This just in from NBC's up-to-the-minute Olympic coverage, Jesse Owens wins the 100-meter dash.
Thanks NBC and thanks everybody who helped make Sydney 2000 the biggest bust since Dolly Parton.
It wasn't bad enough that the games themselves have been about as exciting as a cheese sandwich-the only thing more boring than live crap, by the way, is madly tape-delayed crap-, so C.J. Hunter, Andreea Raducan, a hare-lipped Belgian tourist and Hoppy the frickin one-legged kangaroo went off a got themselves in drug trouble.
Who the hell is in charge of the diet regiment down there, Michael Irvin?
And a big round of applause for the former Public Relations staff of Firestone, who have apparently all found themselves jobs trying to cover it up. Great job, guys, really.
But hey, drugs are tradition in the Olympics, without them we would have never had East German, uh, "women."
Of course, the only thing more absent than estrogen from East German women is the ever-continuing lack of American class.
The latest example-the Dream Team Part Crap.
I'll give the U.S. Olympic committee one thing, they're an incredibly limber group of guys. For the last six years, I've tried to see the point of view of the group of absolute huckleberries who decide every two years that we need a sequel Dream Team, but for whatever reason, I just can't seem to get my head wedged that far up my butt. Must be a double-jointed jackass thing.
Somebody wanna tell me at exactly what point America got its ego on loan from Bob Costas?
Is it really necessary to obliterate everyone in the world in a game we invented just to prove that the United States is the best country in the world?
Let me make it real simple to whatever huckleberry is in charge of the whole mess. You got the guns, you got the money, you won. Game over. The United States is the only superpower left in the world (whoop-de-frickin-doo) so how about you just get back to the Cold War victory parades and get over having to win another shoving contest.
People will talk all they want about it being something greater than it is. But it's not about putting out the best athletes, it's not about the Olympics being a commercial enterprise anyway, it's about the United States winning another international pissing contest and being as obnoxious as possible in doing so.
I mean, hey, don't let little things like "fairness" and the "spirit of competition" get in the way. Don't let making a mockery of the Olympic games get in the way of that ever valuable and now meaningless gold medal. The Dream Team is all about the United States. having an ego expanding faster than Rosanne Barr's butt.
But hey guys, let's not just stop at basketball. Apparently there's a five-year-old in Croatia with a nasty draw in Chutes and Ladders, so for the love of America somebody please get Stephen Hawking ready. And let's not even begin to talk about the scary lead Palau has developed in tiddly-winks technology.
Just a thought.
Now I admit, the Dream Team was kinda neat-once. You know what else was neat once? My pet rock. And Lord knows we all had Macarena fever for about a day, but eventually it fell by the wayside, and my pet rock was involved in a horrible cement mixer mistaken identity issue.
And if we're lucky, the Dream Team will follow suit to crap heaven.
Look, I'm sure the 6-foot-3, 138 pound Boutrous Boutrous-click-click-Ha of the powerful Djibouti team is one hell of a center, but do we really need to send the Dream Team to take care of them?
Isn't it vaguely possible that we could send college kids again? So what if we lose once in a while? We'd still know that our professionals are better than anybody else's, why do we have to completely destroy the Olympic games just to prove it?
For our next trick, why don't we just blow up the sun to prove how important it is? Or maybe better yet we could just stamp a big picture of Britney Spears on it to prove American superiority.
Besides, professional basketball is the worst form of the game ever. Who wants to watch two crap-tacular weeks of the United States beating up on little countries that have to have arrows pointing to their names on maps. Just a rule of thumb, if you've got an arrow pointing toward your country, you probably suck at sports.
Watching these countries play the Dream Team is like watching Dekes at a sorority mixer function-there are a bunch of guys standing around with no idea what to do.
Send the college kids back, at least they're fun to watch. Besides, if they lose, it's not like the world doesn't knows we suck at some stuff, frickin Simon Sez-the Dennis Rodman, uh, epic film for those of you who were $6 wiser than me-got an international release, after all, and it's "American" that comes before the phrase "thespian Keanu Reeves." Hell, we even managed to make David Hasselhoff an international star.
If the world were one big dinner party, we'd be the one huckleberry that shows up with a clip-on tie and a short-sleeve shirt.
If American couth were a snack food, it'd be circus peanuts.
And hell, why do we even bother calling this team the Dream Team? What kind of dreams is the huckleberry that brought this sorry group together having? Look at the roster-Steve Smith, Antonio McDyess, Vin Baker. What's the matter, Uwe frickin Blab wasn't available? The Quad City Thunder got Alaa Abdelnaby under tight wraps? Come on.
And don't give me any crap about putting out the best players in the world.
The most irrelevant people in the world are probably athletes, sportswriters and Vanna White (c'mon, she doesn't even have to turn the letters anymore).
Sure, athletes can be some of the world's greatest people from time to time, transcending the playing field to become a part of the cultural fabric (American cultural fabric, of course, being manufactured in a sweatshop in Malaysia). People like Arthur Ashe, Jackie Robinson, Billie Jean King were able to change the world with a big push from sports.
But in the end, it's just a game.
USA, way to kill it. Huckleberries.
UPON FURTHER REVIEW is a weekly column written by a Chronicle sports columnist. It appears every Wednesday.
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