Rants | TheRunDown.net

OK, so what’s the curling epidemic about, and how on Earth did it get noticed, considered, and then miraculously selected as an Olympic sport? If you’re like 99.99% of the world and have no idea (good for you) what this supposed sport is about, here’s the Chuckipedia description of this dynamic (not!) activity.

Curling: a transformed bar game in which ancient granite stones from Scotland (mutated hockey pucks) are slid across a frozen bowling lane toward Target’s corporate logo. Two teams of four unemployed convention hall janitors (and Jenny Craig diet rejects) take turns sliding the polished stones, like trashcans down a hallway, towards the Dumpster — a circular area drawn by Sharpies on the outside of the ice.

Each team has a six-pack of stones plus two roadies (eight total). The purpose, if there is one, is to position the highest number of resting stones closest to the center of “the house,” or Target, at the conclusion of each nail-biting slide fest. Have we lost you yet, like on a Pam Everett-led run? Hang on, it gets worse.

Anyway, the housewife-perfected throwing technique can induce a curved path, which may be influenced by two marble hallway polishers using dysfunctional brooms flicking ice shards at or away from the stone as it rockets along. A great deal of inebriated strategy, Pringles carbo loading and Icee recovery drinks go into determining the ideal path by which the stone travels. Sound totally ridiculous? It is.

Let’s start with the word “sport.” For an activity to be considered a sport, shouldn’t there be some form of physical activity? Shouldn’t there be the possibility of sweating, the need for hydration, the risk of injury or the possibility of going anaerobic? How could one possibly get hurt while curling? Maybe a foot gets rammed by the stone as it blisters across the ice at 1/2 mile per hour (dark speed). Maybe a player trips over a teammate’s bag of barbecue pork rinds and bruises his or her sciatica. Or maybe the coach crashes his Segway into a packed bus stop after an intense strategy session involving Jagermeisters, Red Bulls and ex-senator John Edwards. Who knows? Who cares?

But a “sport” where your heart rate never rises over 95 has me puzzled. The only people who need any level of endurance when it comes to curling are the actual spectators as they fight to stay awake.

If curling were a real sport, you’d be able to buy, or at least find, some of the required equipment at your local sporting goods store. Visit Sport Chalet, Dick’s Sporting Goods or Sports Authority and ask a clerk where the curling section is, and they’ll send you to the weightlifting area for barbells; how ironic. These stores don’t carry 40-pound polished rocks, Leprechaun brooms or Teflon slippers (isn’t that for cooking?). Oddly enough, many of the curling devices can be found at Home Depot: granite, brooms and 40-year-old cougars gliding carts down thin isles searching to score.

I did manage to catch Great Britain’s curling team in action in this year’s Winter Olympics. It was painful to watch, but I was stuck at Minute Lube (on my way to anger management class) and the lobby TV controls were nowhere to be found. What the heck is Adidas doing sponsoring the Great Britain curling team, anyway? Guess they passed on Tiger Woods, too. I wasn’t familiar with Adidas’ Zamboni line of footwear. Does the Adidas acronym now stand for All Day I Dream About Sliding? Really, shouldn’t Swiffer, with their handy little brooms and brushes, be sponsoring curling events?

My maid (hey, it’s Orange County – sue me) is handy with the broom and she also manages to get something accomplished when using, what I guess I should now call, her sporting equipment. I had no idea she was such a fine athlete. Do I need to award her a gold medal and outfit her in performance apparel for getting the dirt off the floor and into the trashcan? I’m confused on how to score that.

Fact is, you could have a resting heart rate of 155, crotch rot and blood cholesterol hovering at 220 and easily make the U.S. Olympic curling team. I want to be the team member at the scoring side of the ice who points to where the stone is supposed to be lagged. “Hey Kirk, how’d you earn that gold medal in the 2010 Olympics?” Reply, “I’m a really, really good pointer, and can stare straight down without moving my head.” Congratulations, all you curlers will kill it at the Senior Olympics by annihilating everyone at lawn bowling and shuffleboard. Take a cruise and have a field day hustling unexpected tourists on the sports deck.

If they are going to include curling in the Olympics they should also consider quarters, croquet and Slip’n Slide. And if they want to legitimize curling they need to upgrade from the rinky-dink version to Lion Curling. In this twist of the alleged sport, one member coasts a compact car backwards down a ramp while two occupants jostle around inside in an attempt to stop the car in between starved lions. If you run over a cub, it angers the entire pride, so accuracy is key. The car occupants have 5 minutes to exit the vehicle and high tail it back to the security ramp before being eaten, maimed or dragged around the blacktop like rag dolls in Somalia. You’re awarded a bronze metal for showing up.

As usual, I could go on as long as the Twin Peaks Ultras 50-miler, but I have my first-round elimination match in the All World Jenga Sport Championships. My fingers are totally ripped from mini-weight training that I can tear the lid right off a can of Spaghettios. Last year, due to my lack of aerobic base, I got knocked out early by Andrew Zimmern of Bizarre Foods even with his chubby little fingers. Most people think Jenga is an above-wrist sport but without the proper FootJoy soft spikes, titanium protection cup and $300 Mizuno seat cushion you’re a dead man poking wood beams on the highway to hell.