Everything is wrong with me
Monday, August 16, 2004
the Olympics, pudding pops, and emails
I could not give less of a shit about the Olympics. Really, do I care about things like the hammer-throw, judo, swimming, the horse jerking-off contest, or whatever the hell else they have? Aside from being a giant money-maker, I think the Olympics are an opportunity for people who aren't into sports to suddenly get into sports under the guise of patriotism, as witnessed by the conversation I had this weekend with my friend Annie, who knows essentially nothing about sports:

Me: "The Olympics suck."
Annie: "How can you say that? They are great! And you get to root for America!"
Me: "I'm not feeling very proud of America, or it's crappy sports."
Annie: [sighing] "Oh Jay."

On msn.com this morning there was a headline about "The Race of the Century", referring to American Michael Phelps racing Australian Ian Thorpe. As exciting as it is for me to watch two hairless, fit men swim up and down in a pool, I don't think "Race of the Century" is very appropriate. I think "The _____ of the _____" gets thrown around a little too much. While we're at it, let's call this site The Site of the Millennium and yours truly The Fat Man of all Fat Men.

The one sport I did want to watch has turned into a national disgrace: basketball. Wow - you're telling me that the US Olympic team, thrown together a month ago from the second-tier NBA players playing a "me-first" style of basketball is having trouble playing against textbook teams that have been together for years? Really?

The problem is that the US can't deal with the zone defense. For all you non-basketball people, the zone defense works roughly like this:

1) Everyone stand in a designated area of the court;
2) Help each other out to avoid one-on-one match-ups;
3) If the ball is delivered into the paint, the defense collapses around that player;
4) The result being that you're forcing the other team to beat you with the outside shot.

The US doesn't have ANY perimeter shooting. In their 92-73 debacle to Puerto Rico (yes, Puerto Rico), the US was a combined 3-for-24 from three-point land, which, might I add, is three feet shorter than NBA three-point range.

And Puerto Rico? Aren't there like 100,000 people in Puerto Rico, and aren't 95% of them mechanics, hoodlums, bus-boys, or in the hip-hop industry? [Note: totally ok for me to say this, since my ex was Puerto Rican.]

So I will be watching the Olympics, but only to see our NBA megastars get disgraced by teams that have a whole combined annual income comparable to Allen Iverson's last Tuesday's wage.


Apparently, you all feel very strongly about pudding pops. Like, almost to the point that I feel kinda uncomfortable reading your emails about your fond memories of puddin' on a stick, and how much you miss them, and how you need to have them back.

This is natural: I often associate a particular product with a period of good times in my life. For example, whenever I see condoms, I think of when I was having regular sex - you know, the good old days, long, long, long, long ago. Actually, whenever I see anything - flowers, cars, buildings, food, anything on TV, people, sunshine - I think of when I was having regular sex. Long, long, long, long ago.

The good news is that the pudding pops do exist. A few of you said you've had them, and my buddy Sean Hanson sent me this link, which says that they are back, albeit in a different incarnation.

However, yours truly, since he has really nothing better to do, did a little field work this weekend and could not find the pudding pops in his local grocer's freezer. However, it should be noted that I was only able to check three grocery stores in my neighborhood, because I got the runs and had to go home. [I ordered a pizza with chicken and ricotta on Friday night, ate half of it, left it out until Saturday night, heated it up and ate the rest, then was pretty, um, irregular on Sunday. Is this too much info?]

My official diagnosis is that pudding pops are NOT back. Never having been one for faith or kindness or wiping my ass properly, I have to see something to believe it. And until someone can put a pudding pop in my hand (hint-hint), they're dead to me.


One note about emails: I like getting the emails from you. I really do. I think it's fascinating to get your input, except when you call me homophobic and disgusting (though I admittedly am the latter). And, as you know, I get back to all of them, though most of the time I write something stupid because I am embarrassed, since you caught me right in the middle of a solid self-love session. But one thing I ask in the future: when you email, can you give me a name/name and last initial/full name and let me know if I can use it on the site? It'd also be cool to put where you live, so I can prove to my roommates and friends that yes, I really am an internet quasi-celebrity. This way, I don't have to respond and say, "Can I use this?" and then have to wait for your response and blah blah blah.

If you're confused by this, here's an example:

"Dear Jason,

I read your site often. I am 19 years old, have blond hair and blue eyes, and just got breast enhancement surgery. Though I have an uncontrollable urge to be performing oral sex all the time, even when I'm asleep, I haven't been with many guys, because I've been saving myself for someone special. And Jason, I think you are the one. Please let me know when I can come to stay with you in NYC, so that you can deflower me.

Jessica S.
Wichita, KS

PS: I have always wanted to watch porno. Do you think we could do that together and possibly act it out?

PPS: I've always wondered what it would be like to be with another woman. Me and my friend Ashley (34DD-20-32), who also reads your site and loves it, talk about it a lot. She's willing to come to NYC and try it all together, if you have room for her.

PPPS: Feel free to put this on your site, since I'll do pretty much anything to make you happy."

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