It Looks Like We’re All Pussies Now

Listen, we all know the IOC is a bullshit operation run by plundering gangsters. Nothing new to report there. This recent decision to exclude wrestling from the 2020 games and beyond, however, is unfathomable even by their low, inept, corrupt, money-grabbing standards. Seriously, what the McMutherfuck? Here is a short history lesson for the IOC, since clearly they didn’t consult anyone before making this decision.

It has been part of the Olympic Games since the Olympic Games was created.

Thus concludes the lesson. Don’t you wish high school history was this easy? It has been there since the inception of the games. The Greeks so respected the competition that it was the penultimate event to decide the Pentathlon. It is as much a part of Olympic tradition and lore as is running, jumping, throwing shit, you name it. How in sam hell are you going to shit-can it? If a bunch of Greek men rolling around on the ground naked and covered in olive oil is wrong, brother, then I don’t want to be right! I’m sure the politics behind this decision are complicated and frankly I don’t give a fuck what they are. Maybe wrestling isn’t paying a ton of bills right now, but archery is? We’re going to keep that shit where drunk Canadians push a giant hockey puck on a frozen pond while other drunk Canadians furiously sweep the ice in front of it with brooms, but we’re canceling an ancient Spartan contest (the first asshole who points out the origin of wrestling as the Sumerians long before the Spartans is banned from the Comments section for life) that was a founding event of the Olympic Games, the very games which give these IOC cum-guzzlers a reason to live and steal money??? What. The. Fuck. What next dipshits, medals for everyone so that nobody’s feelings get hurt? Was the IOC inundated with northeast liberal soccer moms bent on making sure everyone is a fucking emotion-filled pussy by the time they leave high school? Are we going to start serving Hi-C packets, orange wedges, and crustless peanut butter & jelly sandwiches to athletes during Olympic time-outs? I wanna fucking puke, then pick up the puke, feed it to my dog and wait until he pukes, then take that puke and mail it to the next IOC meeting marked “Lunch”. This is what happens when you let high-born, commie pinko Frencher douche bags run amok on the fumes of their own farts.

I must admit that I personally am no great lover of the sport of wrestling. This doesn’t mean I don’t respect it. They do workouts that would leave everyone else puking. I have many ex-wrestling friends and I know one indisputable fact about them: They are all batshit fucking nuts. All of them. And if I were surrounded by a pack of coked up drug cartel Mexicans bent on my demise, there are no other people on earth I’d want on my side. None. Not Seal Team 6, not Batman, no one. Because you just cannot teach crazy. They don’t fight fair, they come at you all controlled berserker, and they have this deeply ingrained knowledge of leverage and gravity-centering that leaves the rest of us blindly throwing haymakers from the “turtled” position just praying something lands. I had a Frat Brah from the university days who is big as fuck and was an accomplished heavyweight wrestler from northeast Ohio. He has a Viking name and he looks exactly like a Viking. Like if he were to show up to your house on a lake in a kayak tomorrow, in 2013, you and your dog would be dead, your wife raped, your house and outbuildings burning down, and your kids tied to the back of that kayak on their way to slavery so fucking fast your head would spin. Once upon a time in college we got hopped up on goofballs and headed down to the old gym to watch him compete in the intramural wresting competition. You know, just for fun, guys throwing on the old singlet, gettin’ sweaty, have a few matches, let’s all go get some beers later, okay? Well, the Viking didn’t get the memo. It was a bloodbath. Looked like someone let a silverback loose in the spider monkey cage. Grown men being bounced off walls like they were scarecrows. And the look in his eyes that night was one of pure, deranged abandon. Like Edward Norton when the cops show up after he just curbed a guy in American History X. Another Frat Brah, a mere half the Viking’s size, once responded to provocation from a rival Frat Guy in a bar like any rational person would–a pint glass to the face. No standard escalation procedure at all, no ”you talkin’ to me?” or “wanna take this outside?”, nope, just 16 cubic ounces of shattered glass to your skull. You can’t compete with that. When I was in high school I played intramural basketball. My team was champion all 3 years we played. We were kind of a big deal. Sort of like the Mix Tape Tour, only all white dudes and no one could dunk or dribble a basketball with their dick. Each year the one team that almost beat us was the goddamned wrestlers. Every fuckin’ year. They’d come at you all awkward elbows, hard fouls, no clue where to be on a basketball court. Their shots were fired from bizarre arm and hand positioning that looked like spiders with broken legs. They’d ricochet off the backboard at 120mph and somehow, defying all laws of physics, go in. It didn’t hurt that the refs were both wrestling aficionados who thought my team was a bunch of cocky pricks and thus no fouls were called, but still. Just because I’m not into wrestling and don’t understand their tribe doesn’t mean the sport isn’t badass and deserving of its rightful place at the head Olympic table. I cannot understand why a group of defenseless socialist Frenchers would want to piss off some of the craziest hardasses known to earth, but that is exactly what they did. Can you imagine trying to explain to a bunch of ancient Greeks that wrestling had been dropped from the Olympics? “Ummm. Okay. Then what are we supposed to do with all these greased up naked dudes?”

