YOUR OLYMPIC PERFORMANCE SICKENS ME

By Bob Costas, After Pedro Strop

You slow, weak, contemptible offal. Here you are at a showcase of the greatest athletic prowess on offer on this planet and you’ve turned this into an exhibition of ungainly lumbering. Frankly, you disgust me and I think that seven billion other people would agree.

Why don’t you dive off the Sugarloaf Mountain, your uncoordinated limbs flailing about before shattering into mediocre pieces on the rocks below, unmourned and unloved.

You rotten, shambling oaf. I’d sooner watch a writhing fish in its gill-starved death throes than look at that replay. Your performance could only be replicated by a corpse reanimated by a twisted, godless lightning scientist, you unwieldy Frankenstein, and I’ll just add here that I know that Frankenstein was the scientist so you tedious monster-pedants can spare NBC your letters.

To what country will you try to return? Certainly not your own,with a spectacle that can be explained only as a profound blasphemy against the uniform, the flag, and every single one of its inhabitants. What country will allow you to enter, if only to live out your days in a blighted wilderness, where points deductions will pale in comparison to deductions of flesh wrought by wolves and flesh-eating bacteria.

If it were me, I would shoot you into space, forever looking down upon that rotating blue globe, where no one country must claim you for its own after such a revolting display of athletic incompetence.

Those hundredths of a second told us all we needed to know your weak-willed, dilapidated, athletic abomination. I wouldn’t use you to extinguish the Olympic Torch.

Get off my television.