…or, actually, I hate the sweater-wearing Poodle they’ve become. An abomination. I hate the end product.
Like many things which I dislike/hate/detest (a lot when you’re speaking of me), the elemental form, the pure form, is not what I dislike.
It’s the human touch that makes me cringe and sour. The human taint.
Like children and animals.
I like them in principle, but I cannot tolerate their intrusive, bothersome existence when parents and owners (and fans) become involved and browbeat the shit to death. As soon as people get their grimy hands on anything, ANYTHING, they will malign and devour the enjoyability of (list any activity or item).
Like the Olympics.
The sport and athleticism of Olympic athletes is a marvel to behold. The training and talent that these athletes possess is downright miraculous. I might be awed if I actually sat down and watched. I have not watched even 5 seconds of Olympic coverage this year, and I don’t think I’ll watch 5 seconds before the wonderful closing ceremonies signal a return to life as normal. A life without the politics and hoopla and sob stories and faggotry and tears. Oh god, give it a rest.
The pomp and circumstance makes the spectacle unbearable. The network meddling and distortion of timing and possessiveness of the Olympic brand is comical and painful. The interspersed programming segments of stupid corny inspirational stories is embarrassingly pathetic. Let’s just watch some competition, please. This overwrought television production is something chicks dig with all its feel-good syrupy shallow angles. How about some competition, and let us, the viewer, decide what we like or don’t.
The Olympics, like children and dogs, are fine, even enjoyable and tolerable, in the empty forest where the tree falls silently.
Enter the repulsive human ego and lust for drama, and the dreary reality settles in.
The Olympics suck.