Ohh! How yez all doin’?
Brooklyn Tony again, on the case, gettin’ yez all straightened out about these here Olympics.
I don’t know about you, but in my house, we got a little TV confusion since the Games began.
My father, who if he didn’t have the TV to watch every freakin’ wakin’ moment would probably walk into traffic, went a little bats the other night.
He goes out of the room for a little bit to visit the bathroom and turn it into a hazardous zone, and then touches base in the kitchen, where he goes deep with the mortadella and the provolone, and when he comes back, weaving under the weight of three plates, he gets a little surprise.
“Ohh!!”, he yells out in a voice they had no trouble hearing three blocks away.
When I come running into the room, he’s staring at the screen, which is supposed to be showing a nice little bloody unlimited fighting cage match, which usually involves two guys who look a whole lot like most of the males in the room at the last family reunion, and instead there’s a Chinese girl about 32 pounds playin’ johnny-on-the-pony wit’ a sawhorse.
- “You change the channel, numb nuts?”, he says to me.
- “Me? No.,” I says. “That’s the Olympics. They ain’t showing the fight.”
- Pop didn’t take this in his stride. Tell you the truth, I don’t think he’s got one.
- “Nah, nah, nah. I stopped watchin’ Wide World of Sports in 1975.”
- But bein’ that the Olympics is on, like, nine channels simulterrainally, you can’t get away.
So Pop is stuck lookin’ at stuff he don’t understand, and it occurred to me that I could help him and everybody else out by explainin’ what the hell is goin’ on. So here goes:
Brooklyn Tony’s Handy Guide to Olympic Sports
Let’s get a couple of things out of the way right now. If you don’t know what basketball, baseball, swimming, bicycle riding, soccer and boxing are, forget about the Olympics and report to the nearest precinct because you’re a freakin’ alien. This leaves us with your lesser known sports, which I will now explain.
Badminton: This is like tennis, except the two guys are whackin’ around this thing that looks like a flower with a rubber ball on the bottom. 21 wins, and it’s usually two Asian guys goin’ at it because they practice this stuff all the time. You gotta be kiddin’ me.
Rowing: This ain’t bad. Four mooks in a canoe rowing backward until they practically croak. They all gotta do the same thing at the same time, and the only thing that looks different is how they breathe, which there’s usually one mope in the boat who’s got plans for the emergency room when the thing is over.
Taekwondo: OK. Here the boys mix it up, usin’ the feet, and basically tryin’ to beat the crap outta each other. But they got a lotta penalties, too. For instance, If you deck the other guy, you can’t stand over him and say things about his girlfriend and his grandmother, like you do in the street. No good. They take points away, and you could wind up puttin’ a guy on the Sleepy Express and still lose the match because you also smacked him in the face a little bit. Gimme a break.
Shooting: If there was an Olympics in my neighborhood, this would be the only event. We got gold medal guys on every stoop. Take Johnny Mal Olio. This degenerate practices shooting so much, about the only time he ain’t holdin’ a gun is when he’s eatin’. Problem is, in the Olympics, they ask you to shoot at circular targets that are far away, and clay things they throw up in the air. This could cause a problem for Johnny, bein’ that his marksmanship to this point has involved human bodies at pretty close range, a process he refers to as “closin’ the book,” during which event judges have so far been somewhat unnecessary.
Water Polo: Another Olympic sport wiseguys would be good at. The basic idea is two teams playin’ soccer in the water and usin’ their hands instead of their feet. From what I could tell, if the other guy got the ball, you could pretty much throw him a beatin’ and take it away, and if he gets drowned, hey, he’s supposed to know how to swim before he gets in the freakin’ pool, no? Beautiful.
Fencing: This is a sport where you get dressed up like a cross between a beekeeper and an astronaut, and go at it with swords. Which was news to my friend Rocco the Degenerate Worm, who happened to get wind of the fencing competition during the Olympics held in Los Angeles some years back.
Screaming “that’s for me!,” after reading about it in the newspaper, he quickly made his way to the site of the competition. At the front gate of the venue, Rocco was met by a security guard who was very interested in seeing some official Olympic credentials with Rocco’s name correctly spelled on them.
“Yeah, yeah,” said Rocco. “Don’t worry, I’m a fencer.” The guard was unmoved in the extreme.
“Alright, pal,” Rocco crowed, “wrap your regulations around this,” and grandly opening the full-length raincoat he was wearing on the 85-degree day, displayed a very well-chosen set of silverware, and a selection of choice Rolex timepieces.
“Ain’t no Bulgarian takin’ a medal from me,” said Rocco proudly. “This is fencing .”