OMIGOSH SKIS.

I’ll tell you what. If you’re in bad mood today, I’ll forgive you. In fact, if you decide to sleep until three and get up just in time to complain that there’s no food in the house, which you then proceed to burn down before even giving me a chance to save my completely awesome Freaks and Geeks DVDs and/or family? Yeah, well I promise I won’t say one word about your “waking up on the wrong side of the bed,” because, first off, we all know that your bed’s in a corner, but mostly because I’ll understand that you, like the rest of the world, are dreading the arrival of tonight – and not just for the obvious reasons, this time (i.e. the impending Monday, your incurable night terrors, American Dad). No, I’ll know that your brooding and rampant pyromania are just a result of tonight being the night that you’ll suddenly be pulled from the warm and loving embrace of the Winter Olympics.

And what have the past 17 days of Olympic fever taught us? Well, first off, that my pediatrician was amazingly thorough with my immunization shots. Of course, I don't really believe that anyone who’s not Shaun White’s mom has contracted some disease, in the past month, for which the only cure is an official Olympic arena scarf, an official Olympic varsity bag and an official Olympic crystal luge paperweight. Just speaking from my own experience, here – if the point of all this was to get us to actually care, rather than to complain about how LOST is a repeat because bobsledding is new, well then maybe the games featured too few shark pits, blindfolds and hidden patches of thin ice, and too many Slovakians in spandex. (I mean, no offense to Slovakia, or anything – I don’t even know where you guys are. Which…no offense, again. Besides, I’m sure you looked stunning.) Though I did try caring, once, and I have to ask – if this is supposed to be some big world-peace-through-sports thing, then why did I spend most of the night hoping that that girl from Japan would fall to the ground mid-triple-axel, displaying an embarrassing lack of coordination in front of an entire planet?

Or maybe the Olympics just have to broaden their horizons, as far as the events go, at least if they want me as an audience. Because, sure, they call them the “winter games,” but then you tune in and it’s just NASCAR on skates or “101 Ways to Slide Down a Hill.” Which, yes, you probably wouldn’t choose to do in shorts, but I know winter games – where are the forts? The guerrilla war-tactics? The building a sort-of-jump behind the Borough Hall, and pushing your friend down on one of those plastic saucer things, and then laughing as, instead of flying over it, he just sort of crashes head first, and omigosh, is he even moving, quick, let’s get out of here? Okay, the snowboarding almost resembled exciting, but until America is bringing home the gold in the Freestyle Coed Snowball Fight, I’m not going to be happy (nor an Olympic athlete).

I don’t know…I’m just not sure that the highlight of the Olympics was supposed to be trying to figure out which figure skaters were CGI. Which isn’t to say I’m not dreading the closing ceremonies. Because if they’re anything like the opening ones (read: four hours of Cirque du Soleil, but with play-by-play)? Well, then I’ll be at church, thanks. Where, actually, I'll be either way, because, yeah: Good times.

Anti-Arctica

Not to be the 3,819th person to remind you of this, in the past four months, but I don’t think there’s anything worse, in the entire world, than being cold. Okay fine, I’m exaggerating, because: terrorism, erasable pens, those twins on American Idol that made me want to pull out all of my hair, and then my eyeballs, and then the part of the brain that controls my short-term memory, with a pair of pliers, and who ended up getting the “We Know What You Did Three Years Ago, And It Was Illegal And/Or In Maxim” offscreen boot, so they weren’t even good for that bit of satisfaction, but, uh, anyway...no offense to the Snow Miser, but I'm not sure how many more daily-highs-and-lows-that-resemble-tennis-game-scores I can take before I personally start up the "We Will Surround This State With a Weather-Proof Dome, Even If We Have To Take Tax Money Away From Public Schools, As Long As It's Not From The Music And Art Programs" Fund. (I take donations via PayPal!)

