Timeout, Olympics.

I know, I know, I’ve been a lame-arse on the blogging front, lately.  But I have a good excuse.  (More to come on that, next post.)  No, it’s not “I am Olympic-obsessed.”  I used to be, but in the words of Meg on the phone the other night, “I think it’s time for a little Olympic break.” 

I SOOOOOOO AGREE. 

I’m all for some good games, but wouldn’t it be nice if somebody proposed a little Olympic Intermission right about now?  It would be great for television; networks could air new preview episodes of Primetime shows.  I could even go for some Olympic-themed reality or gameshows.  You know, “Watch Phelps Eat a Big Mac,” “Eastern European Gymnast Makeover,” or, my personal favorite idea, some version of Busted or Olympic Cops.  You set up a sting where, say, all the gymnasts from every team get together for a bonding session, and Shawn Johnson says “Let’s go to McDonalds!”  Then they all look at that Chinese medalist with the missing front tooth and say “Oh, all our drivers’ licenses are in our purses.  You drive!”  And she bursts into tears and starts sucking her thumb.

Let’s just say I’ll go for anything that won’t force me into adrenaline-rush mode just by sitting on the couch and watching. 

Note to NBC:  The primetime hour is about laziness, and you’re pushing the envelope.  All the photo-finishes, the stopwatches, the shrieking, the Rocky IV-esque references to war playing out through sport.  The constant Costas-sizing.   Last night I heard him call something “Phelpsian.”  There was a brief pause from the other commentators.  You could feel their embarassment through the airwaves.  Seriously, if George W. had said something like that, you could have heard the collective American groan from space.  But because it’s THE OLYMPICS…WEEEEE!  Let’s promote global peace by reeeeallly testing the patience of the American public!

Oh, and, while I’m at it, NBC, beach volleyball?  Not that interesting.  Did some viewer tell you that it was?  Is that why you’ve insisted on airing seventeen straight hours of sweaty sand-throwing every night, followed by a few minutes of gymnastics and all-star basketball at 3 AM?  I understand that the bikinis are a draw for the guys, but two and a half hours later…let’s just say that if you expect my husband to keep watching, those chicks had better grow three feet and learn to dunk.    

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