August 3, 2012 § 15 Comments
I don’t give a rat’s ass if you’re a drunk. Some of my best friends are drunks. Countless members of my family are drunks. My brother was a drunk for most of his adult life, and was barely sober for a year before committing suicide. My uncle, a lifelong alcoholic, died from an illness most likely caused by his drinking. I had to quit drinking because I was a drunk.
Actually, I didn’t have to. I got lucky and decided to.
Not one single day goes by when I don’t miss the taste of beer. Not a single meal passes when I don’t think, “This would sure taste better with a glass of wine or a cold draught of sake.” Every single day when I get home from work I long, yes long, to blot out the day. When I dine with friends I envy their drinking and wish more than anything that I could knock one back and be one of the boys again. It’s like spending the night in bed with the naked woman you love and ragingly desire, but cannot touch.
Some of the world’s greatest people were stupendous drunks. The greatest novelists were practically required to be. Terrible, wondrous, bilesome, awfully awesome moments of blurry thought and staggered motion have often been accompanied by greatness.
But let’s do the world’s drunks a favor, reformed or red-hot: Let’s call them what they are. Drunks.
Bradley Wiggins is a drunk
Please take a moment and read his autobiteography, “In Pursuit of Glory.” On second thought, don’t. It’s atrocious. Instead, you can browse my handy-dandy review where I noted, long before his Olympiccorp success in London, that he is an alcoholic, which is a sympathetic way of saying “a drunk.”
Wiggly’s father was a drunk, and died from it. Wiggly spent much of his career with Cofidis as a lone drunk, by his own admission wrapping up each day with a six-pack. To those of you who sniff that you can’t get drunk on six beers, you don’t know the physiology of a twiggly pro road cyclist.
Wiggly chronicles his binge drinking after the Olympiccorp production in Athens, and confesses that he had a drinking problem. Well, so what?
Here’s what: once a drunk, always a drunk. Whether you’re a binge drunk, or a steady drunk, or a wake-up and get drunk drunk, or an it don’t take much drunk, or, like my friend’s daughter’s husband who drinks a case of Budweiser in his car every morning on the way to work in Houston–TRUE FUCKING STORY–you’re a drunk.
Don’t piss down my back and tell me it’s raining
In fact, while you’re at it, don’t piss down my back at all. Pretending that Wiggly is anything but a drunk is like pissing down my throat, or into my braincase. It’s a total violation. In the same way that we (me not being one of us) can admire Brad’s mastery of doping, we (me not being one of us) can also admire the fact that he’s an alcoholic/drunk/boozer/ginny/wino who functions well enough to win gold medals and yellow jerseys.
The giddy Brits, so unaccustomed to the colors of yellow and gold, and so blind-eyed to the drug-addled trajectory of the guy who will soon be “Sir Wiggly,” would rather that Brad’s alcoholism be something other than it is. I know how they feel, but as with all self-deceptions, this one is most grotesque when thrown in the face of people who are drunks and who are trying to do something about it.
”He is absolutely thoroughly entitled to have a fantastic party and celebrate,” BOA chairman Colin Moynihan said Thursday. ”Nobody deserves it more.”
Translation: If you work hard and succeed, drinking 8-16 ounces of hard liquor is not only appropriate but is something you “deserve.” Kind of like how, after working hard and succeeding, you deserve a few syringes of heroin. Same thing.
”It’s extraordinary what he has done,” said Andy Hunt, head of Britain’s Olympic delegation. ”There isn’t a person in the country who wouldn’t want to buy him a drink.”
Translation: Regardless of whether his behavior is appropriate (probably) or admirable (doubtful) or the kind of thing that should serve as a role model for anyone, anywhere (no fucking way), it’s okay because Britain, with one of the worst binge drinking problems in the world, would be happy to foot the bill.
”I lead a pretty normal life,” he said between sips of a vodka and tonic on Wednesday night. ”I’m not a celebrity. I will never be a celebrity.”
Translation: Every bone idling wanker has seven Olympic medals, a TdF win, and 400,000 Twitter followers. Don’t you?
