October 05, 2005

Figure Skating Before we, the

Figure Skating

Before we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” launch into today’s nasty excoriation, we must engage in a bit of politically correct throat clearing. For the topic for today’s drubbing has oft been associated with homosexuality—at least among its male partakers and viewers. You know who you are.

It goes without saying, then, that we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” utterly detest figure skating, but not for any of the myriad reasons that could be termed “homophobic.” Of course by “homophobic,” we mean “any idea regarding homosexuality not in complete accordance with the views of the radical Left, which aims at the ultimate destruction of the nuclear family.” As far as we can tell, that’s the standard definition these days.

Let it be known, then, that our collective distaste for figure skating has nothing to do with its potential appeal to those whom Gore Vidal calls “homosexualists.” Similarly, let it be known that we bear no animosity or ill will toward the practitioners of figure skating, all of whom strike us as remarkably talented, dedicated individuals.

And we are in no way troubled by the fact that Scott Hamilton appears to be the most masculine amongst the bunch. Good for him, we say. He’s a strappingly straight lad.

No, sir: We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” contemn figure skating for entirely upright reasons—it’s simply ghastly.

It’s as if the creators of figure skating consciously aimed at creating the world’s most horrific sport. Having taken in the boredom that is curling, they realized that they had to fashion something galactically atrocious. And succeed they did.

Every potential athletic irritant is magically wrapped up in the figure skating package. Whiny divas on the ice? Check. Atrocious spandex costumes? Yep. Mawkish soft rock? Oh, yeah. The words “triple sow-cow”? Uh huh. Eerie Russian women with too much makeup and monobrows? But of course.

Yes, figure skating is so abysmal that if you catch yourself watching it on the tube one day, you should realize that your life has gone seriously awry. We don’t know about you, dear reader, but the day we get excited about an ambiguously sexed fellow in a skin-tight flamenco shirt skating to a Gypsy Kings tune is the day we officially put ourselves out of commission.

And don’t get us started on speed skating. At least that particular moronathon comes but once every four years.

We don’t mean to sound gruff, but can’t all these people simply take up a sensible sport, such as hockey?

Posted at October 5, 2005 12:01 AM | TrackBack