Dear Giant Squid,

What's the best part of the Olympics?

Thanks,
Bob Mapplethorpe

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My Dearest Bob,

As is well established, the tastiest cut of meat is always that which is most used. In the case of the Olympics and legislators, that would be the jowls. One who has tasted of the Olympic jowls never goes back, Bob; it is a dark and eternal hunger that follows. Be-waaaaare!

HA! I jest at not understanding your meaning (although I jest not when I speak of the sweet savor of smoked congressional jowl bacon; such a dark and addicting delight!) There is much to love and admire in this wintry Olympics, and I sought to jot down just a few and sundry notes as to those parts which I delight in most, including:

• The decadogathalon—which some scoff as a pantywaisted bastardization of the epic Alaskan Iditarod, but to those scoffers, I ask: "What is the fastest time in which you have devoured ten dogs?" Yes, an Iditarodiot covers more ground, but she also takes far longer to sup on her dogs—up to a fortnight, eating a dog or more per evening, until finally one exhausted husky is left to drag its master and fate across the finish line before it, too, is fallen upon—whilst an Olympic-qualifying decadogathalete can skin, truss, kill, and eat a dog in under three minutes! It boggles the mind!
• That most dangerous game of biathlon, pitting man against man (and woman) in a contest of endurance and cunning until only one is left un-perforated by .22 caliber bullets, gliding gracefully through the blood-mucked alpine trails of her joyous Elimination Round, in which she receives doubled points for each panicked and scattering spectator winged or plugged.
• The multi-faceted team-sport of Project Ice Dancing, moderated by Dame Heidi Klum herself, with its progressive eliminations, bizarre and tricksy challenges, and hot tranny mess of point abrogating catchphraseology.

I shared an early draft of this list with my lab assistant, Rob, who skimmed it desultorily before noting, apropos of nothing.

"You know, Lord A., this list, it's like . . . I don't wanna be a wet bee in your bonnet, but, for example, I was totally, totally convinced that 'Nordic combined' was this sort of crazy-on-the-snow-slopes bi-curious ski-bunny sexathon, right, on account of this one DVD I saw about a year ago. So I was totally hyped when I heard NBC was actually gonna televise it: stocked up on the KY, blocked off some me-time for the tube, tuned in Valentines Day all ready for love, and it turns out to be some cross-country-ski-jump sausage fest. Total, epic bummer, you know."

"AND THIS BUM-MER STIFLED YOUR SPIRITS SO?"

Rob shrugged, then waved his hand and sighed.

"It was sort of the icing, you know? This whole Olympics has been a bust. Yeah, that Lindsey Vonn chick is basically hot, but men's figure skating was sort of a let down . . . and . . . and you know what's been fucking bugging me? Curling. Seriously, our curling's been for ass this whole Olympics."

I agreed with vigor; the state of American curling is deplorable, and the level of worldwide curling far below what I would hope, in terms of accuracy and consistency of performance. It is like as though the entirety of human culture has forgotten their deep and mighty curling roots, and this sickens me to my strange and eldritch core.

"For reals! How the hell did we even get in the Olympics with game like this? Seriously! I get it when we're schooled by Germany and Norway and Oh Canada and shit, those are some icy-ass motherfuckers, and it was hot as shit when the ladies pulled it out on the Russian Federation on Friday—even though those fucks came back the next day and fucking creamed Sweden—but, for reals, we got served by fucking China and Japan?!? Do they even fucking have ice in Japan!?!"

"THEY HAVE HOT-TUB MONKEYS, ROB, SO IT STANDS TO REASON THAT THEY HAVE ICE—"

"Fuck that! I don't care! We're not curling against fucking hot-tub monkeys! Were curling against a bunch of fucks who should drop the stones and fucking pay attention to how they're wiring up our goddamned breaks! Akio Toyoda, get off my goddamn ice!"

Rob then loosed a wrenchingly frustrated groan, crumpled my nascent list, cast it upon the floor, and stomped out from my lab in a fit of Olympian pique. Were I not confined to my tank, I would have done likewise.

So, in truth, it should be obvious to all: The very jowl bacon of any Winter Olympics is the curling, and this year, our curling has gone rancid, and there is to be no joy, regardless of how many dogs are consumed, how many ice dancers reduced to pellucid tears, or how many ski rabbits remove which garments and for what duration. Perhaps owing to the unseasonable warmth in British Columbia, this Olympics have spoilt.

I Yet Remain,
Your Giant Squid
Editor-in-Chief
PMjA