So, did you hear about the one about the 4 international cities – Madrid, Rio de Janeiro, Tokyo, and Chicago – that each put up a bid to host the 2016 Olympics?
Oh, you did, huh?
Interesting story out of Copenhagen, Denmark today. The International Olympic Committee went through its series of secret ballots to determine the host country of the 2016 Summer Olympic Games. While not as mysterious as a papal election, an Olympic vote is every bit as much shrouded in intrigue, suspense, and secrecy. Delegates gather their votes in blocs (all of Africa voting for the same country, for example) and vote in rounds, with the lowest vote getter eliminated after each round until a single survivor remains standing.
The real intrigue begins after the first round. An entirely new election is held for each subsequent round. A country could vote for one city in Round 1, then, even if the city they voted for originally is still in the running, vote for any of the three remaining in Round 2. Blocs and alliances are built, and double-crosses are played, all in the protective enclave of a secret ballot.
Now, there was a better story in the good old days – and, by the good old days, I mean just a decade ago. Used to be votes were plied the good old fashioned way – bribery. Sure, there was the usual – and very boring, I might add – cash and gifts. Better yet were the storied, sordid forays into the debauchery of steak and lobster, scotch and cigars, and strippers and hookers. Nobody parties like an IOC representative, save maybe hair metal rockers from Los Angeles. Unfortunately, the bozos in Salt Lake City; who, as we know, are a bit inexperienced in hosting raunchy parties; got caught with their pants down with the whole bribery thing and ruined a good party for everyone. Never would have happened from a Las Vegas Olympic Organizing Committee, I’m telling you that now.
So, in the absence of strippers and hookers, scotch and cigars, steak and lobster, and cash and gifts, the big story of this Olympic voting process was the primping and pimping of the Obamas, President Barack and First Lady Michelle. In the midst of a national debate on health care and the economic recovery, the Prez went to Norway to sell the IOC on the relative merits of his adopted hometown Chicago.
By all accounts, the Obamas were a hit – some in the media described them as “rock stars.” Yeah, that’s what I want. I want the President of the United States (POTUS), not that long ago universally described as “the most powerful person in the world,” degraded to the level of a celebritard signer. You know what’s going to happen if Bret Michaels gets wind of all this, don’t you? I can see his candidacy speech on VH1 now, followed by a new episode of “Daisy of Love.”
Rio, today’s winner, is a good choice for the Olympics – in its history, the Olympics have never been held in South America. Hey, it’s not just going to be samba, boat drinks, and topless beaches, although all of that sounds great. Imagine the fun of watching Usain Bolt try to sprint away from a mugger on the streets of Rio. Or, the Brazilian police supplying the javelin throwers with equipment from their “let’s make the homeless children problem disappear” arsenal. But, if it hadn’t been Rio, I would have had no quarrel with any of the cities being named host.
I do have just a bit of a problem with the President working delegates for votes like a truck-stop waitress slinging hash looking for a wrinkly Washington so she doesn’t have to double-shift at the strip bar for baby formula money.
There’s supposed to be dignity in the Office of the President. Naturally, I mean after it was steam-cleaned after the whole Monica Lewinsky thing. We’re not supposed to cheapen the man (okay, okay, Hillary - or woman, someday) and his message – our message – by using the platform for anything less than the highest of public priorities. What’s next? Can we expect Obama to hit the trail for votes for some dim-witted, gorgeously hot bimbo on the next season of American Idol (quick word to Kelli Pickler – call me)? Will we start to see sponsorship of press conferences and speeches – “This segment of the State of the Union address is brought to you by Budweiser, the King of Beers?” Will Air Force One sport Home Depot sponsorship, making it an airborne version of Joey Logano’s racecar?
Interesting deficit reducers, mind you.
