Gritty determination

I, like so many people, have been watching a lot of Olympic coverage. I'm trying to watch out of the norm stuff. Well, my norm at least. Which teaches me a lot and leaves me a lot to wonder about.

How could I possibly think, "He might be washed up." about a swimmer who is 21 years of age?

How does a badminton shuttle get going that fast if it's got the little wings to slow it down?

Doesn't that hurt?

But the most niggling questions of these Olympic games thus far comes from women's beach volleyball. These are some lovely women, and damn good at what they do. (Please note that I have nothing but respect for all these athletes and I am not against scantily clad athletes of any stripe.)

That being said, though, these women are serious high level athletes at the top of their game and they are wearing outfits that cover less of their bodies than my underwear does. Some might remind me that there's more body for my underwear to cover but that's still not what I'm getting at.

There's diving. Into sand. And these ladies are wearing teeny tiny bikini briefs. Any 3 year old who has tripped in the shallow surf can tell you how long it takes to work the last grain of sand out of your intimate hills and valleys. So, wouldn't you be better off with a little coverage? Don't you want to make the trek that much longer before that Norwegian or Greek sand (depending which side of the blue line you land on) hits home? Apparently not.

And then, there's the one picture I cannot get out of my mind.

Being a hard hitting, aggressive sport, teammates tend to slap each other in encouragement. Around the sand entry areas. The ones that are barely covered. You know, the ass.

And all I can think is that sooner or later, on international television, purely by accident, someone's going to get a handful of sandy coochie.