Sorry, went off on a touch of a tangent there. What I am curious to know at this point is, has anyone heard from the state of Iowa’s second greatest native (the first of course being my wife)? Can anyone vouch for the whereabouts of Dan Gable since this atrocity was announced? My guess is that he doesn’t find this decision to be kosher. In fact, are we certain he was not the person running around L.A. killing cops and torching cabins? I’m guessing that he is wandering his neighborhood right now pinning the shit out of random people. “Oh hi Dan, Mail Man here. Gotch’yer gas bill.” BOOM, TAKEDOWN! “Dan, little old Ethel Komplowski from across the street. I found your kitty cat on my back deck and thought you might want to know where he……” PINNED, 2 seconds! Dan is on a rampage right now, right? I wouldn’t be surprised if he has completely forgotten that it isn’t 1972 right now and that he isn’t in Munich. If a 68-year-old man shows up in Rio and wins gold in the last ever Olympic wrestling competition in 2016, don’t pretend that you weren’t warned. Which leads me to my plan for reversing this chickenshit decision. Petitions and protests are for the birds. These eurotrash Frenchers don’t respect anything so don’t waste your time with signatures. What we need to do is suit Dan Gable up in his 1972 USA singlet and drop him from an Apache helicopter straight into the next meeting of the IOC. Bingo-bango, problem solved. It would look like “Vision Quest” had sex with “Natural Born Killers”.

Who knows the outcome of this sad story? Maybe the backlash will be so severe, the creepy threats from dudes living by themselves in the bowels of the earth who won state in the 163lb class back in ’89 so many, that the IOC will decide it is inhibiting the enjoyment of their wine-and-cheese parties and nix Solo Synchronized Swimming instead. But if they stand pat on this, I want them all to know they’ve done nothing but weaken a planet with this bullshit decision. And if anyone sees Dan Gable hiding in the woods somewhere, dressed in his U.S.A. singlet with red, white and blue war paint on, looking through things rather than at them, might be wise to walk the other way and pretend you didn’t see anything. Perhaps I’m an old curmudgeon, I’ve certainly been accused of it before, but I don’t believe that to make “progress” you have to take a big, steamy, burrito and tequila dump on history and tradition.

About Zach

Male homo sapien. Warrior poet. I live in Chicago with one wife, one offspring, and Scout the dog. I enjoy various stuff. Besides skinny skiing and going to bullfights on acid, I also enjoy running, reading, drinking, eating and procrastinating on many things, such as starting this blog. I have a mom, a dad, and a younger brother who recently produced a sister-in-law. I'm the only person in my family, sister-in-law included, who doesn't have a post-graduate degree. I guess that makes me special. I grew up in a small to medium sized town in the middle of Ohio. In fact the even smaller town next door has a sign which reads "The Geographic Center of Ohio". Given this is what they choose to boast you can only imagine how exciting that town is. My town is infinitely cooler. For example on weekend nights people from my town and the surrounding villages and hamlets converge on the public square to "cruise" in their souped-up mini trucks, some bearing Confederate flags, despite growing up and living rather safely north of the Mason-Dixon line. This is high-minded stuff we're talking about here. I graduated sometime during the Clinton presidency from the local high school where I played football and participated in absolutely nothing else. This strategy paid huge dividends when I applied to numerous colleges on the eastern seaboard which were highly selective. When you show up to the admissions table with "HIgh School Football and Nothing Else" on your application, you get respect. After graduating from Ohio University with a degree in Economics that I've used for absolutely nothing, I moved to Boston. Boston is a lovely city. I was doing things I'm not proud of for beer money and I left after 16 months. My next move was to Chicago and 10+ years later there I still reside. I write this blog for therapeutic reasons. Much like some people paint to relax or smoke crack to unwind after a stressful day, I record my thoughts on Al Gore's World Wide Web for 9 friends, 4 family members, 1 person who accidentally clicked through after an unsuccessful Google search for something else, and a guy named Patriot1 who lives in a silver Air Stream in the Nevada desert and broadcasts his own radio show. Is there a point to all of this? I doubt it. Years ago and in a galaxy far, far away (College Park, Maryland, then Athens, Ohio) I was toying with the idea of being a journalism major. I enjoyed writing so it seemed the obvious fit. Then I attended career day and learned that journalism majors could look forward to a salary of $EA,TSH.IT per year with the promise of a fatal heart attack at 47 years of age. I'm not falling for that trick, I told them (them being no one, and told being saying it in my own mind in the shower). Approximately 15 years later here I sit declared the big winner in that battle: I never made any money doing anything else and now I'm writing entirely for free. So suck balls, journalism career day. The views expressed in this website are mine and mine entirely. I don't wish to be an even bigger black eye to my family than I probably already am. As a result of this I will never be able to run for public office and I accept that reality. But this website is a very dignified, well-dressed skeleton full of witty retorts and honorable deeds compared to the disheveled, stenching, staggering and loud skeletons who would come marching out of the closet to White Zombie's "Thunderkiss '65" if they ever unearthed the college years. So enjoy your train ride, your hangover day at work, your AA meeting or your dump. I'm here to serve.
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