I love the Olympics.
I love the storylines that I’ll forget about in two weeks, but right now are more dramatic than Shakespeare and Rasheed Wallace, combined.
I love fireworks. Seriously, they could have invaded Georgia with that much firepower.
I love the cracked-out buildings they created and the fact that they call them what they are, e.g., The Water Cube, The Bird’s Nest.
I love Michael Phelps. I don’t care if he gets all eight medals. What everyone is going to remember is him screaming (like your mom, giggity) as his teammate chased down the overconfident French to steal a gold away.
Speaking of the French, I love that they will never win a medal in fencing because they always surrender before the match starts. Ba-dum-dum.
I love watching sports that I didn’t know were sports. 40mm air pistols? It’s hard not get a medal when seven other people in the world compete in your event.
I love watching G.W.B. get all hot and bothered around Team USA beach volleyball. He was back at Yale with girls in bikinis. Fantastic.
I love Bob Costas.
I love that I have another week and a half of basketball, soccer, wrestling, track, gymnastics and all the other Olympics goodness NBC and their thirteen affiliates have in store.