Humour

Olympic stuff we hate

By Various

Too much cowbell

Just because you have Olympic fever does not mean the only prescription available is more cowbell. There is nothing more irritating than a D.O.D (Drunk Olympic Douchebag) who gets his hands on one of these noisemakers and drives it home like the newest member of Blue Oyster Cult. Your Canada-themed face paint looks like the art failure of a five-year-old and your lack of musical precision accompanied by “WOOOO!!” only makes you look like an ass. Last time I checked, there aren’t a lot of occasions that feature cowbell and the Olympics certainly shouldn’t become one of them.

— Paige MacKenzie

Molson Hockey House

There’s only one thing worse than paying $100 for the privilege of drinking Canadian in a tent, and that’s waiting in line for four hours to do it. It’s like queuing up to hand an out-of-work men’s underwear model a crisp Robert Borden, and getting a handful of garbage in return. And in order to get your money’s worth, you eat that garbage. After all, you waited so long to get in there; if it’s not good, you might as well have just eaten some garbage out of the Timmy’s dumpster. Eat it. Eat it all up.

— Graham Templeton

Olympic status updates

When I left Vancouver to escape from all the Olympic nuttiness, I figured I could at least keep up with what was happening back home by checking the Vancouver 2010 website every once in a while to see how we were doing. I’m not sure how I thought I could not hear about it considering my so-called top news according to my favourite social networking website is currently hockey, hockey, curling, hockey, Quatchi, and hockey. It’s almost enough to make me give up on Facebook. Don’t even get me started about Twitter . . .

— Leigh Eldridge

Robson Square zip line

The first time I saw someone fly across the zip line at Robson Square downtown, I thought they were chumps — rich, spoiled, chumps who paid too much money to speed a very short distance through the air. Idiots. Then I discovered that the zip line was free. No longer were they chumps, they were brilliant, beautiful angels who soared into the sunset. I wanted to be an angel. I wanted to soar. I approached the blue-jacketed man who would grant me my wings. He said that all I would need to do was sign a waiver . . . and then wait for four fucking hours. Way to clip my wings, man. Chump.

— Kelly Thoreson