Some might describe Obama’s Olympic campaign as the ultimate in pork barrel spending, benefiting Chicago to the detriment of the greater United States. Collectively, we’ve hosted the Olympic Games recently – 1980 (Lake Placid), 1984 (Los Angeles), 1996 (Atlanta), and 2002 (the aforementioned Salt Lake City). Let someone else deal with the hassle and the incredibly large security bill – anyone take a look at Greece’s post Olympic financial situation lately?
As for you, Prez, we have slightly more pressing issues than committing to spending billions of dollars on hosting a two-week party. Enough with the pimping, time now for governing and leading. Losing was good – your charisma and charm couldn’t carry this day. Hopefully it humbled you a bit too, because if you haven’t noticed the polls recently, the post-G.W. honeymoon is coming to a close, and your charisma and charm aren’t likely to carry the day domestically much further.
Of course, I might be wrong - that’s just this guy’s opinion.
Tweet me up @RayHartjen.
Showing posts with label Bret Michaels. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bret Michaels. Show all posts
Friday, October 2, 2009
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Love, One Reality Show at a Time
This last week, a television tragedy seemed to throw all women for quite the loop. No, Oprah is just fine – thank goodness for that! Same with all the ladies on The View. No need to despair, Desperate Housewives is still on the air. The real big news – OMG, can you believe what happened on The Bachelor!
You have got to be kidding me.
I don’t even know what night it happened. Maybe it was Monday of last week, because about Tuesday, the outcome of the show was the buzz everywhere I turned – on the floor of a show in Las Vegas, in the airport, on a phone call with my wife – and, all that was just Tuesday! Then, there was the radio, more TV, hearing my wife talk on the phone about it, and then having her pepper me with questions about it. It’s never ending, and it doesn’t seem to be going away anytime soon. At least my wife says it’s not going away until Bonnie Hunt has the final say on her show.
For those of you unaware, apparently the bachelor, on the final day of taping, selected one of the two finalists to be his enduring love, thus eliminating, of course, the other. But, on the live wrap up show some weeks later, he dumps his chosen one for his real love, the aforementioned spurned one. And, that’s where it all started.
“I can’t believe he would do that on national television!”
“How hurt that poor girl must be.”
“How can the second girl possibly accept the guy back?”
“What was he thinking?”
“Would you ever do something like that?”
Wait! Forget all the other questions. Let’s just focus on that last one. No. No, I wouldn’t ever do something like that, although, as a guy, I’m inherently capable of just such an act. No, I wouldn’t do that primarily because I would never go on one of those shows looking for love. People, that just doesn’t work, for either the one who has to make the selection – let’s see, since that person sort of puts the cast/candidates/applicants or whatever they are through a certain amount of tests, let’s call the selector the “tester” - or for the pool trying to be chosen as “the one” – naturally, we’ll call them the testes.
Yes, with one “e.”
Now, I’m far from being an expert on all things love-related. But, I think we can all agree that attempting to find true love on a reality show is a pretty bad idea – a bad idea as far as finding love, that is. It’s a great idea for other goals though, which I’m fairly convinced is the true motivation for most of the testes.
Through my extensive research on the subject, I’ve determined the testers and testes, budding celebutards all, have the following goals when appearing on any of the “looking for love” shows (The Bachelor, The Bachlorette, A Shot of Love, that one with Flava Flav, I Love New York, and all the other trash of “must not see TV”), in order of increasing priority:
1. Be on TV
2. Be on TV and make out with a hottie or two
3. Be on TV, make out with a hottie or two, and win some money
4. Be on TV, make out with a hottie or two, win some money, and make such a spectacle of oneself as to ensure your participation in a spin off show, such as VH1’s I Love Money
5. All of the above, but go so far over the top that you get a entire TV show of YOUR OWN, ala I Love New York, and the spinoff of that spinoff, Real Chance at Love
As I tell my wife, don’t feel sorry for anyone who gets his or her feelings hurt on shows like those – I highly doubt the testes were there in the first place to sincerely get their feelings stroked and find their soul mate. Or, rather, at least most of the testes. There’s probably the odd knuckleheaded one or two who actually thought they’d find love in a reality show – well, they’re just a bit on the ‘tarded side, and I guess they do deserve a bit of pity for that.
