Archive
08/19/08 - (3)
Ichthys I can't tell you how utterly tired and sick I am Of hearing Michael Phelps this and Michael Phelps that — His inhuman physique, his bad teeth, his fast-food addiction, His opportunities to reap millions of dollars In endorsements for water wings, dental floss, Whoppers — Right up there with Tiger Woods, Peyton Manning, Roger Federer, Kobe Bryant, and Paris Hilton.
Actually, I think I can. I should be able to put into objectified words Just how deep my brain-fatigue really goes, How appreciative I am of the Russian invasion of Georgia, The suicide bombings in Algeria, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Iraq, Even the inane negativity of America's presidential campaign, For offering such potential distractions from Phelpsmania.
And in doing so, with a reasonable degree of perspicacity, I should be able to exorcise my abhorrence, Purge, from memory, all that mesmerizingly maniacal hype, Those eight coated-with-only-six-grams-of-gold medals, The apotheosis of a twenty-three-year-old leviathan, A gill-less, finless, scaleless swimming machine. But I can't; I just damn-well can't,
Because every time I try, I feel like I'm being pulled under, Held down, by a mighty hand — two mighty arms — And two merely-thirty-inch-inseam legs, Surmounted by a V-shaped torso with a condor's wingspan,
As I drown in a perverse baptism of my stifled spirit, Being performed by Lord Michael, The Speedo LZR Racer–clad ichthys of the new millennium.
08/19/08 - (3)
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