Ode To The Speedo
The real reason I watch the Olympics
Every four years, the world gathers in celebration of the strongest, fastest, most graceful athletes on the planet.
And every four years, I gather in celebration of the tightest, fullest, most spectacularly endowed Speedos on the planet.
I know I’m supposed to watch the Olympics for the feats of athleticism and the honor of victory. Blah, blah, blah. The truth is, I can’t stop staring at those magnificent men in their teeny tiny swimsuits.
So forbidden. So inappropriate. So freaking awesome in TiVo slow mo.
Needless to say, I was beside myself with grief when I learned that Michael Phelps and company would be racing in those ridiculously unrevealing body suits this year. One step forward for world-record swim times. One huge step back for Olympic peeping toms.
I consoled myself by focusing on the men’s synchronized diving. Talk about making a sexy splash! These delicious diving duos are perfectly precise, and – based on a sneak peak at their Speedos – so are their packages.
I’m not sure if all this makes me a total perv or an equal opportunity feminist. I mean, we women have to parade our goodies around for the world to scrutinize day and night. Even the security guard at CVS knows if our cup size is Grande or Venti.
But men enjoy a life of loose-fitting luxury, carrying concealed weapons under their baggy khakis. We rarely get to see what kind of heat they’re packing until far too late in the game.
So thank you, Olympics, for evening the sartorial playing field. It’s only fair that the most muscular men on the planet should have to show off their taut tushes on international television every four years. We ladies have been deprived for far too long and deserve a little gold medal ogling!
In the spirit of this momentous occasion, please join me in objectifying celebrating that most glorious beacon of male achievement – the Olympic Speedo.