Weir Do Broken Hearts Go?

The Man Hole, most likely.

So even though I've been glued to the Olympics this week, I've got to say, I've been pretty bored with nearly everything. Sure, I openly wept when Ligety won the Gold (a man born to win for the pun headline alone... "Ligety Split"), and yes, maaaaaybe I danced around my room in a Yankee Doodle Dandy costume holding sparklers and eating kim chi when Toby Dawson took the Bronze in moguls, but most of the time, I'm slumped half dead leaning on my husband, bracing my body cushion, with my head firmly tucked neath the arm of my boyfriend pillow, waiting for something exciting to happen.

In fact, one of my favorite events, men's figure skating, was probably the worst I've ever seen it. The new scoring system has eliminated the user-friendly 6.0 scale for a newfangled point accumulation system depending on how many jumps and pivots the skaters have in their program. For me, it's removed the artistic qualities of skating and replaced it with a machine-like point-raking system where jumps are just thrown in willy-nilly. And, commentators? Shut the fuck up already!

Also, NBC? Please, PLEASE, stop showing the injury clip reel. I have seen those same skiers and skaters nearly break their backs 100 times already. This is the Olympics, not Faces of Death XIV.


I'd almost rather see a kid get shot in the face.

One thing I want to absolutely commend is the indefatigable bitchiness that is Johnny Weir. Johnny Weir, the skater who wore a rhinestoned fishnet body stocking in his short program, and then bombed in his long program performance. Johnny Weir, the character who blamed a late bus as the reason for feeling "black inside" during his program last night.


Here we see a petite, shaking, fragile little animal and a chihuahua.

This excerpt, taken from a HILARIOUS ESPN article about Monsieur Weir, basically outlines the traits of the lady I strive to be:

His favorite male singer is Justin Timberlake and his Web site also lists his favorite fashion designers (Balenciaga), boutiques (Barneys), models (Kate Moss) and teams (Gordeeva and Grinkov, Berezhnaia and Sikharulidze, and -- surprisingly -- the Boston Red Sox). He wears costumes that Elton John might wear for Mardi Gras, including a red glove in Tuesday's short program that he named Camille. He used the phrase "I did a little hoppy-hop like a bunny" while describing Thursday's performance, which is something you rarely hear from say, Brett Favre.

A handy guide, so to speak.

I recently asked Johnny to be my MySpace friend, so (Camilles-crossed) he'll accept me. In the meantime, I've been poring over his profile, and here's what I've learned:

- "some call me tinkerbelle!!"

- He is a Jew Cancer just like me.

- He spells "competitions" "compititions". Maybe that's why he "fayled" last night.

- He has two chihuahuas named Bon-Bon and Vanya, loves Juicy Couture, and is a black-and-white-checkered hanky carrying bottom.

Johnny Weir, my personal American idol ladies and gentlemen.


Really, anyone who can make Sasha Cohen look butch has gotten the lady thing down to an art. Also, good thing Hitler isn't around to see these two at the Olympics, or he would be preeeeetty P.O.'d.