Olympics are so corporate

Turns out the Olympics will be hosted in Beijing, China. Typical. After having them in Salt Lake, now we've got to re-emphasize how prosperous and intricately marketed our nation is by comparing it to a mud-watered, left-in-the-attic city that can't even take care of its own monuments. They say countries bid on where the Olympics will be held. So did Beijing offer all their factories that produce little doll hats, plastic dog squeaky toys and nail clippers or something? No, it's an international financial scam is what it is. And while it might boost China's economy with multitudes of tourists flocking to the stands selling silk shirts screaming "Welcome for Coming!" it sure doesn't help ME out. I just got a text from my bud Porter who's actually going to this stunt. And now I'M going to have to deal with the upgrade in caliber of his wardrobe when he gets back. Most definitely he'll be incorporating deck new apparel only found in China that no one else will have, nor even understand the ironic Chinese writings. So I'm currently planning my week-long trip to Denmark using my mom's paycheck in order to counter this dilemma. Danish is so in.

So why are the Olympics still going on anyway? Half the world sitting around the tube watching others physically compete with one another? No thanks. There're too many independent films out there I haven't seen yet. Don't waste my time with guys sweating it out and blindly chanting their appropriate country's anthems. Who cares! I couldn't imagine being as big as them either. It's morbid. No, it's programmed self-sacrifice. If I ever go over my 2% body fat I don't know what I'll do with all these jeans (I nabbed in Vice magazine that American Apparel was having a sale and I bought seven pairs).

We were gonna go for a town bike ride yesterday, but half of us couldn't get our rusted chains on our circa '79 fixed gears to work and no one had cash to buy a pump nor some WD-40, so we went back to Michell's. Some cheese puffs and two six packs of Blue Ribbon later, we're playing Rock Band. I did it for like 3 minutes, but got effing tired of it. Nothing but fan-fare, commercialized rock anyway. So I went to the basement and played the same 3 chords I know on my electric guitar without an amp for the next hour 45 minutes. I'd start a band, but I haven't met anyone with the same vision, and I don't want to get out of my element. When no one came down I decided to go back up. They wanted to watch something, and last week I bought "Wrist Cutters" on Ebay, and even though no one had seen it, they had all heard of it, so I was over it and sold it and bought "Caramel" instead. Sweet-ass Arabic subtitled film about affairs and lost love. No one's even heard of it.

This girl's eyeing me, so I'm probably gonna make out with her. She's got these super, thick-rimmed glasses that are sorta, like, covered by her leveled bangs. I'll probably tell everyone about what we did tomorrow at the show, but I might be too hung over to even remember. Anarchy.