any HD footage of shirtless Russian men who’ve painted things on their stomach, nor do I have any inclination to do myself as it will be February.

The next summer games will be hosted in 2016 by Robert de Niro, who seems like a nice enough guy. I heard that baseball is going to be added as an Olympic sport to the next games which is great because I love ballpark franks and the sadistic thrill of large men, who do wear shirts, hitting things into a crowd where people are sitting. I will be attending these games under one stipulation. Despite the strength I’ve acquired from the support of my friends and family, I’m not quite sure that I’m strong enough to resist the temptation of doing a stupid thing on the JumboTron. Luckily, my court-appointed sponsor has huge, heaving breasts and they’ll be sitting three rows away from me, meaning the camera will instead focus on him.