“I despise that whole celebrity culture.”
Translation: I’ve been a celebrity so long that I have no idea what the word even means.
“I know how the Beatles felt now.”
Translation: A guy who rode his bike in circles a few times thinks he’s as popular as the greatest rock and roll band of all time. He’s drunk off his ass, for sure.
And then this gem from IOC spokesman Mark Adams: ”Drink wisely.”
Translation: What Wiggins is doing is against everything we stand for, and it’s incredibly dangerous, but it’ll be a cold day in hell before we spit in Olympiccorp’s punchbowl.
“She [the Queen] sent me a lovely letter which was nice to receive but whatever comes next is fantastic, I’ll take it. Sir Wiggo sounds nice.”
Translation: I’m a boor and a stupid prick. Knight me, already, cunt.
“I’m just going to get really drunk tonight and have a good think about things.”
Translation: My alcoholism is so advanced that I can’t distinguish clarity of thought from drunkenness, and in fact, it seems as if alcohol actually sharpens my intellect, which I suppose is proof of complete alcoholism.
MP Emily Thornberry got in on the act with this gem: “He is a national hero, a fantastic role model. If anybody should be knighted, he should be.”
Translation: I have no idea what a role model should do, but I would hope it involves Mr. Wiggins shoving his cock up between my legs as soon as possible.
What’s really at stake
Of course the reason no one wants to call Wiggly a drunk, least of all Wiggly himself, is because then someone would have to do something about it. Instead of calling him a regular bloke, or a role model, or an incredible champion, all things that may well be true, they’d have to also call him a sorry fucking drunk who needs help.
And goodness knows, we can’t have that. It’s not part of the Olympiccorp script.
August 1, 2012 § 8 Comments
My life is run by corporations. They pick my government, which writes my laws, enacts the agencies that regulate my behavior, and tells the local, state, and national paramilitary police when to arrest me for fucking up. They tell me what to think (I generally comply), what to read (I’m a dutiful consumer of Google News), and what to say. Two out of three isn’t bad.
Every four years Globalcorp, through its athletic subsidiary Olympiccorp, puts on a multi-day performance of the Olympiccorp Repertory Theatre. As Dr. Trolliam Stone likes to say, “It’s a douchefest of watery-eyed American mothers weeping over their sons’ and daughters’ gold medals. Thank goodness we don’t have to watch on NBC those events where Mitt Romney’s culturally inferior nations stomp us into a bloody fucking mess of bone, blood, snot, and matted hair.”
Despite its flawless planning, its authoritarian repression of dissent, and Olympiccorp’s pageantry to criminal regimes like Red China, every once in a while the players get off script.
Honor among thieves
Whoever said that there’s honor among thieves has never spent time in prison, or among thieves, or in the middle of a bike race. As a recent women’s Cat 3 crit debutante recently announced, “In bike racing, I don’t trust anybody.”
That’s what you’d expect from a newbie. Give her a few more seasons and she’ll be experienced enough to leave off the “In bike racing” part of the sentence.
Olympiccorp puts on its show the way its parent company, Globalcorp, runs its business. The venue is given to the country with the most outlandish bribes. The Olympiccorp committee is composed of thieves, skulduggerers, and cronies of the wartiest sort. Globalcorp branches such as CocaPepsi, MacVomit, and VisaBK are rewarded for their participation in the advertising spectacle by giving away expensive comp tickets to wealthy patrons who never use them. The specter of major contests held in gymnasiums that look like they’ve been hit with the plague speaks to both the scale of the corruption and to the fact that the only viewers who matter are the ones on the other end of the TV cameras.
The only thing that the nation-states who bribe Olympiccorp ask in exchange for the billions in tax dollars that they lavish on strangers even as their own citizens live under the grinding wheel of poverty and want, is that Olympiccorp’s theatrical performance include at least one major show that will make the host country’s citizenry feel the pride of patriotism.