So, back to answering my wife’s question - no I wouldn’t do that; pick one girl over the other, then, on national TV, pull the ol’ switcheroo and hook up with the other one instead. No, I wouldn’t do that. That being said, I would trade places with Bret Michaels and appear on Rock of Love. [Honey, that is, of course, if I didn’t already have you J]
Okay, is she gone?
Alright then. Now, where was I? Oh yeah.
Rock of Love is simply the reason I picked up the guitar in the first place. Let’s see, best I can tell, the format of the show is something like this: First, pick an aging rock star. Then, through some selection process I would LOVE to be privy to, somehow choose sixteen or so bimbos of every hair color, ethnicity, and race – diversity is great, except for one necessary commonality that cannot, and will not be negotiated – big, surgically enhanced, augmented breasts. Sixteen girls, sixteen flowing locks of “stripper hair,” sixteen pairs of long, slender legs balanced atop stiletto heels, sixteen pairs of breasts struggling mightily to stay under the skimpiest bits of cloth, and sixteen pairs of eyes buried under enough gaudy makeup to be the envy of every teenage girl in Indiana.
Now, I don’t know what’s in it for the girls, but I can certainly see the attraction for Bret. You ever wonder what the negotiations were like to get the first show started? My crack research staff uncovered the actual call, a portion of which I have transcribed below:
Producer: Okay, Bret, the concept is that we put a bunch of sexy groupie types in one house. You get to hang out with them all, play kissy face, go on “dates,” and then pick different ones out to go behind closed doors, off camera. How’s that sound?
Bret: Uh, that sounds pretty good.
Producer: Great, now about the financial terms, …
Bret: Hey, I’ll have to check with my banker, but I think I’d be prepared to pay up to $100,000.
Currently, Bret is halfway through his third season of the show. Hmm. I wonder what happened to the first two girls Bret picked?
Hello! It’s no big freakin’ surprise that ol’ Bret is on the third edition of this show. You think he’s going to find true love this time around? Ha! If you think so, I’ve got some Citigroup shares that would make a sound investment for you. It says right here Bret’s going to ride this for as long as people watch and sponsors buy ad time – he’s a guy after all. He’s living the guy dream, and he doesn’t even have to work for it. They’re working for him!. I don’t think Bret’s dead, but every guy 13 to 87 is convinced he is in heaven.
Of course, that’s just this guy’s opinion.
You have got to be kidding me.
I don’t even know what night it happened. Maybe it was Monday of last week, because about Tuesday, the outcome of the show was the buzz everywhere I turned – on the floor of a show in Las Vegas, in the airport, on a phone call with my wife – and, all that was just Tuesday! Then, there was the radio, more TV, hearing my wife talk on the phone about it, and then having her pepper me with questions about it. It’s never ending, and it doesn’t seem to be going away anytime soon. At least my wife says it’s not going away until Bonnie Hunt has the final say on her show.
For those of you unaware, apparently the bachelor, on the final day of taping, selected one of the two finalists to be his enduring love, thus eliminating, of course, the other. But, on the live wrap up show some weeks later, he dumps his chosen one for his real love, the aforementioned spurned one. And, that’s where it all started.
“I can’t believe he would do that on national television!”
“How hurt that poor girl must be.”
“How can the second girl possibly accept the guy back?”
“What was he thinking?”
“Would you ever do something like that?”
Wait! Forget all the other questions. Let’s just focus on that last one. No. No, I wouldn’t ever do something like that, although, as a guy, I’m inherently capable of just such an act. No, I wouldn’t do that primarily because I would never go on one of those shows looking for love. People, that just doesn’t work, for either the one who has to make the selection – let’s see, since that person sort of puts the cast/candidates/applicants or whatever they are through a certain amount of tests, let’s call the selector the “tester” - or for the pool trying to be chosen as “the one” – naturally, we’ll call them the testes.
