It was decreed the show must go on!

The economy was tanking, and they couldn’t print money fast enough.

 

Every hangar converted into a makeshift infirmary

was equipped with a three-tiered victory stand.

 

Even holy men would pause from their busy schedules

performing record-breaking last rites ceremonies,

to be acknowledged (fists raised) with bronze, silver, or gold.

 

It was the final days of competition, yet because they had

been tallying the results all along, we had a pretty good idea

who was going to come out on top; it was amazing that

the committee had found an equivalent medical procedure

for every Olympic sporting event.

 

Medical staff were performing Herculean feats of strength and stamina.

The Mile Run was replaced with intubations per hour.

The Marathon by intubations per day.

 

--the track and field showcase turned upside-down--

 

Like the casualties list on the nightly news when I was a kid.

The Vietnam body count mixed with the Olympic medal count.

The motley Viet Cong winning the gold despite their losses.

Our choppers hurriedly retreating with their tails between their legs.

 

I’d like to think that honesty and objectivity outweigh patriotism

at times like this.  That we judge the victors as well as

those who have lost, mainly upon their virtues and less upon their faults.  

 

But I couldn’t help having a lump in my throat when they

announced the results.  Let’s face it, the USA had mopped the floor

with every shit-hole country it could find.  We were number one.

Nobody gets pneumococcus like the ol’ stars and stripes.  

 

Mass American Graves Again! “Ya God damn right!”