I mean, is it like this everywhere, or was my house just built on some ancient Eskimo burial ground? I wake up making actual "Brrrr!" sounds, the cold forcing me to do the old-man shuffle around the house, the post-shower chill probably enough to preserve my body for the next 150 years, during which global warming will have hopefully had its way and I'll step outside to year-round summer and seals wearing Hawaiian shirts. Which, even if I can't get them off of the lawn, will beat stepping outside now, with the layers and the gloves rendering all of my joints completely useless, and my teeth knocking around like a wind-up toy, so that everything I say sounds like when you'd talk into the fan when you were little, and your voice would be a robot's, and then your mom would tell you to stop, because I guess if you stuck your tounge out too far, there'd go your speaking priveleges, and who feels like teaching their kid sign language, really? And factor in the...factor that most everywhere I go depends on walking or public transportation and you'll understand why I've been living like Bill Watterson, all winter long.

Sometimes I stare at my hands, trying to remember what it was like to feel my own fingers. I faugely renwmber beink avle to hit the r8ght keys. Or maybe I'm just being dramatic. Still, I don't know how they do it in Alaska, without setting themselves on fire just to keep warm. Anyway, I might as well look at the bright side: At least if I stand outside eating a lollypop, right now, it almost looks like I'm smoking. I do want my friends to think I'm cool, after all.

The Same Thing We Do Every Night, Pinky...

I guess it’s not impossible. I mean, yeah, it does seem highly unlikely, but then I’m sure they said the same thing about achieving the great taste of Dr. Pepper with zero the calories, or that whole “running out of mammoths” thing, back in the day, and we know how that all turned out (and if not: mmm and oops), and besides...oh, hi! I’m Matt – you might remember me from such blog entries as “What’s a Spork?” and that one with all the Harry Potter! I was just imagining what I would do if I ever took over the world. Join me!

Wait, don’t worry – it’s not like I’m sitting here next to a chalkboard full of stick-figure drawings, right now, mapping out my plans for world domination (besides, I'm probably seriously overestimating the persuasive powers of free t-shirts – and I’ve said too much, already) but let’s just say I did, and it worked, or maybe they actually offered me the job, since Oprah turned it down and I got the next highest number of text-message votes. First off, would I take it? Well, yeah – I mean, okay, it might cut into my free time a bit, and I’m not sure how forward I’d look to dealing with Bono and Angelina Jolie on such a professional level and, fair enough, I could hardly keep my SimCity running, back in the day, without earthquakes or Godzilla making the whole thing look like a scene from…Earthquake or Godzilla (hospitals, it’s all about the hospitals!) But, still, it would be totally worth it, just to be able to walk up to anybody, all, “So, that world your standing on? Yeah, it’s mine.”

Of course, I’d do things that weren't walking up to people, too – changes have to be made, after all, and we might as well start with the name. I mean, “the World,” that works okay, but what does it say, really? Exactly, about as much as silent film star Colleen Moore (1900-1988), which is why my first act as owner of “Earth” would be to go straight to the master of planet-naming: Mr. George Lucas. Once Mr. Lucas came up with something cool and new and with an “x” – Raxylbax, maybe – we would have to spread it, and since the flyers probably wouldn't be enough, I'd change everything else, accordingly, i.e. “the Raxylbax-wide web,” and “Where in the Raxylbax is Carmen Sandiego?” and “What I'm saying, Matt, is that I wouldn't go out with you for all the free t-shirts in the Raxylbax.” Wait, I mean, um, I didn't, uh...do it Rockapella!

Still, if you want to be elected leader of the free world, and also all the other ones, you have to take a stand on some things – you need some kind of platform. Luckily, I’ve thought this one through, too, reaching the obvious conclusion that my platform will look down upon the clouds, having been built atop the 25,000 foot tower that I will, naturally, call my home. It’ll be a glorious structure, all windows and stainless-steel and soundproof bathrooms (because that just...weirds me out, no matter which side I'm on). Every five floors will house a Jamba Juice. The basement will be paintball. The elevator races will be the stuff of dreams. Oh, and the robot guards could be programmed to let you in, as long as they know your DNA, so…just let me know, ya know? And send a strand of hair.

Yes, my friends, you'd best find your way to a Sunglass Hut, because the future’s lookin’ bright! Now all we have to do is hope that Oprah decides to keep her day job. Because I’m sure she’d do just swell, but then…what would I watch at four?