Beach Volleyball. Or as I've personally coined it, Beach Dolly-ball.
You see, I'm trying to figure out why the official Olympic uniform for beach volleyball has to look like this:
I've seen more clothing in a Girls Gone Wild video. And I can't help but wonder if there's some sand-meets-Lycra hazard that makes it necessary for these athletes to wear as little of it as possible. Because, pardon me, but in my 46 years of watching the Olympic Games, there was always an integrity to the games. And if there were borderline sports included, they were always relegated to the wee hours of the morning when no one was watching. I've been tuning in during prime time all week long and every night at 8:00 Pacific Time, this is what I've been getting.
Now, I know what some of you are thinking. You're thinking, "Lori, um...don't you write for Blaze? Aren't these rather prudish thoughts by someone whose next book opens with a highly explicit blow job?"
Yes, I do write for Blaze, and let me explain. It's not the sex I have a problem with. It's the sexism. Because really, I didn't have a problem with Beach Volleyball until Wednesday. That was the day that, after watching naked women for three days straight, I heard Bob Costas announce that after the commercial break, NBC was going to bring me men's beach volleyball. And you can believe I perked up in my La-Z-Boy for that.
For three long commercial minutes, I sat with baited breath, anticipating the male equivalent of this Spring Break exhibition I'd been watching all week. I would be treated to a nice set of six packs, chizeled abs, a little nipple action. And Speedos. Teeny tiny little Speedos. With bulges. I wanted bulges. To get my payback, I should be able to gauge their religion through that thin layer of Spandex. And I held a collective breath for all women across the world as the cameras tuned in and I was treated to---
That was the moment I stopped watching the Olympics. Us women had been officially robbed and I was pissed. Beach Dolly-ball had turned the 2008 Summer Olympics into a big sexist joke. And with gymnasts falling off balance beams and Swedes tossing medals and storming off podiums, this criminal act was the last straw. Frustrated and thoroughly disgusted, I picked up a book and promptly stuck my nose in it, not willing to give the Olympics another minute of my valuable time.
Until the coverage flipped back to swimming, and I peeked out over the pages for a glimpse of this:
Okay, so maybe there might be something for us gals. In fact, given the deliciousness of that upper body, I'd have to admit us women might actually be coming out ahead. After all, it was my husband who said the Dolly-ball athletes aren't stacked enough to be of interest, and Michael Phelps is...well...let's just say there's plenty of stacking going on there.
And when his team won the relay and the camera caught him standing by the pool like this, I started rooting for gold.
I mean, seriously. Roll that wet suit down another quarter inch and George isn't the only Bush in the swim cube. And honey, if that isn't a fine display of stars and stripes, I don't know what is.
So I'm back for a few more nights at least, thankful in more ways than one that Michael Phelps is part of the games, bringing equilibrium to the events and justice to the world of sports.
So tell me, how many of you are watching the Olympic Games and what are your thoughts so far?
Lori Borrill is working on her fifth Harlequin Blaze. Her next release, titled "Unleashed", will be on shelves in November, 2008. It features a San Francisco Homicide Inspector who most definitely spends much of his time sans clothing.
As it should be.