Last night, I couldn't help but catch the Olympic spirit and tune in to the games. So my city husband, Kyle, and I settled in, cocktails in hand to watch. While the ice dancers got their twizzle on, I got my swizzle on...swizzle stick in drink, of course. We realized right away that we were natural sports commentators.
Here are a few of our random observations on the Ice Dancing competition:
What is it with the French and scarves? Didn't they learn anything from Isadora Duncan? If that girl gets her blade caught in his chiffon, there's going to be a decapitation.
I think the adorable brother and sister team from the U.S. should extra points for not grossing people out by making it look incestuous. Their routine could have been very uncomfortable to watch.
That Canadian couple has such animated expressions that at any moment I expect them to morph into cartoon characters.
I'm not sure about those Russians, but I don't think that "eerie," "creepy," "gloomy," or "suicidal" are supposed to be the words that come to mind when watching a routine.
I like the whole Les Miserable theme, but I wish the chick had gone more peasant prostitute with the pox.
Whoever wrote The Little Prince was on acid...no doubt.
If we ever become ice dancers, we'll tell the story of The Giving Tree. I'll be the tree...until your ungrateful ass chops me into a stump, of course.
And, upon the amazing U.S. team of Meryl Davis and Charlie White winning the Gold and being presented with flowers instead...
Fuck some flora, where's my medal, bitches?
the bourbonistA, Promoting Debauchery and stamping out political-correctness one blog at a time.