Something is rotten in the state of Denmark, where the International Olympic Committee has chosen Rio de Janeiro to host the 2016 Olympic Games from a Final Four that also included Madrid, Tokyo, and our own never-had-a-chance, Chicago. Chicago, you’re a nice town, but c’mon, the Olympics? Stick to Lollapalooza.
But mu’fuckin’ Brazil? RIO DE JANEIRO, BRAZIL?! The place where a television host has been accused of commissioning murders for ratings is getting the most giant international media circus in the world. A gold medal in Rio de Janeiro should be awarded for leaving Rio de Janeiro with a gold medal. And your wallet. And your children. And without syphilis. My crazy friend who does stupid things and then lies about them professed to once getting trampled at the airport in Rio. Granted, it was probably a fabrication, but that doesn’t change the fact that stupid, crazy, pathologically liars fluctuate towards Rio and then tell not-that-unbelievable stories about getting trampled.
When I want to recreate the feeling of Rio de Janeiro I just eat feijoada in the back alley behind an abortion clinic while getting mugged by a samba band. I’ve never been to Rio, but if I ever find out I have 24 hours to live that’s where I’m headed. It’s my “you can’t fire me ’cause I quit” final destination. Which makes it a terrible place to hold the world’s biggest sporting event. UNLESS, the IOC decided there was nothing the terrorists could do to Rio that hadn’t been matched or bettered by Carníval. Carníval, of course, is Portuguese for “festival of rape and murder.”
Rio was supposed to be the unassuming also-ran; the candidate whose mere nomination was a victory. Like when Rosie Perez got nominated for an Oscar. Somehow, to everyone’s surprise, Brazil brought home the trophy. Like when Marisa Tomei was nominated for an Oscar.
If the IOC selected Tokyo I was planning on covering The Games for Japan’s formidable FHM counterpart, Vending Machine Panties Quarterly. Some must-read fashion tips in that periodical. Like, for instance, the tip about wearing vending machine panties on your face. It’s what the Japanese refer to as business-casual.
Really? Fucking Rio? You’re serious about this? Fine, I’m going.
My name is Ben and I blogged this.