butt olympiad

Oh, the Olympics. Dog sitting once again on the Upper West Side, i find myselc abandoning all responsibilities to take in the flat screen and a mirage of summery sports.

An observation: while boys may watch the Olypmics for antiquated man-reasons, girls have a whole other motive alltogether. That’s right. The buttlympics. Jealous, observing, we spitefully (and objectively) discern whose butt is superior to our own, and why.

Though I have to say, my tendency towards the obsessive taking of spinning classes has increased the overall quality of my butt – Any olypmic butt is far superior to that of an average citizen.

The volleyball butt,


The gymnast butt,


Swimmy butt,


and the root of my most intense envy, runny butt.


Arguably, if I were super serious, I could spend the next five years at the gym, lifting and squatting and crunching things. I, too, certainly, could have a runny butt.

(Ew. She said runny butt.)

Or maybe instead I’ll just watch the Olympics while the dog licks my belly button. Maybe I’ll just do that.

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