Yes, with one “e.”
Now, I’m far from being an expert on all things love-related. But, I think we can all agree that attempting to find true love on a reality show is a pretty bad idea – a bad idea as far as finding love, that is. It’s a great idea for other goals though, which I’m fairly convinced is the true motivation for most of the testes.
Through my extensive research on the subject, I’ve determined the testers and testes, budding celebutards all, have the following goals when appearing on any of the “looking for love” shows (The Bachelor, The Bachlorette, A Shot of Love, that one with Flava Flav, I Love New York, and all the other trash of “must not see TV”), in order of increasing priority:
1. Be on TV
2. Be on TV and make out with a hottie or two
3. Be on TV, make out with a hottie or two, and win some money
4. Be on TV, make out with a hottie or two, win some money, and make such a spectacle of oneself as to ensure your participation in a spin off show, such as VH1’s I Love Money
5. All of the above, but go so far over the top that you get a entire TV show of YOUR OWN, ala I Love New York, and the spinoff of that spinoff, Real Chance at Love
As I tell my wife, don’t feel sorry for anyone who gets his or her feelings hurt on shows like those – I highly doubt the testes were there in the first place to sincerely get their feelings stroked and find their soul mate. Or, rather, at least most of the testes. There’s probably the odd knuckleheaded one or two who actually thought they’d find love in a reality show – well, they’re just a bit on the ‘tarded side, and I guess they do deserve a bit of pity for that.
So, back to answering my wife’s question - no I wouldn’t do that; pick one girl over the other, then, on national TV, pull the ol’ switcheroo and hook up with the other one instead. No, I wouldn’t do that. That being said, I would trade places with Bret Michaels and appear on Rock of Love. [Honey, that is, of course, if I didn’t already have you J]
Okay, is she gone?
Alright then. Now, where was I? Oh yeah.
Rock of Love is simply the reason I picked up the guitar in the first place. Let’s see, best I can tell, the format of the show is something like this: First, pick an aging rock star. Then, through some selection process I would LOVE to be privy to, somehow choose sixteen or so bimbos of every hair color, ethnicity, and race – diversity is great, except for one necessary commonality that cannot, and will not be negotiated – big, surgically enhanced, augmented breasts. Sixteen girls, sixteen flowing locks of “stripper hair,” sixteen pairs of long, slender legs balanced atop stiletto heels, sixteen pairs of breasts struggling mightily to stay under the skimpiest bits of cloth, and sixteen pairs of eyes buried under enough gaudy makeup to be the envy of every teenage girl in Indiana.
Now, I don’t know what’s in it for the girls, but I can certainly see the attraction for Bret. You ever wonder what the negotiations were like to get the first show started? My crack research staff uncovered the actual call, a portion of which I have transcribed below:
Producer: Okay, Bret, the concept is that we put a bunch of sexy groupie types in one house. You get to hang out with them all, play kissy face, go on “dates,” and then pick different ones out to go behind closed doors, off camera. How’s that sound?
Bret: Uh, that sounds pretty good.
Producer: Great, now about the financial terms, …
Bret: Hey, I’ll have to check with my banker, but I think I’d be prepared to pay up to $100,000.
Currently, Bret is halfway through his third season of the show. Hmm. I wonder what happened to the first two girls Bret picked?
Hello! It’s no big freakin’ surprise that ol’ Bret is on the third edition of this show. You think he’s going to find true love this time around? Ha! If you think so, I’ve got some Citigroup shares that would make a sound investment for you. It says right here Bret’s going to ride this for as long as people watch and sponsors buy ad time – he’s a guy after all. He’s living the guy dream, and he doesn’t even have to work for it. They’re working for him!. I don’t think Bret’s dead, but every guy 13 to 87 is convinced he is in heaven.
Of course, that’s just this guy’s opinion.
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