You know, patriotism: that falsehood fanned by nations to encourage mothers and fathers to send their only begotten sons and daughters off to slaughter in foreign lands.
Olympiccorp’s top dude, Jacques Rogge, got together with Queen Elizabeth to plot out the proper theme for the men’s road race.
Jacques: What is your wish for this event, Your Majesty?
Jacques: The Olympiccorp men’s road race. It’s in London this year, Your Majesty.
Liz: Eh? What’s in London?
Jacques: Olympiccorp ’12, Your Highness.
Liz: Right. Of course it is. Where else would it be?
Jacques: Well, four years ago it was in Beijing.
Jacques: Beijing, Your Majesty. China.
Liz: What was in China?
Jacques: The last Olympiccorp Repertory Theatre, Your Majesty.
Liz: That’s ridiculous. China and India are still part of the Empire, aren’t they? Why should they have it?
Jacques: Exactly, Your Majesty. That’s why it’s now in London, where it belongs.
Liz: Well, it’s about bloody time. Which ones are we going to win?
Jacques: We were thinking that after the Tour de France and world championship victories of Mr. Bradley Wiggins and Mr. Mark Cavendish, it would be appropriate for Britain to achieve gold in the men’s cycling road race.
Liz: Eh? Who?
Jacques: Wiggins, Bradley. He just won the Tour de France, Your Majesty.
Liz: But we’re in England now, and I don’t give two Catholics for whatever they’re doing in France.
Jacques: Yes, of course, Your Highness. But it was quite an achievement. He’s the first British citizen to win the world’s most famous cycling event.
Liz: I thought you said it was in France.
Jacques: I did, Your Majesty.
Liz (huffily): Well make up your bloody mind. It’s either the world’s most famous event or it’s in France. You can’t have both.
Jacques: Well, Mr. Wiggins…
Liz: And what kind of name is “Wiggins.” Doesn’t sound English to me. Sounds Australian, or American. Ugh.
Jacques: Actually, his father was Australian.
Liz: I knew it. So ‘e’s not really even English. Where was he born, then? Liverpool? Next you’ll tell me I have to go knighting another Liverpudlian, as if that fellow McCartney wasn’t enough, or some gay singer like that John fellow.
Jacques: Mr. Wiggins was born in Ghent, in fact.
Liz: Oh, there now! I told you he wasn’t English! Prison convict for a father and born amongst Catholics. This will never do. Let’s pick another event to win. This won’t do at all. I could no more shake his dirty hand than wash his underpants.
Jacques: There’s Mark Cavendish, Your Majesty. He stands a good chance at gold if we “let the troops know” that’s how it should play out.
Liz: So he’s good, then?
Jacques: When we can keep him off the donuts and beer, he’s the best, Your Majesty.
Liz: And you say he’s handsome?
Jacques: I’d not go quite that far, Your Highness.
Liz: Well, I suppose if that’s the best we can do, we might as well have that one. All right then, put me down for a gold medallion in the bicycle chase.
The doper who didn’t get the memo
With all of Formerly Great Britain primed and excited for the win, and with the stupid fans of Wiggins and Cavendish primed to watch the best of Britain deliver Horseface to the finish line, the stage was set to perfection.
Unfortunately, the unrepentant doper, recalcitrant road warrior, and scheming son of Borat otherwise known as “Vino” didn’t get the memo. With an entire career built on lies, deceit, doping, and some of the most colorfully tactical road riding in the last twenty years, Vino charred the British fish and poured salt in their beer with a stylish, gutsy, aggressive win that confounded the brainless automatons who have learned to dominate through earpieces and overwhelming team strength, and who will never know how to race on smarts, strategy, courage, and a suitcase full of drugs.
Despite having their own career team cheater in the form of David Millar, the British faithful were outraged at this off-script victory, snatched out from beneath their paunches by an aging ex-Communist doping villain.
But what, in truth, could be more fitting for this tainted sport than the most tainted and decorated rider still in the peloton stealing an impressive win at the tainted Olympiccorp Theatre of the Absurd? The only thing we missed was his sobbing mother.