A festive Olympic Poem by Otterpop

Apolo Ohno is vaguely hot.
bandana and soul patch, faint and perhaps lightly sweaty make me wonder if he enjoys animae,
and would he have a small sized pitbull to walk around Silverlake
smiling on the red carpet in a jacquard tuxedo,
the size of his buttocks cause fans to back away perhaps, repellant in their boldness

Only when his spider fingers lightly press the ice in a dangerous turn like a lemur
genome to crotch rocket bike racers who lay face down on their bikes
and fly parallel to the road
then smile graciously as they take someone out.

He always becomes a ski racer from another country after he skates.
Blonde and smiling and friend to all her team mates,
working out to develop those momentous thighs that somehow
can get back into the skin tight suit.

In the Olympics, skin tights are just normal, no one questions them.
If I wore the same one to run the dogs
I would either pass out from the pressure of it all or be silently ridiculed all evening
Shocking patterns made of neoprene, if I held one in my hand
of a feathery weight that you can't buy in stores like Old Navy

There was a time when I knew the name of every single ice skater.
They did things like beat each other with bats,
or show up drunken at parties
with massive rows of teeth and weepy narratives
I would offer up each and every one of them a modeling contract and a sandwich
just to get the running mascara off their cheeks

Now they just sparkle modestly,
always with that tan mesh stretch fabric hiding any private bits that the cameras should cover,
and smile chastely at all the Mormons watching from the compound
A youth on ice either ensures a future
as a real housewife of Orange County,
or prevents it, for the boys and girls both

It is 2am, and they are still out there on the mountain.
The visibility is low, and loudly the guy is describing the hill
The skiiers approach the Tunnel of Anthem Blue Cross,
which has been conveniently marked out in blue spray paint by Shepard Fairey and his team of parolees
so that no skiier gets lost making their way back down the mountain to Olympic gold
sometimes they ski alone, sometimes on snowboard,
sometimes in a pack, hunting each other down with assault weapons
as each one rises off the cliff attempting flight