108. Competition

One of the favorite guises that C.W. likes to show up in resembles the drugged-out stoner from the Cheech and Chong films. He swears it is just for fun, but I’m beginning to suspect that he has developed a penchant for Tuk Fin. At any rate, he can certainly be entertaining, as he was last evening.

I was working on a project in an adjoining room and we had the farmhouse to ourselves as my wife was taking her mom shopping. Suddenly this piercing scream shattered the silence.

“Big Dope,” he yelled. “Commear … this one dude just finished a race a whole tenth of a second before the other!”

Yes, he was watching the Olympic games. “That’s nice,” I said. “Are the fans excited?”

“Oh, man,” he said. “They’re crappin’ en masse.”

He was quiet for awhile. I thought I heard him changing channels but then he started yelling “Go, girls, go,” and “Way to go girls.”

I tried to ignore him until he yelled for me, “Hey man, come check out the beach volleyball.”

Hmmm. Maybe I would.

I walked in and watched for a few seconds.

“Is that a great team or what?” he said.

“C.W.,” I said. “I hate to tell you.”

“Tell me what, man?”

A young beauty ran across the screen, lost the top of bikini, turned and giggled at the camera, and ran off.

“That is the Playboy Channel.”

“Far out, man.”

I eased back to my project after a few minutes and left him to himself. He was quiet for a spell, then started yelling again.

“Hey Big Dope, come see the farm and ranch channel.”

“The what?”

“The farm and ranch channel, man. I think it’s a show called ‘The Jolly Rancher.’”

Intrigued, I went back.

“Lookit the dancing horse,” he said.

“That’s not the farm and ranch channel,” I said.

“It’s not?”

“No, that’s the Olympics.”

“No way, man. Dancing horses?”

“Dancing horses.”

“Who started the Olympics, man?”

“The Greeks.”

He watched the horse dancing to the music, ridden by a woman who could have easily produced diamonds from a length of pencil lead by "the Ferris Bueller method."

“So maybe man,” he said. “Those century-old rumors about Alexander the Great are true after all.”

I ignored him and went back to work. But he wasn’t through. After I had forgotten him, he inserted himself back into my attention with shouts of “U.S.A, U.S.A., U.S.A,” the top of his voice. Believing that something important might be happening, I peeked around the corner. He was still chanting and pumping his hand.

“Hey man, these Olympics of yours are great … U.S.A, U.S .A.”

“Uh, C.W,” I said as a young lady reached her apogee and her skirt flew up over her head, exposing her underwear. “This isn’t the Olympics.”

Far out, man. - C.W.

“Oh, yeah man, it’s the trampoline competition.”

“No, C.W,” I said. “It’s a rerun of ‘The Man Show.’”

“Your species really knows how to entertain, man."

91. Sports

She was beautiful, the kind of creature that would make an old man buy a Harley. I figured it was C.W. of course, but oh my goodness. When I opened the door, the image took my breath away.

Fortunately, my wife was visiting her mother, for there before me stood a nearly six-foot tall goddess in a string bikini that stopped a heartbeat shy of saying “howdy.” One could have fashioned both top and bottom from a single hanky with enough left over for a headband. Her face seemed to leap from the pages of a glamour magazine and her body would have made Pat Robertson do the “buck and wing.”

She was that stunning.

“We need to talk,” she said as a single tear slid down her perfect face. She brushed past me into the living room and asked if she could sit.

I sat and motioned. “On the crotch …” I stammered. “The, uh, couch,” I corrected myself.

She gave me a quizzical look and sat.

“What’s up, C.W.?” I asked.

“She looked confused. “I’m Delta Donax,” she said. “Don’t you recognize me?” She crossed her legs.

“Should I?” I asked. “Are you a pubic figure?” I said, and froze.

“I am an Olympic athlete. Haven’t you seen me before?” She looked directly at me.

“Your thighs, I mean your eyes look familiar,” I managed. “What sport?”

“Beach Volleyball.”

“Are you sensuous?” I stopped. “Serious, I mean serious.”

“Yes,” she said. “That is the problem.” Then she burst into tears.

“Now, now,” I said, trying my best to comfort her. “Why don’t you get it off your breasts and tell me about it.”

She looked confused but explained between sobs. “Nobody takes me seriously.”

“Oh, I’m sure they do,” I said.

“No,” she said. “Some sportswriters think that I am simply a hot body.”

“Well,” I said soothingly. “They are just boobs, dummies I mean.”

“If I was an Indian who could run fast, they would write books and make movies about me.” She stood up and paced.

“Perhaps,” I said. “Especially if you could excel in the longer buns.”

”What?”

“Uh, longer runs,” I said. “Long runs.”

She eyed me suspiciously. “Do you know what the Greeks first wanted to promote with the Olympics?”

The air conditioner had kicked on a few second earlier and her body immediately manifested the fact beneath her bikini top, attracting my gaze.

“Peas.”

She glared at me.

“Peace,” I said quickly. “Peace among the city states.”

“You men are all alike,” she said.

”Perhaps if you wore less revealing uniforms.”

“Tell that to Jesse Owens and Michael Phelps .”

”You have a couple of good points there.” She caught me looking again.

“Is there something bothering you?” she said.

“Well,” I said. “There are differences between track and field, gymnastics, and beach volleyball.” Not quitting while I was ahead, I added, “Mounds of difference.”


Phidippides would have made it
to Marathon even faster had these
athletes been wating there. - C.W.



She exploded. “Well why don’t you take your ‘mounds’ or whatever and ..”

“C.W.,” I said. “Calm down.”

She didn’t say another word, just walked to the door and left. As she walked out, I couldn’t help noticing the raised outline of a tattoo beneath her bikini bottom. It read simply, “Bite me.”

At least I think it was C.W.